T.S. Tuesday: Lessons from Life as a Gringa
“It is not necessarily those lands which are the most fertile or most favored in climate that seem to me the happiest, but those in which a long struggle of adaptation between man and his environment has brought out the best qualities of both.” T.S. Eliot
I've been living in a foreign country for ten months, and I haven't found my new home to provide the most fertile ground for deep, lasting friendship and personal growth. I haven't found it to be, as Eliot suggests, a favored climate for the fruiting of my best qualities. In fact, many days I feel like moving abroad has brought out my worst traits, unearthing my shiest, most insecure, unwelcoming roots.Ten months is hardly a long struggle and I'm not nearly as well-adapted as I thought I'd be by now, but I have learned a few things along the way.For starters, tolerance. Not tolerance meaning anything goes, although some days it does feel like that when cat calls and butt grabs in the streets are shrugged off with a sigh and a "that's Guatemala for you." But I mean tolerance in the sense that I'm learning that it really, really in the grand scheme of things doesn't matter whether the people I associate with wear the trendiest clothes or went to the most prestigious schools or use the right amount of snark and hipster references in their Facebook posts.I'm learning that everyone has value and something to offer. Enough with the cheese, you're probably thinking right now. That sounds like something you learn in kindergarten. You're right, I'm sure I did learn it in kindergarten.People matter. All kinds of people matter. No matter their age or race or language or cultural or educational background.I've known it all my life, but I've really lived it here in Guatemala as I've interacted with and I've learned from and met people so different from me.It's also what's been hard--feeling out-of-place. These ten months have been a lesson in humility. There are very few moments when I'm out and about that I don't feel strange or uncomfortable or downright stupid. But I think (I hope) this experience is molding me, shaping me to be more accepting of others, more tolerant of what I used to see as irks and flaws, more open to simply being with people, in the moment, with no judgment and no expectations.I've stumbled into trouble, for sure. I have difficulty discerning, as a guest in this country, when I'm supposed to just go with the flow and when I'm allowed to take a stand and set my own boundaries. When I'm allowed to say no. I'm sure I could write a whole book on how not to live the cross-cultural life, but that's another discussion.In this country where I'm daily schooled in grammar and syntax by people with a third grade education and all of my preconceived ideas of male attractiveness have been thrown out the window as tiny men with spiky gelled hair and tight jeans with sequins on the rear end take home all the women, I'm constantly challenged to look past the external. To look past the prejudices I didn't even know I had.I've also erred on the other extreme, forgetting I have anything to offer. Sometimes I forget my own God-given gifts and talents. I forget I can give and serve and love and encourage, but that's another discussion, too.I've become so accustomed to butchered, choppy English and my own broken Spanish that I spent a good five minutes indignantly cursing spellcheck when it "mistakenly" told me "liders" was not an equally viable spelling of "leaders" in the English language, and I don't even hear the syntactical error when someone asks me "You have boyfriend?" or confesses to me "I am hang over."I just go with the flow and answer "No" and "You shouldn't have drank so much last night."If there's any level of understanding or connection, it's good enough for me.Isn't that how it should always be? Shouldn't understanding always matter more than the exact words used or the dress or education of the person who spoke them?I think of how I pick apart the words of authors I read or the movies I watch. Or the things my friends and family say. I think of how smug and snarky and downright judgmental I can be of people back home--of their words or their dress or their upbringing. When I'm in my comfort zone. When I, warranted or not, feel like I'm in a position to judge.I used to constantly size up the people around me. Am I prettier, smarter, more exciting? If I deemed myself to be, then my pride was bolstered and I'd continue on my merry way. If I didn't measure up, jealousy, envy, and self-loathing would take hold, gripping me in green.But here in a foreign country, I am learning in a deep and meaningful (and hopefully lasting) way to look for connection before comparison.Perhaps it's just my survival skills kicking in, aching for connection at any level.Perhaps it's easier because the comparison seems especially futile or comical. No matter what jeans I wear or how skinny I get or what job title I rock with whatever innovative and socially-conscious new company, here, I am still just the gringa, the foreigner, the canchita. All the striving and the exercising and the Pinterest-browsing or even the Spanish learning and cross-cultural immersion won't change that.But connection will.If I have a real conversation with someone, albeit linguistically limited, that is when I become someone more than just a gringa and the someone I am talking to becomes more than just the tortilla lady or salsa instructor or a guy I met at the gym.On my end, at least.Where my own dark judgments used to lurk, gratitude is growing. I rejoice at the small bonds of understanding, and for new milestones like exchanging books with new friends, laughing over silly pop songs that get stuck in our heads, and praying together, in Spanish, in English, in Spanglish.Here, the gift of unlikely friendship springs up when I least expect it. Even in my shiest, my most insecure, my most unwelcoming moments, connections form. And I am learning to cherish these both improbable and probably temporary friendships. I am growing in grace for myself and others. And I am rejoicing as the fruit of kindness sprouts around me and within my own heart as I learn to connect and adapt in this land where I struggle.
Comfort
Comfort is a guitar perched on a knee. Picking and strumming and humming.Comfort is a quick text to get dinner.Comfort is everyone at the table together.Comfort is a conversation on accountability and integrity and how we hold each other's hearts. We hold something sacred.In the States, I equated comfort with Complacency. Stagnation, isolation, a routine, a rut.But living in a foreign country, my eyes are opened to the blessing of comfort. Not plush towels and hot water and lavender eye masks kind of comfort, but another kind of security, reassurance. Reassurance of my own worth and value.The comfort of having friends who've known me for a million years. The comfort of speaking my native language with other native speakers. The comfort of a church body that speaks love and truth and beauty into my life whether I want to receive it or not.Comfort can be consolation. And walking with. A back rub, a hand written note, a silent smile.These last few weeks I’ve felt more home here. Not home home, but moments of home, feelings of home, small comforts of home. I’ve felt recalibrated. Calmed. More secure. More me.More sure of myself and what I want.Less needy. Less desperate. Less grasping.Engulfed by grace.Are these the seeds of the last the months, giving birth to grace so wild and wonderful? Giving birth to comfort. In bits and pieces that sound like voices joined in worship in my living room and giggles with friends and morning journaling in the park.
I didn't even think about it until now. How He once told me, when I was flailing in burnout, "I don't want to fix you. I want to comfort you."He speaks now,I want to comfort you. To bring you comfort. Consolation. To come beside you in your pain. To catch your tears and hold your heart.You mourn the joy you've lost. I mourn with you. You mourn the friends you miss. I mourn with you. You mourn the dream that hasn’t turned into all you’d hoped. I mourn with you.I want to comfort you. To bring you the comfort of voices joined in worship in your living room and friends who place a hand on your knee, your shoulder, and say "How are you, really?"My comfort looks like emails from friends that say they miss your sweet a$$. That remind you with Pink’s words that you are F** Perfect.I want to comfort you. To give you the freedom to mourn. To let the tears fall and know I am with you.My comfort says. I know. I'm sorry. I feel with you. Lo siento. I feel it.I see you. I know you. I am here.***I’m learning that comfortable is not so bad. I wanted to break out of my comfort zone. After ten months of uncomfortable, of being whistled at and stared at and feeling like the outsider that I am and missing friends, I no longer view comfort as the enemy.Comfort is grace.Comfort says it's okay to be disappointed. To be angry. To be sad.Because Comfort shares in the good and the bad.Comfort says I want to give you life. To walk in your life.Comfort comes close to the brokenhearted. Comfort draws near to the crushed in spirit.I’m reading Marilynne Robinson’s book, Gilead, a beautiful narrative of a dying father writing to his son, and gleaning gems of wisdom like these,“As you read this, I hope you will understand that when I speak of the long night that preceded these days of my happiness, I do not remember grief and loneliness so much as I do peace and comfort—grief, but never without comfort; loneliness, but never without peace. Almost never.”Today my heart hurts for my friends near and far who are hurting. With their grief, I pray for comfort. With their loneliness, I ask for peace.For those mourning broken marriages, lost jobs, the death of friends, sickness, and disappointed dreams, bring your comfort and your presence.I want to pray as the father in Gilead prays,“And I’d pray for them. And I’d imagine peace they didn’t expect and couldn’t account for descending on their illness and their quarreling or their dreams.”And so I ask that You would come, Comfort, with a peace we don’t expect and can’t account for. Amen *Author's note: I originally started writing this piece in response to Lisa Jo Baker's Five Minute Friday prompt on Comfort, but my thoughts seemed too jumbled and scattered to post at the time--even for a free write. And it seems I had more to say than five minutes would warrant anyway.
