Guatemala Delgation: The Takeoff and the Turbulence

I was scared to death. If you know me, you know I don't travel in general. I am barely willing to camp. The only other place outside North America that I've visited is Europe, and that over 12 years ago. But when my friend Carrie described this trip to our Sister Parish in San Andres Itzapa, Guatemala to me, about a year ago, in the parish hall at Christ Church, I felt a leaping "Yes!" rising in my throat before she'd finished describing it. This answer was one of the few in my that I "just knew" to give.

(For more about the Sister Parish program, its purpose and practices, click here.)

And, given that I spent most of the rest of the year in a state of fear and dread, I'm very grateful for that early burst of certitude.

Still, approaching the day of departure, I was beginning to feel an excitement! Our itinerary was packed with interesting visits and day trips, and I was really looking forward to finally making some use of my high school Spanish efforts. And then, Friday, the day before I was to leave, I got a call from Miles' school: he was vomiting, and would I come pick him up? Suddenly all I could feel was sick. I wish it was because I was just worried about my son, but in truth, I was terrified of getting sick and having to miss my flight. I took him home from school, went back to work, came home, tucked him in to bed by way of goodbye and finished up my packing, all without a symptom of real illness other than the havoc of sheer nerves on my stomach (and it was some pretty intense havoc).

Morning... well, it didn't dawn at 4 am, but it did arrive and my alarm did ring. I was vomit-free and hale, as far as I could tell, and I'd received a text from Melissa that filled me with a sense of goodness and possibility. And I did actually get dressed, eat, zip up my suitcase, make a final check for the irreplaceable items in my luggage.... and leave. Jon walked me over to the van, waiting in the Kroger parking lot, at 4:55 am, in about 10 degree weather. After a cold goodbye, I was actually off!

Our delegation was 5 very different women. We could not have known how we could grow in friendship over the course of the week:

Meet Sharon, Carrie, Maureen, Kim, all behind me, at the Roanoke Airport. 

We began with prayer at the airport, and then it was time to board.
I don't fly often, so you know I was glued to my window.

Here, you can see Atlanta & the surrounding suburbs. 

Here, a river in... Alabama? near the Gulf of Mexico

 After what seemed an impossibly short period:

Guatemala is beneath us, here!

Brian, the Sister Parish staffer we'd skyped with back in VA, picked us up at the airport. Brian is a Memphian, Melissa! He spent some years in the Peace Corps and has attained fluency in Spanish, and has a heart for building the kind of relationships we are seeking to build with Sister Parish, so he was a superlative leader and guide.

I spoke some intermediate-quality Spanish to our taxi driver and he filled my ears with the praises of his home country. In just a short drive, we were in the Sister Parish, Guatemala City headquarters building.

Our bedroom. 

Sister Parish, HQ Courtyard (Do you not love the color??)

Courtyard 2

We had a session on what to expect during our week, ate a meal, and retired early, looking forward to a morning walk around Ciudad Guatemala.

Unfortunately, for me, that walk didn't happen. Instead, I woke up at 5:30 with painful belly cramps, and soon proved myself to be violently sick. We assumed it was the water, or a flu, but my symptoms were so aggressive and worsened so rapidly (I was quite feverish by about 11), that the leadership decided I needed to visit the hospital/clinic.

I can't dwell much on my feelings that morning. I was devastated, anguished, sure that I had proved incapable of international travel and would be sent home on the next plane, still sick and miserable, to be treated in the US. I was sure that, at the very least, I would be a serious encumbrance to the mission of the delegation. As I shivered and cried on the hospital table, all seemed totally hopeless. Was it the little bit of tap water I accidentally got on my toothbrush? was it the stomach bug from which Miles had been suffering when I left?

Actually, it was neither. When the labs came back, they showed was suffering from angry intestinal amoebas! What was, to me, the ironic part is this: when I got sick, I assumed, "Guatemala has made me sick, and I will need to go to the US for medical care." In fact, the doctor in that Ciudad Guatemala Clinic believes that since I became sick so quickly, I must have brought my parasite with me. Which means: the US made me sick, and Guatemala was about to cure me.

Julieta, another Sister Parish staffer, was in the clinic with me and she pretty much was my angelic comforter. She translated when my Spanish failed me, she explained the meds to me, she distracted me with stories of her own life and experiences and asked me distracting questions about mine. I am so, so grateful that God placed Julieta with our delegation.

I received IV fluids for my dehydrated state, and medicines for the nausea, pain and fever, and went back to HQ with a script for meds that Brian was so sure would soon cure me, that he gave me the okay to travel to San Andres Itzapa. We got the first dose in me before leaving. I still spent the whole hour-long journey to SAI stretched out on the bus seats, trying not to moan aloud (I don't think I was entirely successful in this). When we arrived, I sort of fell out of the bus in a feverish stupor.

We were ushered into a courtyard and we all gasped. The entire congregation (probably around 50 people? maybe more?) were assembled into this tiny courtyard (that I later learned WAS their church) to meet us. They were all in their Sunday best, which varied from gorgeous traditional Guatemalan/Kaqchikel clothing, to modern dresses and suits, and the colors were brilliant in the sunshine. We were given seats of honor at the front of the courtyard, and one by one we were greeted by all the different factions who were present.

Guatemalans are big on speeches. We got one from nearly every representative, but we were awed and delighted by each because of the heartfelt welcome and gratitude they expressed for our visit.
The children performed a traditional dance, followed by a more modern dance. We were applauded, and I stood up and tremblingly gave the Spanish speech I'd prepared, expressing my joy and sense of honor in visiting them, and my hope that we would experience the reality of our unity in Christ, despite differences in language and culture. I'm so glad I kept that on my person! As I said, this is a people who appreciate a formal speech.

I was trembling both with fever and with joy and delight as children spoke to me, hugged me, kissed my cheeks and told me their names and ages. Eventually, however, I had to excuse myself. I was not yet well, that much was clear, though I now felt more motivated to become well than I had all that day.

I got a "taxi" (tiny vehicle the size of a golf cart) ride to my host family's home, where I was welcomed by Basilia and Otto, their daughter Tania, her daughter Keli and cousin, Hersea.

Kitchen, Basilia & Otto's

Dazed and weary as I was, the cat I saw asleep in the kitchen was a sight for sore eyes. 

His name is Mitchie. 

Before long, I also became acquainted with Balan, the dog. 

The drugs were working. By morning, the fever was very slight, and my stomach had calmed. I would be waiting another day or so for any trace of appetite to return, but the corner of my terrible horrible experience had been turned. 

I'm still trying to comb out the meaning of that dreadful first day. I'm a big worrier, and sickness was one of my greatest fears in attempting this trip, right in the middle of flu season as it was. I think I'd subconsciously believed that if I worried enough about something, I could prevent it. When this turned out not to be the way of things, I felt violated. How is it that we could be so bathed in prayer, and I could responded courageously to the thing I feared, and yet have such a violent sickness happen almost immediately? It seemed like malice on the part of the universe. 

Still, the week that followed more than demonstrated the value of my trip. I am reminded in contemplating this first bit of turbulence of one of Julian of Norwich's observations: "First there is the fall, and then there is the recovery from the fall. But both are the mercy of God." I haven't gotten the lessons all teased out yet, and I still bear some degree of resentment that I was sick at all. But I got to have the experience of surviving something I greatly feared, and of being helped mercifully by people very different from myself. Not only did the the doctor treat me skillfully, but the people of the Episcopal Church of San Andres Itzapa wasted no time in praying for me. They knew I was ill upon my arrival, and they laid hands on me at the assembly that day and prayed for me with feeling and eloquence. To have been rescued by those I did not know and cannot repay: this must have been for my good. I am sure of this much. 

Next: I'll dwell on our early-week adventures in San Andres Itzapa. After my recovery, too, I took a lot more photos!