Adiós vs. Caio

Adiós
Have you ever stopped to break the word apart? A. Dios. To God. I know, I know. It’s not the right translation. But every time I think, “Adiós,” I also think, “To God.”

In Bolivia we say, “Caio,” and rarely, if ever, “Adios.” Actually, I think I’ve heard the word once all year. But “Caio” is too casual and doesn’t really seem to fit the crushing finality of today.

Saying goodbye yesterday, I told the kids I was telling them, “To God. Go to God. Go with God. For the rest of your life until we meet again, live for God.”

When I say adiós and mean “to God,” it guarantees that the goodbye is only temporary. 

But it’s so hard to say.

Caio

I’ve been in the caio stage for a minute now, parceling out my clothing after I wash it, giving away random creams and gums and containers and gifts. The fun part of going is leaving material things of mine in the hands of kids who’ve admired things like those fairy lights, ukulele, and my hammock all year. The fun part is going ham with the gifts I buy them and the American food I give them. The fun part is also buying souvenirs and foods to take home, acting more like a tourist than a national resident. 

Last Thursday was my last day off. We have lived in the Amazon River Basin for nine months and have yet to go on a river boat, so off we went up river to Cañón de Bala, the most gorgeous place! We took a little boat up river thirty minutes from town, realizing just how quick civilization is lost in the oblivion of unscathed mountainous rainforest. After docking at a place that looked no different than any other part of the river bank, we trekked up a little trail. And after our barefoot guide hacked a branch off a tree along said footpath for use as a “snake stick,” we were ready to enter a place out of a fairytale adventure book. Setting down our backpacks in the middle of the stream bed because we “needed to be freer,” we followed our guide in silence (so as not to disturb nature) into a place that  an only be described as a tropical slot canyon. Bats flying around between the narrow moss-covered walls, vines and roots growing downward from the rainforest canopy above, and our bodies in a single-file line in thigh-deep water, we followed behind the outstretched snake stick. Majestic. Unreal. Over too soon. To think we lived that close to such untouched beauty!

Friday night was my last time preaching. What do you say for that? How do you tell a group of kids to whom you’ve given your heart that they have to stay close to Jesus? How do you tell them how much they are loved by God and how He can heal them, how He can protect them? I used an illustration with one balloon full of water and another full of air. I held a lighter underneath to represent trials of life, and the “Holy Spirit” water saved the one full balloon while the other popped. May the things these kids have experienced and will continue through never explode them, because “He that is in us is greater than he who is in the world.”

My last Sunday was the perfectly typical combination of fifteen kids complaining over new chore assignments, fighting with me over the movie they can watch, taking turns calling family members and running my phone battery into the ground, me cooking three intensive meals, doing laundry, waiting and watching WhatsApp to see if visitors arrived at the gate, yelling eighteen times for them to get in the shower, and sitting in front of the felt board for worship. But it was a Sunday where those things were the lasts. My heart was pretty fragile as we all made empanadas together, even the very littlest copying Rubí’s idea to make miniature ones. Tears did come when I asked Sole to help me make cookies and she took her self-assigned throne in front of the giant chocolate bar to chop it as she always does. I almost cried when Nirza said, “Let’s pretend you’re my mom, yeah?” and entered our make-believe world not much different than the one we’ve been living in, except that in this one she can play pretend and call me “Mama.”

On Monday, I took all the girls to town, an honestly all-too-rare experience for them. We began the day by piling in the truck at 8:00, arriving giddily at Hotel Takana for literally six-and-a-half hours of splashing, hand-stands, teaching the big ones to swim, and pulling the littles around in circles and circles. The French fries and sandwiches we packed held us over till we went to Heladería Flipper for two scoops in pretty cups shoveled into tired, sun-kissed faces. Leaving the eleven youngest with T. Esmeralda at the playground, I took my four oldest on a shopping spree on the market street. As each picked out what they’d spend their allowance on, my heart filled with pride for their selflessness (Nely buying for younger sister), their politeness, their beauty. I got to have the most fun with them, wishing I could have done this more. And as everyone piled in the back of the truck on the way back at sunset…oh my heart! This scene where we drive down a rainforest road as the sky turned pink was definitely from the end of some movie, and it made me realize it’s the end here, too.

Tuesday was the last veggie day. And by veggie day I mean kilos and kilos of potatoes, cabbage, carrots, lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, beets, green beans, haba beans, onions, celery, parsley, and peas dumped in massive heaps on our tables, every girl sitting around with a chronically dull knife, chopping often-half-rotten veggies for all hours of the afternoon. Not my favorite, except for the knowledge of the nutrients they hold. But I also love how the girls chat (during said chat Marianely found out she’s Nirza’s cousin LOL). Tuesday also marked the day of Zoe’s departure from Familia Feliz! A shock. A horror. A devastation really. Zoe had been a volunteer here since she was eighteen. Since, she became one of the main school administrators, a teacher, a house mom of Las Dahlias, Sabbath School superintendent, and literally everything else you can imagine. Without warning and without a goodbye, she left for Argentina, her home where family problems called her back. And this left us scrambling, since four nights later the other two SM house moms would be leaving, too.

My last Wednesday was a memory of itself. It really got interesting (and you should stop reading here if you have a weak stomach) when I was halfway done making supper and Joy showed up to help extract the six boros out of Papichulo’s face. Papito is Soledad’s personal pet; of all the dozens of cats on campus, of course it would be the most beloved that acquired six times the most painful atrocity, all burrowed in its face, making Sole sob harder than I’ve ever seen. As I wrapped up the partially-drugged-on-Benadryl black kitty in a random girl’s towel, we began an hour-long process of putting larvaecide (gasoline/iodine) on his little snout under his eye, squeezing the raw flesh which was dotted with holes that contained little swollen, hairy larvae. We could tell which holes had living gusanos because the pus “pulsed,” as Joy told me to watch for. The gas kills them, but they try to escape to breathe, so we wait with tweezers to extract them when they surface. The process of the baby-moth parasites moving inside the flesh they are actively eating alive is incredibly painful, and the cat was not having it. The mixed smells of infected flesh, gasoline, and pumpkin spice Bath & Body hand sanitizer has thoroughly convinced me I could never be a vet. As Joy squeezed on its nose, bloop! a larvae shot OUT OF THE EYE SOCKET of the poor kitten! We noticed that the under eye kept swelling then unswelling; very odd, until we realized the swelling was from the boros moving away from out tweezers and into the eye socket area. Wow. I washed my hands really well then finished hand-forming hamburgers to stick in the oven. I chose not to dwell on that. Anyway, it’s Bolivia. Later that night (after praying a special prayer over FF because we’re literally BROKE and can’t afford groceries), we went into the Harding House to find that Greciana had made five cakes and decorated the house for all the volunteers with summer birthdays that we won’t be there to celebrate! Sierra, Josy, Maddy, Emilianne, and I got serenaded in Spanish and English, presented with posters, cards from all our kids who were clued in on it, and a little goodie bag! I went home to happy, then was called to the door. Greciana said, “Katie-Jane, we forgot to give you something!” I noticed too late Abi Harding standing on the bench by my door, and an egg was smashed onto my head, followed by a whole bag of flour. Honestly I’m SO glad I, too, got made into a cake.

On Thursday, Emilianne and I left before the kids left for school and returned before they got back. We won the record for most efficient (and overloaded) shoppers who bought a dozen pairs of shoes, curtains, summer b-day gifts, enough fruit for fruit salads for thirty-four people, and enough stuff to fill up a Torito. After school, Las Lilas then continued with the final part of the long-awaited giveaway of T. Kati’s remaining earthly possessions. Filing into and out of my room to choose item-by-item what they want of mine, the girls had as much fun as I did. Now my too-big clothes are now on little girls, pero para recuerdo (“but for remembrance”). I came with three checked suitcases and a carry-on; I’m leaving with a carry-on and a checked bag, which is actually just an empty suitcase around a smaller one. (And that luggage was all packed and ready. Wild.) Later, we went outside on my picnic blanket, making the most of the fact I didn’t have to make supper this night. We played pretend (“Can you pretend you’re the mom and I’m the daughter?” Nirza asked me. We’ve done that all year, I thought.), we played airplane (the littles on my feet as I laid on my back, lifting them way up in the air to “fly”), and we laid on our backs as the littles all tried to share my one flannel shirt. Bonita.

My last Friday at Familia Feliz also marked my last Friday out of the States. Wild beyond being able to fathom, really. With school cancelled, we made our last trip to la tienda. The girls climbed to the highest branches of our pacay tree, throwing down the pods containing fuzzy fruit from fifty feet above. We stood around and had a pacay-eating and pit-spitting party, even baby Abi trained to spit the big black seeds out. Then we went to vespers and said our last, “¡De La Casa de Las Lilas te deseamos Feliz Sábado!” (all the houses go around saying, “From *insert house name* we wish you a happy Sabbath!”). Then it was the last Api Morado and pipoca meal.

Then came Saturday. The day of adios.

As I’ve been in the saying-goodbye process for awhile now, reminded again and again that I was only temporary in the lives of these kids, and them in mine. 

Teacher Kati, Se Va a Ir

I can still hear in my mind Dianara waking up in the middle of the night and crying for fear of the sounds, calling out, “Teacher Kati!” Nirza will start a full-on sob/gritando to the tune of, “Teacher Katiiiiii!” I can see Jhoanna peeking her head in my bedroom door too early on Sunday mornings and calling, “Teacher Kati!” I can still picture Nicol marching up to my hammock as I’m mid-20-minute nap and demanding the attention of “Teacher Kati.” My heart swells when I walk past the school, and kids at recess yell out, “Teacher Kati!!!” I can still feel Pinky pulling on my arm to sit next to her at the table, “¿Ya, T. Kati?” And I’ll always remember Rubí’s favorite thing to do when she’s bored: repeat, “T. Kati!” “T. Kati!” “T. Kati?” making me respond each time till she wears me out, then says, “Nada,” (“nothing”) with a giggle.

Maribel, my oldest Lila, is my cuddle bug. Zoro, her teacher, told me that one of his last assignments was to have the kids write out a time line of at least ten events in their lives. Some wrote a history that is objectively shallow, while others had a list of all the deaths of all their family members, one by one; but Maribel’s makes me cry: 

“2022: T. Kati came to Familia Feliz.” 

“2023: T. Kati left Familia Feliz.” 

A week before I left, Maribel was eating and randomly said, “La luz va a ir, ¿no ve, Teacher?” (“The light is going to leave, right Teacher?”) “Como?” (“How?”) “Cuando usted va a salir.” (“When you leave.”) “Como?” “La luz se apareció y se apagó de nuevo.” (“The light appeared and then went out again.”)

The light appeared and then went out again.

Same, girl. This year, a light appeared in my life.

I’m really wrestling not just with the fact that I’m leaving, but the fact that I have left. As much as I love the way I get to go home and see my family, leaving is something I’ve been dreading since before I came. Now it’s here. How did the time fly this fast? How is it May?

“Even Jesus left.” That’s what Treson’s mom reminded those of us who voiced doubt about leaving. He even told His disciples that Him leaving would be better for them! I’m just praying it can at least be as good for the kids now.

My sister was talking to me awhile back. “Katie-Jane, your year here is a signpost in their lives. They may not recognize it now, but your girls may look back later in their lives and see how you pointed them in the way they needed to go.” I’m not the whole road, just someone to point them to The Way. 

I had this realization again a few weeks ago when my small group with other volunteers read 1 Corinthians 3:7-9: “So then neither he who plants is anything, nor he who waters, but God who gives the increase. Now he who plants and he who waters are one, and each one will receive his own reward according to his own labor. For we are God’s fellow workers; you are God’s field, you are God’s building.” The thought struck me, your work isn’t to finish their faith but to connect them to the Finisher of their faith.

Emilianne, once again with her words of wisdom, said, “Some plant and others water, so just follow the calling you’re called to.” 

Nirza asked why I had a suitcase open on my floor, why I was packing. “When will you return from vacaciones?” she naïvely asked. My heart broke. “I’m not going on vacation; I’m going home to the United States.” But this is home. *confused four-year-old head tilt* “Remember Teacher Zach? [SM in 2021-2022]” “Siiiiii!!” “Well, it’s like that. I’m leaving like he left.” *head tilt* “I have a photo of Teacher Zach!!” My heart broke and bled tears. I, too, will be a photo she has.

Elizabeth has talked all year about something she recognized early on while reading about the succession of the kings of Israel, gleaning a lesson out of a normally skipped-over list: “God never left Israel without a king.” And Familia Feliz will not fall apart when we leave, will not be left without SMs. God never fails to supply another person, and He doesn’t fail to supply good people.

Glory

In Exodus 33, Moses asked God, “show me Your glory.” I left for Bolivia in August asking God to see His glory. I wanted to be amazed, to be so in awe, so changed. I wanted to reflect that glory and cause others to experience the same.

But what God did for Moses was to “make all My goodness pass before you” and “proclaim the Name of the Lord before you.” I have come to learn, like Moses, that it was God’s character that needed to be revealed to me. And that His character is His glory. 

God asks us to do big things to remind us how small we really are. He asks us to do scary things to show us His power. And He sends us on impossible missions so that when it’s all over we can say, “That was all Him. I couldn’t have ever done that.”

“Most of the time, I am not brave. I just believe in a God who will use me even though I am not” (Katie Davis Majors).

And the whole time that God was moving, He put me “in the cleft of the rock” and covered me “with My hand while I pass by” (Exodus 33).

God did show up for me this year many times in what seemed like all His glory. There were big things (and small things I thought were big things) that God did. Amazingly, He often did those things using us. 

Other times, in the moments that truly lacked glory, we saw God’s goodness. In the most glamor-less and grim, God was good. In the failure and the faults, God was merciful.

This year I have been a mom, growing in so many ways surrounding that. I’ve come to think that only five kids is easy, that I could comfortably cook a whole family Thanksgiving dinner without batting an eye, and that I can stomach vomit, poopy diapers, blood, and just about everything in between. I’ve been hit, bit, kissed, kicked, hugged, tackled, tickled, yelled at, and called for. I’ve had moms and grandmas send me parenting advice and jokes like I’m a peer who can relate, had my Instagram become full of motherhood reels, and had my phone be converted into a digital art gallery of the world’s finest scribble art.

This year I’ve gotten tough. I’ve thrown up while cooking over a fire pit, built a fire pit to boil all the clothing and bedding of seventeen people, guarded a gate with a machete to protect campus from a druggy kidnapper, football carried tantrum-throwing second-graders two at a time, nailed plastic over bedroom windows in a thunderstorm, showered in a leaky gutter on the days when we had no water, hand washed everything I own in a laundry sink outside, spit on giant beetles in my bathroom sink, carried tarantulas out of my classroom, taken a cold shower every day, swept foot-sized toads out my bedroom door, cooked rice with river water, lived the whole year in a house with no back door that simply opened into the rainforest, been a single mom of fifteen once a week when T. Esme had her day off, had a parasite inside me and impetigo on my face, cumulatively combed thousands of lice from others and become unfazed (just disappointed) to find them in my own hair, and made two meals every day everyday for seventeen people. My past self thinks I’m pretty invincible now.

This year I’ve lost my fear of public places and strangers. Running errands and making plans in the business place? No problem! And in another language? I planned a four-week vacation around five countries for nine people (and gotten lost and still been fine). The experience I gained from that trip alone aged me twenty years!

And this year I have grown in regards to language. I’ve lost my fear of trying and failing and learning in front of others, friends or strangers. Greciana, who regularly visits my house to sit through my nightly worships, recently said, “Your Spanish is better than any other volunteer, besides Zoro or Josy!” While I don’t believe it to be true, it made me feel so good, so successful! I’ve made it.

Paradigm

Something else I prayed before I left for Bolivia was that God help me to see myself as a missionary, not just a tourist. And then I prayed for that to be a permanent paradigm. The way that I interact with strangers and friends alike takes on a new light when I have the calling with a mission in the forefront of my mind. And I pray that after living out that paradigm for a year I may always do so.

“Your eyes will get stuck like that!” My mom used to always get onto me to my excessive eye-rolling as a kid. She’s about to have to start saying it again when I get home; as if I didn’t harp on “first world problems” enough before coming here, everyone’s about to get an earful.

This year I’ve chilled out. I’ve learned deadlines will get met, everything will happen that needs to happen, and being stressed won’t benefit anyone. Trying to control situations is useless and so not enjoyable, and letting it go and follow where it takes you is a better adventure. I’ve truly learned don’t sweat the small stuff, and it’s all small. 

Minimalism and simplicity are two words that I have come to embrace. The clarity that comes from lack of clutter (maybe lack in general) provides an invaluable peace. While my life has been loud here, it’s been a different kind of wholesomely loud, not noise of my own making, purchasing, and chasing. I want to keep life clutter-free, literally and figuratively.

Everyone is in need of love. We all think we can read people, but the reality is we don’t know the people we don’t know. The coolest, most put-together people are just as in need of a compliment, a word of encouragement, a hug, as the littlest kid who seeks those things out. Your mission is to do life with everyone. 

And this year has been my clear turning point into adulthood. And how beautiful to have built on this foundation! “Is it us growing up into adults that’s done this or the fact that we’ve lived here and changed here?” we’ve asked each other. Both, inextricably, beautifully intertwined.

I have realized that my purpose in returning to the States is not void until I go somewhere again. Part of it, at least, is to use the experience I have had to get others excited about missions, to share my testimony of what God has done for and through me. My purpose is to continue the work God started here and to carry it with me for the rest of my life, to stay open to whatever that looks like.

Heavenly Banquet

The last big thing I wanted to do for my girls was something my second grade did for me: a “heavenly banquet.” I planned and purchased things like plastic golden crowns and fancy decor for weeks, somehow hiding it all in the public gathering arena that is my bedroom. Friday I cooked like a madwoman while trying to pretend I was perfectly sane, also trying to maintain emotional composure. Sabbath morning I woke up before the 5:00 sunup to set a banquet worth remembering on a table I covered in shiny wrapping paper, fancy plates and matching cups, and balloons. I hung a gold streamer backdrop and silky white fabric and carefully laid out the golden crowns that would soon be donned by kids with groggy eyes taking in the scene like Christmas. I wanted magical, but the Heavenly kind. I wanted them to want to do it again, but for real the next time. 

We sat down to a giant fruit salad of all my favorite tropical flavors (maracuyá, banana, papaya, pineapple), potato hash browns, an oatmeal cake with fruit sauce, and mocochinchi to drink. The goodie bags with their names that marked their places were eyed excitedly. We sang our last Gracias Damos and ate, sang, and talked. As this was a replacement for Sabbath School, I pulled out my Bible and began to talk about Heaven, only crying for a moment. It was beautiful. Just what I wanted.

The rest of the day was hard. Very hard. The last time sitting for a too-long-for-three-year-olds church service. The last homemade gluten lunch (however eaten as a potluck in the Harding House with all of campus). The last celebration of birthdays (it was Zoro’s, and we also sang and had cakes for the summer birthdays we’d miss). The grey, drizzly afternoon in which we took photos and Polaroids matched my drizzly heart and leaky eyes. But the last worship in la cancha took me out. 

¡De La Casa de Las Lilas te deseamos feliz semama! (“From the Casa de Las Lilas we say happy week!”) I lost it. That was the end. 

Side By Side

My life is recently a succession of lasts: last time preaching, last Saturday night pipoca and Api, last Sunday where tag-I’m-it alone, last Tuesday spa day, last Wednesday Bible study, last time wearing these outfits, last time hand-washing clothes, last time changing the propane tank, last time carrying benches to culto in la cancha, last time teaching Sabbath School, last time hearing a hymn in ninety keys with a plastic recorder accompaniment. Then it was last cold shower, last house worship, last time singing before praying for the food, last meal, last time tucking kids in bed, last praying through their mosquito nets. Then it was last photos, last words, last hugs, last forehead kisses. Then it was last goodbyes, last waving, last sight of them.

In the hours before midnight, I took personal time with each girl to tuck them into bed, lay with them, and pray with them. I laid my head on each little stomach and prayed my heart out as they cried their hearts out. Nicol sleepily gave cosquillas (tickles) on my neck and gave me our iconic finger wiggle wave and a grin. Nirza pinky-promised to go to Heaven with Jesus. Soledad and I sat outside on my bench listening to lofi Christian music crying. Maribel kept running over to give me hugs. Then the truck engine started and I walked over, girls holding my hands. Leg up. Last wave. A Dios.

For someone who is realizing that the kids will now only exist in photos and on a screen or over the phone, the last lines of Cody Fry’s song “Photograph” sum up my heart cry:

“If I wished myself a superpower

I would make this moment last for hours
If I had my will, time would just stand still
Wait for me until I find some magic film
To take a photograph and live inside

I need some way to prove that this was real
A memory is not enough
I'm scared that I'll forget the way it feels
To be young and in love

Let me stay right here
Just a moment longer
The picture is so clear
Please let this last forever.”

And then there’s singing Side By Side: 

“Vamos al Cielo, Jesús nos espera; 

hay un lugar para ti (para mi también). 

Contigo, yo quiero cantar en el Cielo; 

vamos, mi hermano, al hogar.”

Directly translated from the more eloquent Spanish version, this classic camp song says,

“We’re going to Heaven, Jesus waits for us;

there is a place for you (for me too).

With you I want to sing in Heaven;

let’s go, my brother, home.”

Thinking about standing side by side in Heaven with my precious kiddos makes me think of John 14:3, where Jesus said, “And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there you may be also.” This year I’ve tried to prepare an earthly home for these girls; now I can’t wait to go home home with them. Because there, forever isn’t just till May 6.

Adiós and caio,

Katie-Jane

🤍 Don’t Forget Familia Feliz

My heart is covered in handprints

Home is where your heart stays
(photo: Treson)

It was the little things all along

“¿Puedo pasar?”
“¿Me puede sacar un photo?”

Las Lilas’ hallway in August vs. May
(ft. girls erasing the pencil marks they made on the walls)

Lilac paint, pretty doors, enclosed kitchen, tile to come: PTL

“Never be afraid to trust an unknown future 

to a known God.”

— Corrie ten Boom

Imagine not living within yelling distance of your besties

“I grew in ways that I would not
have chosen to grow.”
-Elizabeth

Everyone is worth Christ’s life

Zeynet, ft. teeth used for something
other than biting my leg

Drowning, but in smiles only

Baby’s first swim

Sweetest for the sweetest

“Gracias por abrir mi corazón.”
(“Thank you for opening my heart.”)
-Soledad (in my birthday card)

Out on the town

Rurrenabaque

“Feels like the end of a movie I’ve seen before”

Cañón de Bala

Backyard tourists

To imagine this beauty is just out here existing!

Anyways, I found my paradise

Capo from a young age 

S’more s’mores over the gas stove

First cumple

A baby girl couldn’t grow up more adored than in this house

Round one of clothes regalar-ing 

“He who drinks of the living water 

becomes a fountain of life. 

The receiver becomes a giver.”

—The Ministry of Healing, 102

A portrait of me and Zeynet
by Zeynet

My heart

Sonrisas y sol

“¡Un chiquitito para mi!”

For morbid curiosity’s sake, here’s 3 of 4 boros

Egged and floured; we are the cake

Summer cumpleaños

The Pinky, an icon the size of my little finger.

These are my favorite days

Tienda de T. Kati

So much for two at a time

Coveted item

Why did shampoo go before fairy lights??

More handprints on my heart

My baby forever

The best thing ever: hammock sharing

Harsh reminder that nothing lasts forever

“There’s no goodbye, just ‘see you later.’”
— Greciana
(photo: Treson)

Saturday night snuggled under the stars

Las Locas
(photo: Treson) 

Finally getting some more real smiles out of Nely

¡Levantan y brillan!

“Take my picture, Teacher!”

Pinky with a head too small for a crown

Mi reina

Vamos al cielo — una promesa de pinky

Baby Abi y T. Esmeralda

Maribel, mi cariña

Mariana and our classic stare
“I’ll never do it with anyone else, Teacher!”

Soledad y Nirza

Crying over missing us, humbly the world’s best
(photo: Treson)

Forever my favorite name