Big, Big Table

When I was Nicol’s age (6), my grandparents were building a new dining room table. I informed them that they would need to make sure it was a big, big table because I wanted to have twelve kids. As if that were the most normal six-year-old request of all time, they assured me the table would be huge. The custom-made table now stretches the entire length of their dining room (though that may have always been the plan, now that I think about it). When I was ten, I was a much more reasonable dreamer and decided twelve kids was just too many; the perfect number would be six!

Regardless of the fact that when I was twelve I decided on having three or four kids someday, I am now living my six-year-old dream: I have twelve kids sitting around my big, big table.

A La Mesa

All of Familia Feliz I’m sure can hear when it’s meal time at Las Lilas: I yell at the top of my lungs, “Chicas a la mesaaaa!! A comerrrrrr!!” (“Girlies to the table!! To eat!!”)

The table in Las Lilas is outside in the back of our house in the covered kitchen. Hanging between the tables and the rainforest, under the thatch roof, partially blocking my view of the stunning mountains, are giant S-hooks holding giant bunches of bananas (also referred to as “guineos” or “plátanos”). To one end of the table is a partially-collapsing thatch wall with a laundry line hung inside, and beside that you can see four outdoor lines for sun-baking our hand-scrubbed ropa. The other end of the table is close to the propane stove (that has only two of four eyes working), which is next to the work table we burned a crescent moon in, both butted up against the back of the propane oven. Sitting on our table are fake roses in a jar of dirt which has molded after being lovingly watered by confused littles. There is also a container of spoons and another of forks. Our two tables are different widths, but at least they’re the same height.

My table hosts a lot. And we do more than eat and prep food there. At this table, kids do homework on rare occasions. It’s where we sit to have worship in the mornings before breakfast and in the evenings after supper, crowding around my propped-against-the-spoons phone playing music videos. This table is my favorite place for devotional time when the girls are in school, the coolest place to sit in the afternoons for shade and a cross breeze. The table is where Brandy hacks away at the sugar cane she picked to munch on and where toronjas (pink grapefruit) are peeled ruthlessly.

My table is the sorting center of all the veggies we get rationed every two weeks (allegedly. However, we often go without for longer, or we don’t get our SM stipends as Familia Feliz can’t afford groceries and giving us our money). Cabbage, carrots, beets, potatoes, onions, garlic, cucumbers, green beans, peas, haba beans, and ever-present parsley are either refrigerated or chopped, bagged, and frozen to last us through. Veggies arriving is the best thing since…forget sliced bread (nonexistent in this town)…since the last time we got veggies!

My table hosts unexpected guests, like one new teacher who doesn’t like to cook for herself and her banshee children. She showed up to hang out with Esmeralda an hour before I served the food I’d been cooking for hours. I wasn’t panicked. “Is she eating here?” I asked Maribel, my oldest girl. “We won’t have enough!!” She sheepishly came back from asking and said, “Yes, all three of them.” In my frustration (as this has happened before and boys — like her son running down the hall — aren’t allowed in my house) I asked, “Can you ask why she didn’t give me warning when I put the beans on? Or maybe why she didn’t ask?” *incredulous stare of fear* “No teacher, I’m afraid of her. “Me too.” Then she looks at my refried beans and rice: “Va a dar; tenga fe.” It’ll give; have faith. And as if it wasn’t cute enough, she continued, “One time I made only a little food but just kept serving and it multiplied!” Well, yes, actually, this day we even had leftovers.

Tuesday is Spa Day in Las Lilas. Lining up in age order, they are addressed as “Señora” and whisked into my imaginary spa world. They awaited Dollar Tree peel-off masks and got their hair sponges down with water then slathered in honey-scented hair masks. The entire process ended with a hand massage with lotion. The amazing thing to me was that they didn’t know what lotion was. Or what it was for. “How long do we leave it on our arms? When do I wash it off?” Why would you know about lotion if you’re always so sweaty and moist? I love watching their faces watch mine as I put the sticky face masks on them. Marianely was especially intrigued, and I couldn’t help but think, “From street urchin to table spa; thank You, Lord.”

What better place to have a whole dental exam than laying on our table?? Treson’s family is here for a week and brought a kids dental toy set to educate them and some supplies to examine if anyone has greater problems. Laid stretched out on the table, some of my girls had perfect teeth and others will probably be toothless at 25. Regardless, everyone is now inspired to floss and use their new cepillos.

And the next day my table was carried off to the church to seat yet another group of government officials here to watch us put on yet another show with yet another over-budget bending over backwards. This time it was the directors of education here to observe our school, especially a show the students could put on. After playing my flute with Zoro and Emilianne we scrambled back to clean because they pleasantly dropped that they’d love to see where and how we live. Oop. So it became yet another campus inspection, but we’re getting good at those. Our table was returned to us that night.

Table Talk

Ephesians 2:19 says, “Now, therefore, you are no longer strangers and foreigners, but fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God.”

Foreigners don’t chat with locals around their dinner tables because A) they aren’t invited to eat there B) they don’t know the language C) they don’t know the culture well enough to carry on much intelligent conversation that doesn’t consist of learning about it. Fellow citizens do.

Recently I told my mom at the end of the day, “We invited Zoe over for lunch today and the two of us chatted for two hours! At the end of it I realized I literally conversed in Spanish for hours nonstop!” Why this was surprising I’m not sure, as I literally speak Spanish all day to twelve girls and three adults here, but the pride of transitioning from “stranger and foreigner” to “fellow citizen” and “member” made me grin.

Smelling like Zeinet’s pee as she sits at the table with me stringing beads on a pipe cleaner is not an uncommon occurrence. She’s almost doubled my laundry load because of the way I change shirts after having to wrestle her in the mornings. But once she’s quiet she’ll sit and chat as if table talk were her specialty.

Nicol stutters. Last semester I didn’t think much of it. But I’m just realizing how prominent it’s becoming. It used to be only when she got worked up, but suddenly it’s now a common thing to hear, “M-m-m-mi-mi-mi-mire t-t-ti-ti-ticher este N-N-Nirza *fill in the blank about what Nirza’s doing*.” What do you do to correct a stutter? I have no idea, but the table talking we do involves repeating it again slower.

Siéntate

“Siéntate” (“Sit down”). Literally one of the first commands I learned. While last semester it applied to getting my first graders to their desks, it now is spoken to Nicol who likes to stand on the bench at the table and dance during meal times, to Nirza who wanders when she doesn’t want to finish her food, to Brandy who never pays attention during worship, and to Maribel who’s always chasing the baby.

Zeynet has to sit quietly at the table to show us when she’s finished a tantrum. We don’t have much table time.

Screaming. Howling as if I’m chopping off individual toes. Angry tears. Inconsolable. Finally I stopped fighting to hold onto Zeynet and brought her in my room and closed the door. As I sat in a chair, she tugged on my arm with all of her strength. Grabbing two of my fingers in one hand and two fingers in the other, she jerked and pulled until she would’ve fallen had I not also had a hold of her. She kept struggling to open the big, heavy wooden door by pushing on it instead of pulling. She kept running back to me to look up with the biggest brown eyes that were so wet with tears they seemed to be purely liquid. Begging me, cajoling me, even saying “Por favor” (because she remembers that’s the magic word here): open the door. She knows I have the power to open the door. And when I said we’d go to the table, she’d get so mad she’d pound her feet on the floor and yell to go to the school where her sister was. She’d throw herself at the door, at the floor, but kept running back to me, her friend but seemingly worst enemy.

I sat there crying watching her because I realized I’m her. I have somewhere I want to go, something I want that I’m quite certain is the best for me. I try to open my own doors. When they don’t budge, I run to God, Who I know has the power to open them. I tug on His arms, trying to pull Him along with my plans. I cry. I get mad. I plop down in silence before I remember what I wanted.

But He doesn’t lock me in the room by myself. He sits with me, waiting for me to listen. He doesn’t let me go when I let go of His hand, so I don’t crash and hit my head. He just keeps repeating, “But over there is better! You don’t want to go there yet. Come with Me.” Ruth 3:18 has been my verse this week that spoke to me (and should be spoken to Zeynet): “Sit still, my daughter, until you know how the matter will turn out…”

Siéntate.

Tables Have Turned

With seven months under our belts, there has been a lot of adjusting and changing, a lot of things that we’ve come to forget we even used to be paranoid about. Oh how the tables have turned!

I laugh at how I used to be so worried at these kids using machetes and horrified at little girls using huge knives freely.

I laugh at how I used to never leave my clothes out overnight for fear of boro moths laying eggs in them.

I laugh at how I used a lice comb every time I washed my hair for the first four months (resulting in thinning my poor cabello), even when I didn’t have lice.

I laugh at how I used to never do my laundry in the laundry sinks, but instead in clean bañadoras (plastic bins). I was so careful not to use a scrub brush too hard or use bleach. I used to turn my shirts inside out so the sun wouldn’t fade them on the laundry lines. LOL.

I’m proud of how much I don’t care to mess up Spanish anymore. If you’d told me I’d put a video of me reading worship in Spanish on Southern’s SM Instagram I would have laughed you out of here. But on Wednesday’s takeover I did just that, fearless. Big table turned; flipped, even.

I think about how I came here saying I preferred baking to cooking, but now I avoid baking so much I made a three-tiered birthday cake in a pan on the stove last week!

I also think about how my instant gratification self has been reset. I used to have a legitimate fear for my future husband: “I’m gonna be such a lazy cook! He’ll never eat good meals!” Fear negated. Two hours for meal prep is nothing, is so worth it, and is one of my most relaxing times.

The tables also turned from Lisi having the bad luck of losing things (phone, iPad, wallet, and AirPods); Thursday it was my turn, in one foul swoop. On my last day off it was raining so hard that I was too busy wringing water out of my rain coat and bragging about my rain pants to notice I didn’t have everything with me. Getting out of the Torito in front of the pastry shop, I walked inside to realize in a panic my backpack was definitely still in the back. Looking up, the Torito was nowhere in sight. “He went that way!” Zoro pointed down the road, and I took off in a soggy sprint, making it several blocks chasing a red Torito I assumed was ours before another Torito driver picked me up and aided me in my chase. We caught up to the red Torito only to discover it wasn’t mine. Actually in a panic, I was never more relieved as when Emilianne called to say our original driver brought it back! So as my helpful friend laughed and drove me back, I started to think about what all was in my backpack: Grayl filter waterbottle, earbuds, wallet with carnet, hammock and straps, one of my Bibles, my journal from this semester, AND my journal from our month-long vacation. Literally my whole life at this point. I will never again sit down at this table that got turned.

There’s so much more that’s changed, both externally and internally, but honestly all you need to know is that most tables are turning and not being flipped.

Big, Big Table

My home church always said, “The best way to get to know someone is to sit at the same table.” Community forming around food is a real thing. It’s the best way to connect with kids, to bribe them, or sometimes to offend them too. A table is a symbol for me of community.

To encourage community after all of us SMs got divided up to be house parents, Elizabeth created a Bingo card with all of our faces on it in which we have to “blackout bingo” by talking face-to-face with every SM during our day. And the incentive prize is apparently a gift she’ll mail to us in the States. Only Bolivia SMs.

This year I have learned a lot about what the word community means. I’ve learned about connecting with individual kids and finding and creating community speaking another language. But more than that, I’ve valued the lessons of community the other SMs have taught me.

This year I’ve had the kind of friends that I want to be, the kind of friends that I want to keep, the kind of friends that feel like family. Bolivia SM culture is checking regularly on everyone’s mental health, asking how you’re really doing, bringing soup when you hear someone’s sick and not just asking to “let me know if there’s anything I can do.” It’s making you get out of bed to talk to us about what you’re discouraged about. It’s getting together to pray instead of saying, “I’ll pray for you.” It’s taking every little excuse to celebrate, pooling limited resources, and laughing about the incredulous and the insane. It’s the feeling of home when you see one of them walk by.

The countdown is on; our time is running out. Fifty-eight more days around this big, big table. But I’m pointing my kids whenever I can to a bigger big table in Heaven. There we’ll all sit around it for an eternity of giving thanks to God, like we sing before every meal here:

Gracias damos Señor por el pan

Por el pan espiritual

Cada alimenta cada cual

Y también por el pan material

Amén

(We thank You, Lord, for the bread

We thank You, Lord, for the bread

For the spiritual bread

That feeds each one

And for the physical bread, too

Amen)

Love from my big table,