It was easy to come here: listless after university, seeking adventure, eager for foreign lands, Paraguay was a good and logical choice. Girls swooned, guys admired, people prayed.
Lord, increase my faith.
My family was a wreck, my college friends spread out across the globe, and the times were changing. I had no home. It was good for me to leave.
Lord, increase my faith.
It was cool to go abroad in an exercise of faith. God was calling me, I was listening and following. New difficulties came with new possibilities and new challenges with new graces. It was in style to be poor, a bohemian college graduate without anything and depending on the grace of God and others for everything. I was grown in faith to trust and to not value so much the things of this world.
Lord, increase my faith.
A year later, I’m packing up and getting ready to follow God again. This time, though, it’s to much more familiar lands, and this time it’s not so glorious. “Yeah, I come from Ohio,” I tell everyone here. “The most normal state in the United States.” People won’t be so impressed when I tell them I’m getting an office job. I’ll probably get crossed off several prayer lists a few weeks after my return.
Lord, increase my faith. .
My family is still a wreck, and after a year away there’s nowhere now where I can run away from the reality. “The divorce is December 9.” My friends are still all over the country, but now they have really cool jobs in elections and government agencies and national banks. They’ve found success, and I’ve found a pauper self to be self-conscious about.
Lord, increase my faith.
I’m going back to Ohio without a car, without a cellphone, without health insurance, and without a job. At one time I spurned these “things of the world,” but now they´re all looking pretty attractive as I start dealing with American reality. At one time I thought settling down in a place with friends and family was pretty boring, but now I envy those who have never moved out and have it mostly all figured out.
Lord, increase my faith.
A lot has changed the past year, and a lot will change this next year, too.
Lord, increase my faith.
Friday, October 10, 2008
A Prayer for Sion
“Teacher, are you married?” one of my adoring second grade students asked me. “No,” I responded. “Why?” “Well” she continued, “I was hoping to have a little brother. If you were married, I was thinking you could have a son. Then he could be my brother if you adopted me. I would like you for a dad.”
Although I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time when I heard it, these words were nothing of a joke for Zion. Her mother abandoned her several years ago for work in Uruguay, she doesn’t know her real father, and, although has a baby brother come along the way since her mother left, she’s never met the child. She lives with her grandmother, who I suspect of many eccentricities and perhaps a touch of senility, and only hears from her mom by way of telephone a couple times a year. The child is starved for attention, doing whatever she can to spend time with me and other teachers and to be heard. Although she is very smart and has a great sense of humor, Zion hardly does her work in class and spends her time in school ambling about the classroom and whispering things in the teacher’s ear.
Zion once asked me in whole and simple faith to pray for her family—her mom and her baby brother in Uruguay, and her grandmother-who-turns-sixty-five-today in Paraguay. Athough nearly abandoned, she loves them terribly and hurts because they’re not all together. I told her I that would, and I really do. She is a beautiful child, but one with so many needs and so much brokenness that only a heavenly father can heal. Her and her family are in much need of grace, so if you think of it please say a prayer today on their behalf. She’s the reason that the ministry at Adonai exists and the reason why I’ve come to Paraguay—to bless and reach out to students with the love and hope of Christ, doing whatever we can, no matter how small it might seem, to offer the good news of redemption and restoration through the Gospel of Peace.
Although I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time when I heard it, these words were nothing of a joke for Zion. Her mother abandoned her several years ago for work in Uruguay, she doesn’t know her real father, and, although has a baby brother come along the way since her mother left, she’s never met the child. She lives with her grandmother, who I suspect of many eccentricities and perhaps a touch of senility, and only hears from her mom by way of telephone a couple times a year. The child is starved for attention, doing whatever she can to spend time with me and other teachers and to be heard. Although she is very smart and has a great sense of humor, Zion hardly does her work in class and spends her time in school ambling about the classroom and whispering things in the teacher’s ear.
Zion once asked me in whole and simple faith to pray for her family—her mom and her baby brother in Uruguay, and her grandmother-who-turns-sixty-five-today in Paraguay. Athough nearly abandoned, she loves them terribly and hurts because they’re not all together. I told her I that would, and I really do. She is a beautiful child, but one with so many needs and so much brokenness that only a heavenly father can heal. Her and her family are in much need of grace, so if you think of it please say a prayer today on their behalf. She’s the reason that the ministry at Adonai exists and the reason why I’ve come to Paraguay—to bless and reach out to students with the love and hope of Christ, doing whatever we can, no matter how small it might seem, to offer the good news of redemption and restoration through the Gospel of Peace.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
You Can Thank Me Later, Jason Jacobs
The Spanish word for bribery is “coima.” If I were anywhere else in the world at any other time in my life, I’d probably be disgusted by acts of bribery. When I was in Egypt and got snuck in the back way to see the pyramids, for example, our guides paid the guards coima (in Egypt, backsheesh) for us to get through. Although they saw it as a way of polishing the dancefloor of bureaucracy to make it easier for us and them to dance, I saw it as corruption and dishonesty, and I was angry.
Here in Paraguay, though, memories of Egypt and the United States and being upset at corruption are half a world away. Here in Paraguay, I’ve adapted too much to the culture and today have even become guilty of paying “coima” myself. You see, my last dances with the Paraguayan bureaucracy are now being held in the grand Asuncion ballroom, partnered as I am with the need to renew my visa for an extra two months of residency. Today found me making an elegant foot-move at the police station, where I had to get an official paper saying that I do indeed live where I do in Lambaré.
At the end of today’s shuffle of feet, the police chief gave me a sly look and asked me if I just wouldn’t like to give a little money to help make any future dances go a little smoother. It was a complex question, like the innocent-yet-guilty glance of an inviting tango partner from across the room. “How much would leave,” I asked him, “and for what purposes?” “Oh, to cover the cost of paper and so on,” he responded. “You can give whatever you want.”
Knowing that he knew me and the school that I represented (and would in fact come into direct contact with other missionaries like me in the future) and could make their experiences at the police station good ones or bad ones, I was left with little choice. I consciously and intentionally secured the crooked arrangement, offering him 10 mil guaranies, or about $2.50, in thank-you bribe money. The sad part is, it didn’t even cross my mind to decline his invitation. He smiled, perhaps pleased that he could buy a few more empanadas this morning or a week’s worth of yerba for his family, and I knew better than to ask for a receipt. This was bribe money.
I left, feeling a little dirty and a little compromised. I definitely gave money to a dirty police man as a little floor polish to clean up the dances that future missionaries will have with the police, and I definitely didn’t think twice about it. That’s the way things go here: obey blindly, give money to the authorities, don’t ask for receipts, and they won’t hurt you. They may even be your friends if you give enough.
I think I’ve too-quickly adjusted to the bad parts of South American culture, and not quickly-enough to the good parts. South America reinforces some of my sinful tendencies. Thankfully, though, I think I hear North America and a little sanity calling.
Here in Paraguay, though, memories of Egypt and the United States and being upset at corruption are half a world away. Here in Paraguay, I’ve adapted too much to the culture and today have even become guilty of paying “coima” myself. You see, my last dances with the Paraguayan bureaucracy are now being held in the grand Asuncion ballroom, partnered as I am with the need to renew my visa for an extra two months of residency. Today found me making an elegant foot-move at the police station, where I had to get an official paper saying that I do indeed live where I do in Lambaré.
At the end of today’s shuffle of feet, the police chief gave me a sly look and asked me if I just wouldn’t like to give a little money to help make any future dances go a little smoother. It was a complex question, like the innocent-yet-guilty glance of an inviting tango partner from across the room. “How much would leave,” I asked him, “and for what purposes?” “Oh, to cover the cost of paper and so on,” he responded. “You can give whatever you want.”
Knowing that he knew me and the school that I represented (and would in fact come into direct contact with other missionaries like me in the future) and could make their experiences at the police station good ones or bad ones, I was left with little choice. I consciously and intentionally secured the crooked arrangement, offering him 10 mil guaranies, or about $2.50, in thank-you bribe money. The sad part is, it didn’t even cross my mind to decline his invitation. He smiled, perhaps pleased that he could buy a few more empanadas this morning or a week’s worth of yerba for his family, and I knew better than to ask for a receipt. This was bribe money.
I left, feeling a little dirty and a little compromised. I definitely gave money to a dirty police man as a little floor polish to clean up the dances that future missionaries will have with the police, and I definitely didn’t think twice about it. That’s the way things go here: obey blindly, give money to the authorities, don’t ask for receipts, and they won’t hurt you. They may even be your friends if you give enough.
I think I’ve too-quickly adjusted to the bad parts of South American culture, and not quickly-enough to the good parts. South America reinforces some of my sinful tendencies. Thankfully, though, I think I hear North America and a little sanity calling.
Tropical Bonfire
This past weekend the church youth group went to camp, where I got to sit by the best campfire of my life. It was huge and full of very hotly-burning hardwood, probably taken from the ancient reserves of Paraguay’s tropical and sub-tropical rainforests. In the United States, people might be sad that these natural rainforests are being cut down and burned by those in the South. For those people actually in the South, however, there’s no fire quite like a wood-from-the-rain-forest fire. It was hot and brilliant and beautiful; in the light and warmth of the fire we could have cared less about the World Wildlife Fund or Green Peace or the environment. Destruction of species? Don’t care. Less oxygen for the world? So what? It really was the nicest bonfire I’ve ever seen.
It was even nicer, though, because Oscar knew how to use it as a form of entertainment. He had a pile of nearly-dried sugar cane stalks, each one about 10 to 12 feet long, and every once in a while threw a few on the hot fire. The cane, which grows in segments like bamboo, would burn evenly and rapidly on the outside, causing the gases inside to quickly build up with immense pressure. Then, when the fibrous cane casing could no longer stand the force of the steam from within, the canes exploded with the sound of a gunshot and sent an explosion of burning coals into the night air. Each explosion came as a complete surprise disrupting the calm and cool countryside, startling us to a very giddy laughter and the most fun I’ve ever had around a fire. Many of us couldn’t stop laughing at the joke of exploding coals and loud firecracker sounds, especially at those who had to jump out of the way of the shooting bursts of pressurized fire. The unpredictability and randomness of the trick made the night, and made for the best campfire I’ll never forget.
It was even nicer, though, because Oscar knew how to use it as a form of entertainment. He had a pile of nearly-dried sugar cane stalks, each one about 10 to 12 feet long, and every once in a while threw a few on the hot fire. The cane, which grows in segments like bamboo, would burn evenly and rapidly on the outside, causing the gases inside to quickly build up with immense pressure. Then, when the fibrous cane casing could no longer stand the force of the steam from within, the canes exploded with the sound of a gunshot and sent an explosion of burning coals into the night air. Each explosion came as a complete surprise disrupting the calm and cool countryside, startling us to a very giddy laughter and the most fun I’ve ever had around a fire. Many of us couldn’t stop laughing at the joke of exploding coals and loud firecracker sounds, especially at those who had to jump out of the way of the shooting bursts of pressurized fire. The unpredictability and randomness of the trick made the night, and made for the best campfire I’ll never forget.
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