Fruit of the day: caimito

Today's fruit is one I haven't seen in the market before. It's uncommon enough that the young kids I showed it to didn't know its name. Caimito is dark purple, round, smooth and roughly the size of a lunchbox orange.

The market lady sold me 3 for 5 cordobas. (around 20 cents) With such a low price, I figured they must be close to inedible--but they are surprisingly tasty. They had a very faint slightly unpleasant over-ripe smell. But that also could've just been the company I was in when I was purchasing them.

Cut in half, you can see a dark purple pulp that slowly fades to white around large black seeds. The seeds form a star pattern, much like an apple. The more purple the flesh, the firmer it is. 

The vendor warned me not to eat the skin or the seeds, so I scooped out the custardy, pulpy center for a bite. The flavor was mild and sweet. Not a hint of acidity. A tiny bit of a peachy flavor. Imagine baby  cereal prepared with fruit juice as the liquid. 

After a taste, I thought it might make a great fruit drink mixed with pineapple. The dark purple part was scoopable like the center and so pretty--so I threw the flesh into a pot of boiling water with a couple of hunks of pineapple. 

A helpful tip: you might want to go ahead and do your internet research on weird fruits before you try any experimental recipes. As I found out here that purple part, like the skin, while inedible is a great source of natural latex. 

Another helpful tip: removing latex from a pan is best accomplished with lots and lots of patient peeling. 

Fruit of the day: jocotes

With the mission staff on vacation, I have time to wander the market looking for new treats to try. I'll share my fruity findings for the next few days.

I thought I'd start with an important one: jocotes

There are several varieties available at different times of the year. Some have a tougher, bumpier skin. some ripen yellow instead of red. But these are the best. They are a type of wild plum. And when red, ripe, and soft are sweet like a plum. They have a big gigantic pit, so you need to eat a bowlful. That's no problem, as there are mountains of them lining the streets. A bag of around 50 sell for 20 cordobas. (less than a dollar).

These are probably Jonathan's favorite Nicaraguan treat. He likes them dead red ripe. People here also like to eat the green ones which are sour. Several ladies I met today in the market were buying huge quantities to make a dish called "cuznaca" (which I have not tried) that, if my listening skills were accurate, involves boiling and baking the jocotes along with rice, cinnamon, sugar, and onions. (yea, I know. I asked like 3 times, they totally said onions.)

they're tiny

but packed with juicy flavor

and mostly full of pit

ch-ch-changes

No one would argue: Change is hard. Uncomfortable. Confusing. Messy.

There have been big changes in our corner of Jinotega in the last couple of years. The first time I visited the mission, it sat across from a busy, crowded bus station. Behind that were rows of plank shacks with open sewers and dirt floors which served as the city's market.

bus station as seen from mission window

By the time we moved here, the new rebuilt market had opened complete with electricity, cinder-block buildings, concrete paths, and higher rent. This higher rent drove many vendors onto sidewalks, or any other wide spot in the road. These salesman and their families came to be a daily part of mission life.

street in front of the mission

view from the front door--August

 As the last group of the summer was pulling away last year, workmen begin arriving on the street in front of the mission pulling up the hexagonal paving stones  and stacking them in four foot high walls blocking the road in what could only mean long hoped for road repairs. With the street now impassable, the bus station and it's associated hawkers and air horns--a very prominent feature of mission life, particularly at 5 a.m.--moved to the next block. City officials held meetings in the street explaining that the makeshift stalls would have to go. The frenzied movement and riot of colorful baskets was slowly exchanged for permanent store fronts.

view from the front door--October

view from front door--December

view from front door today

It wasn't long before the workmen faded away. Or so it seemed to me. Months passed without much activity. Periodically a grader might come scrape things down. Or guys with shovels would arrive spreading loads of dirt, sand, or rocks onto the road bed only to disappear again for several months. As an observer it seemed that all the progress they made was being washed away in the rain.

Two things were happening through all those long months. The road was being worked on. The subsequent traffic was slowly packing that rock and sand down bit by bit and the road bed was steadily rising to meet that foot high curb. Every motorcycle, horse-cart, and truck was part of leveling and packing the spots that would need it most.

Secondly, I was learning to hunger for change. To appreciate what was gone and anticipate what was coming. Each time workmen arrived, crowds would gather and we'd all chatter excitedly: "Do you think they'll pave it?" "Will the buses come back?" We bemoaned the dust and blessed the silence. Some days we lamented the silence and reminisced about how exciting it was when the street was busy and full.

I can't help but see a parallel to times God has pulled the paving stones of my life up. Sometimes exciting, sometimes scary--always messy, confusing and uncomfortable.

^{Philippians 1:6} being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.

I don't how long God's reconstruction projects in my life will take. I don't know what they will look like when He is finished. But I am learning to hunger for change. He knows what He is doing--and one glorious day He will complete all the work that leaves me so messy and uncomfortable.

Today I am reminded of that hope.
Today they paved the street.

Learning to listen

As the spring break groups have come through, I have been introduced to, and introduced myself to around 50 people. At some point as I explain my role here, someone will ask some version of: "So, are you a Spanish speaker?"

And I've realized that in many ways I am a Spanish speaker. Most of the time (with the patience of those I'm talking to) I can sift through the words I know to get my point across.

What I am not, is a Spanish listener.

There are so many times during each day where I feel my mind just give up, turn off, and stare blankly as I repeat the unfamiliar words with a quizzical expression.

I can say many more things than I can listen to.  But isn't that kind of the case for all of us? Isn't it often easier to put our energy into figuring out what we want to say than into figuring out what is being said to us? Aren't there times in difficult conversations with a co-worker, spouse, or friend when you feel your mind give up, turn off, and stare blankly--realizing you don't really "get" where the other person is coming from?

I shouldn't be surprised. Think about how many times Jesus advised the crowds to listen.
find the answer here. Notice that He's saying, "Listen up" more than just about anything else!

Living in another language has certainly made me aware of how grateful I am for the careful, generous listening of those around me. And makes me hungry to learn to listen.

James 1:19

The Glamor and Glory of Missionary Life

     Over the course of the last few weeks it has become apparent why God sent me here. I think he made it perfectly clear that here and now – or here and just over a year ago, Jinotega, Nicaragua was part of His plan for Sheila and me. The life of an American missionary in Nicaragua is one of glamour and glory. We get to visit new and exciting places, experience the reality of a vastly different culture, and feel the respect of strangers who know that you, as an American, have all the money to fix all of their problems.

     Oh, if only that was true, or even if it was possible! The fact of the matter is that here at Misión Para Cristo, every step we take to serve God, through every project we attack, is resource driven. The glamorous life comes in the form of deep, solemn eyes of children in poverty who look to you with hope and for help. 

The glamorous life...

...of a missionary...

...can often only be found in the hopeful eyes of a person in need.

     It comes in mammoth requests. And when resources arrive to provide food, or shelter, or medicine, or education it indicates that God is in control.. With undeniable, frequently surprising God-acts, He keeps us humble. In the surroundings of small-yet-inner-city filth, nestled in the heart of what very well may be His most beautiful natural creation: rain-forest jungles and the smiles of the very poor – people. These are people who want more than anything else, the attention of someone, anyone – even by glamorizing a Gringo who is powerless by himself to provide much more than the smile I return. So, it is against this back drop that I humbly submit how God proves to us every day that He is a God of action, grace, mercy and intervention:

• In three trips to Nicaragua’s capital city of Managua I have been stopped by the Policia Nacional. The first two times it was for driving in the wrong lane. “You can’t drive that van in the inside lane.” I was told by the officer. After being advised by my Nicaraguan passenger that if I offered to pay the fine on the spot with an American $10 bill the officer would probably be forgiving. I did so, and we went on our way.  The second time I was stopped in Managua was for driving in the outside lane. You can’t drive that van in the outside lane,” advised the officer. (Editorial aside: Our transportation director says when an officer sees a gringo with out of state plates they think we are an easy ten bucks. Seems he is right.) The third instance – and by this time anytime I see a cop I pray, “Dear God, please let me go by without being waived to the side of the road,” carefully maintaining the proper speed in the center lane. Nope: He waives me over to the side. Grrrrr! Can’t catch a traffic cop break! The following conversation ensues as I hand over my identification and vehicle documents:

          -Cop: Are you a missionary?
                      -Me: Yes.

          -Cop: Are you a pastor?

          -Me: Well, yes.

          -Cop: For three years my back has hurt and I take medicine but it doesn't help. Can you pray for me?

          -Me: ‘Scuse me? (I really only thought that. I actually said, “Absolutely!)

          -Cop: Do you want to pray now or wait until you get to the church?

                    -Me: We can pray now if you’d like.

          So with that I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder and prayed for him to be relieved of his pain. By the way, I also thanked God for those who serve their country as police officer – and I wasn't even being sarcastic.

• Just before Christmas a family, made up of both parents and a little girl, came to the mission asking for help getting to Managua so the four-year-old could have eye surgery. Seems she was going blind in both eyes and needed to have cataract and glaucoma surgery – at FOUR YEARS OLD! I explained the procedure for getting medical assistance: Provide a letter with a formal request, present medical documents verifying the need, and wait for our medical staff to make a recommendation to Benny, our executive director, who will see if funds are available. I also noted that the decision makers were all on vacation and that they would have to wait until they returned at the first of the year for answers to their needs. I didn’t see the family again. Fast forward to late last week: I was at one of our country school buildings seeing if it was ready for students to return form the vacation break. A man approached the truck as we were preparing to leave the site. Often those who live out in the countryside and mountains around Jinotega ask for rides into town – a practice forbidden by the mission. As he approached I assumed he needed a ride. He looked familiar but I had no reason to believe I knew him. “I just wanted to say ‘Thank you.’ My daughter was almost blind but you helped us get her to the doctor for surgery and now she sees better.” “When you have time, please stop by the mission so I can see her again,” I asked. As promised, two of the biggest, most beautiful eyes visited my office, Doning sunglasses and a hat, mom, who is now seeking assistance for the next operation, was a gracious and grateful as her father had been.

Four-years-old, one eye surgery down, one to go 

·        

• The final instance (for this report – so many others come to mind as I write) has to do with a young couple who were struggling spiritually. [Let me preface this by saying that my Spanish speaking abilities have improved by leaps and bounds, but remain between the ‘horrible’ and ‘not-quite-good-enough-to-be-marginal’ on the Conversational Spanish Scale, which is a ranking system I just now made up.] They stopped me after our Thursday night prayer time at the church building with some questions. I told them I would be happy to visit with them but would need a translator since my Spanish was not good. They said they would rather just try it without outside assistance. This is a particularly frightening situation for me to be in, especially in matters of the soul. We sat down and visited for about 30 minutes. With relatively few word struggles, we had a very nice, effective, understood conversation. As I returned to the mission for the evening and told Sheila of how surprised I was that the conversation went so well she reminded me that God puts us where He wants us and uses us how He sees fit, providing us with the skills needed, when they are needed.

     Compared to our nice home in Central Texas, with space, a yard, our friends, family and dogs, we are in a challenging place. But God shows us His glory, possibly in ways that we would not see if we were surrounded by all of our creature comforts and familiar surroundings. This missionary life is glorious. And the glory all goes to God. Everyday, beginning to end we are afforded the opportunity to catch a glimpse of His glory in the most unexpected ways.

Life is glorious!

    The words of the song, “Show Me Your Glory” have always sung specifically to me. It was popularized by contemporary Christian group Third Day:

I caught a glimpse of Your splendor

In the corner of my eye

The most beautiful thing I've ever seen

And it was like a flash of lightning

Reflected off the sky

And I know I'll never be the same

Show me Your glory

Send down Your presence

I want to see Your face

Show me Your glory

Majesty shines about You

I can't go on without You, Lord

When I climb down the mountain

And get back to my life

I won't settle for ordinary things

I'm gonna follow You forever

And for all of my days

I won't rest 'til I see You again

Show me Your glory

Show me Your glory

I can't live without You

You can watch the concert version of the song here.

disappointment and hope

The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are things you get ashamed of, because words make them smaller. When they were in your head they were limitless; but when they come out they seem to be no bigger than normal things. But that's not all. The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried; they are clues that could guide your enemies to a prize they would love to steal. It's hard and painful for you to talk about these things ... and then people just look at you strangely. They haven't understood what you've said at all, or why you almost cried while you were saying it.”

― Stephen King

"Disappointment" is one of those words. So insignificant sounding. "Grief" sounds weightier--but so often "grief" implies an end and "disappointment" is so often about the lack of a beginning.

I know I am not alone. I know there must be pews full of us struggling to find some kind of balance between a faith that accepts "no" as the answer to our prayers, and a faith that keeps pounding on the door of the judge all night until his answer is changed to "yes".  2 Corinthians 12:9   Luke 18:18 

If you think I am going to sum up this post with the answer to how to find that balance--just stop reading now. I don't know. I don't know how to judge my own heart--is this hope or stubbornness?

I know that I can't be the only one. I know that there must be many of us squeezing out the words to some song like "How great is our God!" but secretly singing, "How great is our God?"

I can't be the only one wondering in the secret-est part of my heart if I really can love a God who lets me sit with such deep disappointment. I can't be the first to cry out, "It wasn't supposed to be like this!"

I know church-y people are supposed to tell this story after they have been refined by the fire. That these stories are supposed to end with that uplifting kernel of wisdom that made the trial worthwhile. I know it's awkward to hear someone confessing how broken they are by something with an insignificant name like "disappointment".

A theologian I respect (who happens to be my cousin) shared a lesson he heard recently in Rwanda on the subject of hope. I have read and thought about what he shared countless times in the last few weeks.
It's the story of Ezekiel in the valley of bones--and he is called on, not merely to watch God at work, but to participate by speaking the words God tells him. How relieved Ezekiel must have been after 30-odd chapters of delivering bad news, to participate as God dictated a message of hope. Read the lesson here.

Did you hear it? (OK, seriously, no point going on 'till you read his lesson)
Did you hear it?  Before Ezekiel gets to see the leg bone connect to the thigh bone and all that--he has the quiz:
Can these bones live?

And isn't that the problem? How do we know if the particular disappointments we are suffering through are occasions where God's grace is sufficient, or opportunities to bring life to things long considered hopeless? Walking through a valley filled with the corpses of disillusionment, regret, or sorrow--how do we know which bones are supposed to live?
Ezekiel didn't. He said, "You alone know."

I wish I knew.
I wish for faith sufficient to give a suitable answer like, "You alone know."
And I wish for the confidence to wait in stillness until God shows me whether the bones of this disappointment are meant to live or not.

Romans 8:²⁴ We were given this hope when we were saved. (If we already have something, we don’t need to hope^[k]for it. ²⁵ But if we look forward to something we don’t yet have, we must wait patiently and confidently.)

²⁶ And the Holy Spirit helps us in our weakness. For example, we don’t know what God wants us to pray for. But the Holy Spirit prays for us with groanings that cannot be expressed in words. ²⁷ And the Father who knows all hearts knows what the Spirit is saying, for the Spirit pleads for us believers^[l] in harmony with God’s own will.

Adios Means Aloha in Nicaraguan

     Yes, I know the language is called Spanish not Nicaraguan. But here in Nicaragua, as is the case with any language in any country, the Spanish is different. As you well know, the French in Cajun country is different from that of Alberta’s French and Paris’ French. English is different in South Africa and England and the United States. For that matter it differs in the Northwestern US from the Deep South.

     In Jinotega people say good-bye using the word “Adios.” That should not surprise anyone. Even the most “un-bilingual” (I just made that word up, but write it down – it will be Webster -recognized in a few years.) know what “adios” means. But it is used as a greeting as well, similar to the way Hawaiians use the word “Aloha.” When passing someone on the street or entering a room “adios’ is often uttered. Does that seem strange? If we look at the literal meaning of the word it becomes clearer. “Adios” is actually “a Dios”, or “to God.” It is a blessing. So it is nice when someone greets you with “adios.”

     In my time working with Spanish-speakers in Texas, Mexico and now Nicaragua, the language has thrown me a few curves. There are many examples of words used differently here than in other Spanish-speaking places. The name of a fruit we enjoy here in Nicaragua can, in other places, be a slang version of the word for breast feeding. When used outside of this region women in the know will give you funny looks. By the way, I had to have it explained to me because I had no idea why I was getting strange, “that’s offensive” looks from Spanish-speaking friends in the US. I thought we were talking about fruit!

**Editorial note: I am in no way close to being fluent, but I have improved my skills by living here. It was once presumed that speaking English louder and slower magically caused Spanish speakers to automatically understand. Although amusing, this is false. Another faux-fact about Spanish is that placing “el” in front of a word and an  ”ō” sound on the end of English words makes them Spanish. You are EL WRONGO! This is also false, but slightly more entertaining.**

     The following is a guide, a key, if you will, to conversations in which I have been involved, or of which I personally heard (or used) the incorrect word, while attempting to endear myself to Spanish speakers with my bi-lingual skills. The blue is the English speaker; the red is the Spanish voice; italicized is the word in question; the black is what I thought I was saying and their response: and underlined is the word I actually said. I invite you to read each conversation as written, and then reread it replacing the italicized with the underlined word.

     While at a medical mission in Mexico…

• Abre sus osos, por favor.   Open your eyes, please.
• ¿Que?  What?
• Abre sus osos, por favor.  Open your eyes, please.
• ¿¡Que!?  What!?
• ¡Abre sus osos, por favor!  Open your eyes, please!
• !No lo intiendo!   I don’t understand!

The word I meant to use was “ojos” (pronounced ō-hōs). The word osos (oh-sōs) means “bears.”

     Another individual repeatedly gave these instructions on the same medical mission:

• Use dos gatos por ojo.  Use two drops per eye.
• ¿Que?  What?
• Use dos gatos por ojo. Use two drops per eye.
• ¿¡Que!?  What!?
• ¡Use dos gatos por ojo!  Use two drops per eye!
• !No lo intiendo!   I don’t understand!

The word she meant to use was “gotas” (pronounced gō-tahs). The word gatos (gah-tōs) means “cats.”

Needless to say after being told to open the bears and put two cats in each they went home concerned that vision was the least of their worries.

     This one took place in a Bible class and is on Sheila as she introduced a lesson to the children. She knows I’m including this story. Didn't say she approved, but was warned.

• ¿Te gusta pescado?   Do you like sin?
• ¡No!  No!
• Ustedes creen sus padres le gusta pescado?  Do you think your parents like sin?
• ¡No!  No!
• Ustedes creen Dios le gusta pescado?  Do you think God likes sin?
• ¡No!  No!
• ¡ Es cierto! Pescado es asqueroso! Todos odiamos el pescado! That’s right, sin is gross! We all hate sin!!

The word Sheila meant to use was “pecado” (pronounced peh-ka-dō). The word pescado (pez-ka dō) means “cooked fish.”

Do you think the children were wondering why God doesn't like eating fish?

C O L C H Ó N

     Finally, my greatest vocabulary/mispronunciation/bring-a-malpractice-suit-against-my-tongue occurred when I first moved here as I prepared our new apartment for Sheila’s arrival. The conversation took place between a co-worker and me as we walked among some furniture stores in downtown Jinotega. I did not become aware of the mistake until later that evening as an acquaintance explained how she misused the word previously. I was horror-stricken as I sat wondering what this new associate thought of me.

• Hermano Luis, necesito un nuevo cachone.  Brother Luis, I need a new mattress.
• ¿Que?  What?
• Necesito un nuevo cachone para mi cama.  I need a new mattress for my bed.
• ¿Que?  No lo intiendo. What? I don’t understand.
• Necesito un nuevo cachone para mi cama, un queen. I need a new mattress for my bed, a queen.
• No.  No.

And with that he turned and walked away.

Later that night at dinner I learned this:

The word I meant to use was “colchón” (pronounced kōl-chōn). The word cachone (Kah-chōn-ā) is a slang reference to a homosexual. Go figger! I just asked a man I barely new to help me find a “new homosexual for my bed, a queen.” Upon returning to work the following morning Luis had a huge smile and I just started laughing amid the apologies and explanations. Fortunately, help arrived in the form of 

a translator.

     We frequently receive requests for mattresses from various entities around the department (state) of Jinotega. Now when I go to the warehouse in need of a mattress, where Hermano Luis is the manager, I practice saying COLCHÓN in my head several times, then pronounce it very slowly, once I begin my request.

“Oh be careful little tongues what you say…”