Fourteen days, ten hours, 13 minutes and a handful of seconds- how many days left until I reach existing here for forty days. Sometimes I forget that I am counting, other days it feels like having something to achieve is what keeps me breathing. It’s still hard.
On Tuesday, I started in the babies room; here we call it Sala Cuna, which translates to the crib room. There are twelve tinies who come on a regular basis. Sala Cuna ranges from ages six months to a year. On Thursday I was pretty attatched to the tiniest. She’s about seven months old and she cries a lot. When you’re seven months old, sleep is critical. I have enough tiny human experience to know that crying is typically just a really loud way of saying “hey, I need something!” and since she had just recently eaten, I removed her from the swinging chair and rocked her in my arms. It’s a relatively bright and busy room, so I also draped a blanket from my shoulder over her tiny little body and she was out like a light. I love sleeping babies, they are so precious. This little tiny slept for about an hour in a half before waking up with lots of smiles and a desire to play peek-a-boo. Sleep and snuggles always fill my heart up!
There is another short term mission team coming on Febuary second, which is exciting because my mom sent a package to one of the Americans coming. My newest Moleskine journal (perfect timing because I’m down to three pages), my retainers, headphones, etc.. All very exciting, especially the journal- I love to journal. Keeping track of all the things going on in my head, my heart, my soul and my world is so important and also really cool to look back upon.
I mentioned last time that I joined the foundation’s girls soccer team. I suck. Really. Why don’t Colombians play basketball? I could at least compete in that. On that note, on the way home from practice on Thursday evening, a group of three boys stopped me. I had zero clue what they were saying aside from “profe, profe”, which means “teacher, teacher” (conveniently, my roommate was present to translate). Now, here’s what actually made me stop: this was the most beautiful child I have ever seen. He’s about twelve years old, with wavy dark hair, tanned skin, brown eyes that reflect the sun and a great grin. What I didn’t catch in his calling to me was that he wanted me to sing for him and his friends. He was the same boy from the night of sancocho. It felt so peculiar, but again, I sang for him. My roommate works full time at the foundation and knows a little bit more of the history; I was marveling to her about how beautiful this kid was and she laughed and said that everyone from his family is just stunning. She also let me know that this twelve year old boy has already had at least four death threats on his life in the last year. And my heart sank. Ugh. Reminders again of how fallen this world is, that this sweet precious boy, this little child of Yahweh, has people trying to snatch his life from him. That’s a hard part. I think about him every day now. I know I only met him on Thursday but my heart is so angry that he is living in this wildness.
I got to church on Saturday nights because that’s the more my age group, it’s a little more youth-groupy and a little less stiff. Tonight, the soccer girls are coming over for “nachos” (not the heaping tray of tortilla chips with meat and cheese and guacamole and salsa and sour cream that my mom makes) and then heading to church with us at seven. I love the soccer girls and I’m pumped that they’re joining us for church.
There is a lot of crazy and a lot of different and still a lot of hard. But this is now. This is what’s going on.