on June

We moved back into Mexico, back into the 'hood back at the end of May, all sweet, no bitter. I missed this place, these people, in those few months away, missed it all mightily. Of course, memories show themselves nostalgic when you go away from a place. I confess, I forgot about those daily things that I can be so tempted to be annoyed by, like drainage projects that last for years and the roads that these projects destroy and the detours that these projects dictate... (and there I am, confessing how easily I am distracted).

I come back to Reynosa and to ministry and to this life with fresh eyes and a ready spirit. Not much can beat those first surprise greetings by my young friends, hugs around my legs right in the middle of the street, "Kreeeeeeeeeees-teeeeeeeeeeee...." The high-pitched and high-volume voices sing familiar but brand new after time away. The everyday tasks that life in team require don't weigh too heavy. The sweat runs into my eyes many a day while I reacclimate to borderland sun and humidity and for a short time, I just keep blinking. I have to stop for horses in the street one evening on my way home, and just laugh as they mosey along.

One ordinary day turns special when I get to linger over lunch with decades-old friends, all together for one rare afternoon. I have the privilege of playing auntie to my teammates' kids. I sit on the shore with another dear one and watch the waves roll in and out and chase down a fresh fish dinner at the end of the day. I use any excuse, long bridge lines, afternoons too hot to cook, to find nieves and tacos. I sit on a bench in dusty early evening and watch the neighborhood kids play ball. 

All that so very true and real and good, and yet, I can not ignore other realities. The bridge I cross multiple times a week now has serpentine wire strung across multiple lanes. The waits can be painfully long and alter how we receive visitors, even family, but those inconveniences seem very small in comparison to the sufferings of others very nearby. I spend time with girls from an orphanage, separated from their parents for reasons I don't know and they can't understand. I learn of changes in the lives our neighborhood youth and I groan out loud and want to cry out. I cry with a volunteer overwhelmed by the needs she heard and saw in others that day. Day by day I face my own issues and seek His wisdom and grace. I find a new to me hymn and put it on repeat. 

What patience would wait as we constantly roam

What Father so tender is calling us home

He welcomes the weakest, the vilest, the poor

Our sins they are many, His mercy is more

("His Mercy Is More," by Matt Papa and Matt Boswell)

I'm thankful to be back.

Reflections

The shades of gray vary only slightly on a hazy February day at the beach. The shadowy line on the distant horizon distinctly divides the sea from the sky. But still, all remains shades of gray, khaki gray sand, green gray sea, silver gray haze, and blue gray sky. The waves roll to the shore, whitecaps splashing one curve into another. A rip current runs parallel to the beach, a speedboat flume spraying out the back, until it collides with the incoming waters. Speed racer bubbles float across the water’s trail until colliding with a speed bump shell and popping into an ephemeral mist. The froth of the wave, foamy white, scurries towards the sand, leveling out until it rolls back, overcome by the following round. The cycle repeats again and again. The unpredictable and yet certain rhythm mesmerizes me. The noise of the surf and the roar of the wind block out the sounds of the people and the cars passing by. I close my eyes and think that I might be alone.

Except there are the birds. I am the intruder here. The seabirds gather just down the shore, spread out in a sentinel line. Gulls and terns stand in the mirror waters, waiting for the signal to move. A pelican flies solo over the gulf shore, looking for the right moment to make his kamikaze dive, a plunge into the sea for his lunch. Tiny sandpipers dart back and forth, following the waves, stopping only to peck an unsuspecting crab before quickly shifting direction once again. A blue heron stands stately until finally making a graceful launch up into the air.

And also, there are the people. A couple of men try to fly a trick kite. The green and yellow triangle swoops and swerves, dipping dangerously towards the water before they pull it back up again, fighting against the wind all the while. A couple on pedaling bikes roll by, their fat donut tires leaving knobby prints in the sand. Two women walk past, talking and seeming not to notice the incoming waves lapping their bare toes or the wind pushing their hair from their faces. Others drive past silently in cars, the roar of the sea louder than that of the engines. 

All this, and yet I close my eyes and think again, I am alone. This year I have entered into a new season, different from any I have passed through before. In taking a time of sabbatical away from vocation and daily community, a good part of my life lately consists of quiet reflection. Here at the beach, my thoughts quickly turn to that of the psalmist who wrote,

What is man that you are mindful of him,

the son of man that you care for him?…

The birds of the heavens, and the fish of the sea, 

whatever passes along the paths of the seas.

O Lord, our Lord,

how majestic is your name in all the earth!

Psalm 8:4, 8-9 (ESV)

I too confess,

Nevertheless, I am continually with you;

     you hold my right hand.

You guide me with your counsel,

     and afterward you will receive me to glory.

Whom have I in heaven but you?

     And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.

My flesh and my heart may fail,

     but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

Psalm 73:23-26

He continues to instruct me and I continue to learn

that the way down is the way up, that to be low is to be high, that the broken heart is the healed heart, that the contrite spirit is the rejoicing spirit, that the repenting soul is the victorious soul, that to have nothing is to possess all, that to bear the cross is to wear the crown, that to give is to receive,

Valley of Vision  

and that He is enough.