This, for sure, is some kind of other world experience...so much so that I find myself at a loss often since coming home. Some of it is hubris--the I should be out there saving the world kind through dramatic acts. Or to compare it to the athletic world, it's that Michael Jordan/Kobe Bryant "never enough" mentality that sometimes leaves one blind to reality when taken to the infinite, because there is always going to be something more. There is always going to be another kid to save, another project to conquer, and another free day to contemplate whether it's okay to spend time relaxing vs. working to help someone else. The problem with this mindset is that usually there is no room for God...
The show starts off dramatically enough with a cancelled flight in Mexico City after a six hour layover. The five of us--Kirk, my brother-in-law, Noah, my nephew, myself, and Mike and Jean, the hilarious newlyweds--are quite the motley crew. We get along well, so it's good, because we are able to laugh and dance and promote a different kind of Americanism south of the border, because we probably appear crazy. It's a wild night--something out of a Twilight Zone episode or some modernized spin of a chapter of a Greek epic. There's the 1AM journey back to the underworld through Mexican security to retrieve 10 40+ pound bags from customs plus two big surfboard bags. One of those bags fortunately contained a towel Kirk kindly gave to me to use as a blanket as we slept on the floor...for maybe an hour total...while the air conditioning blasted and some guy solved the world's problems through discussion with some lady sitting five feet from our luggage fort. She's not interested, as my 345AM glance detected. I don't think my "shut the eff up" 400AM glance was detected either. It's not 445 AM and Noah looks like a zombie as he eats beef jerky and I sit up and ask for a square. Mike can't sleep either, so he plays video games. It's all pretty hilarious, though, because one knows any Missions Trip has these challenges. Ours decided to bat leadoff...
I come home feeling like I should do more, but knowing in my soul that there is a bridge between worlds, and that bridge is called prayer. But some days the voice of doubt wins, and I do feel lost--this is as real as it gets because I know that many of you have experienced the same thing. You go do something great for an extended period of time, and then you come home, and then you question everything, or you freeze, or you...really don't know how to explain it--it being where you were and what you were doing vs. the life to which you return.
We crash in the hotel at about 12PM the next day and get a couple hours of sleep before heading over to the orphanage. There's that awkward first meeting with kids--awkward because it's been three years since I've been inside the swinging iron gates that open to the courtyard of the mission where God resides, and perhaps I've forgotten Him along the way. We're also all sleep deprived, but nothing breaks the tension like soccer, basketball, or soccer-basketball, and Kirk's 50 peso offer to the kids to whoever scores a basket with anything else besides his/her hands. It is good to be back...
What I can tell you about the kids at Mision Mexico? It seems that they get it, but "seems" is too light a word. Because I don't think it is "seems," but rather they are on the verge of greatness because they do get it. They get that God loves them, and hopefully they understand that God and Jesus' love also comes in the form of your donations and the prayers for our team and for the kids. But I've been there during the Bible study sessions, when the kids squirm but eventually settle down--they know what is just and right. And the older kids share their stories, and the tears flow--tears God uses to clean the soul, and then we pray, and then we hug, and only then is freedom palpable...
On Wednesday and Thursday there's more soccer, random games of four on four in the small courtyard area...one goal marked by the basketball pole and the skateboard ramp, the other marked by a small curb and a random stone, or someone's sandals. Offense is definitely more favored than defense, but you have to be on the defensive with the skateboarders who are practicing going up and down the ramp. Those kids are chargers, because they're not phased when a deflected shot from the game two feet away drills them in the back. These are some of the same kids we take to practice for the upcoming Tapachula Skate Clasico in two days. Until Kirk told me about the skate contest he ran in Tapachula in the summer of 2013, I never knew kids in Southern Mexico skated--just another example of perhaps my being too American.
I've felt the Holy Spirit, too, up here in the States. I could tell you my stories, and some of you would rejoice, others would be skeptical, and a few would accuse me of worshipping the flying spaghetti monster. But I can tell you without a doubt God is with these children...these children who come from horrific pasts of abuse, neglect, the streets, and a lot worse. But in this Mision Mexico Refuge, the kids are home. Pam and Alan Skuse, the Australian couple who followed their calling to take over the orphanage (actually it's probably more accurate to say they started it up), are amazing people. I am in awe of what they do, and what they do they cannot do alone because no humans could. I feel blessed for having seen them in action...seeing God in action. And all the people who come down to volunteer? There is hope after all. If you got to meet Jackson , the recent college grad from Mississippi, who drove down with his trusty dog Monte in order to volunteer two years of his life to these kids, you too would go home with the feeling that you need to do more (which despite what I wrote above, is not always a bad thing). I admire how quickly he has acclimated to another culture, especially when the beginning of his journey down to Tapachula was being robbed at gunpoint in his car upon crossing the US-Mexico border. And if you were in chapel with the kids when the tears came from God knows where, you too would never fully come home. And you would know the Holy Spirit is real. And you would probably look at certain people back home a lot differently, or maybe you would look at them for the first time ever...
Friday we go to Guatemala with the amazing Ana Maria (a Colombian who a friend of Kirk's found in Guatemala to come help) who does Bible study for the kids and translates for us so we don't get bamboozled, but we might have been anyway...and there's a different feel once we cross the border--it's that "watch your back" feel. This is the Wildcard. There's a beautiful Church painted purple that sticks out in the chaos. We stop in to gather our thoughts--it's a refuge from the corruption. We're biked to the river border of Mexico and Guatemala by the locals. We watch the rafts go from Guatemala and return to Mexico with endless supplies--it's a two to one exchange rate, so it makes sense. It's really no different than what we would call the black market so many Americans frequent in Tijuana. Or those Canadian pharmacies. The river-crossed goods are transparent, the human trafficking is not, but the evil is in the air because of it. There's a feeling of uneasiness mixed with the sadness of the reality--here is the border crossing with promise of a better life, I guess? But we all know how a lot of these stories end up...I fall asleep intermittently on the taxi ride back and think, "It is nice to get back to Tapachula...."
We go out to eat almost every night...it's a nice end to the days' activities, and a good forum for our team of five to either nap while eating or discuss the game plan for tomorrow. The outdoor seating at a Tapachula steakhouse allows for a nice breeze--a pleasing mix when the nighttime dilutes the humidity enough so it's pleasant, even though the mosquitoes are relentless on my legs. It is nice to be away, yet so close to God. Our dinners usually feature someone besides our group of five--Pam and Alan, Jackson, Ana Maria, Maria who three years ago was still at Mision Mexico but now is living on her own--I'm sure they still think our "no hielo con refrescos" Americanism is amusing. Kirk and I play it safe and typically go with the Negra Modelo because it's hard to screw up cerveza. Noah, my nephew, continues to deliver brilliant prayers before our meals. Mike, Jean, and myself usually crack a joke during ours. Kirk is a boss. But the gratitude is obvious, and I feel very grateful for the human company around me, as well.
Saturday is the skate contest. Eventual skate champion Delmar finally gets his outdated speaker to work and my nephew/DJ Noah plays a great eclectic mix. My personal highlight is seeing Mike go out and dance on the skate ramp to signal intermission. I decide to join him. Our dance is only choreographed in awkwardness, but it's a hilarious moment. In Mexico, too, it is funny to see white people dance. I think we nail the routine...somewhere there is video evidence of it. At one point while breaking into the "convulsing robot" while Noah cues up some EDM, I catch about 6 cameras filming me. The vain side of me hopes it ends up on Youtube. As for the contest, it's all about the red Hulkamania Mexican Wrester with skateboards T-shirts Kirk helped design, and the toys we (our team of five plus an inspiring handful of kids from Mision Mexico who still want to help others) hand out to the small children of Tapachula. Most of the time I catch my main thought as, "How the heck is Kirk pulling off a skate contest in the middle of town?" What must the locals think of him? Well, he is known as much as the skate shop owner who looks like Chewbacca. He's a celebrity again by the end of the day. People drive by and honk all day long. The contestants look like fish at the top of a small tank when we bring out water from the local ma and pop store. The best part is that although there is some balking at the before and after contest prayer and evangelism, everyone is ultimately cool with it. And there is marked improvement in the general attitude of the contestants from 2013 to 2014. One kid who shreds, Chima, with the help of God and his peers, has moved from pot/heavy drinking to cigarettes...perhaps in 2015 he might be substance free.
Music is one of the universal languages, and it's no different with hymns/praise worship. Spanish is a lot easier to pick up in songs than it is in every day conversation, but I'm getting there. I was able to understand why our taxi driver took us back to our hotel a different route one night--a route that we would classify as going through the backwoods. There was talk in our group about this being a potential kidnapping. Since I am sitting in the front with the other four crammed in the back, I can get a slightly better read on our driver. I pick up enough Spanish to comprehend that we are going through the heart of darkness to avoid police checkpoints. He preys on us being American. We pray about getting home. I do envision a dramatic exit/confrontation at one point, but my internal GPS lets me know we are zeroing back in our destination. We got scammed 30 extra pesos...three bucks. Everything has its price...
But music is priceless. I've never been one of those hands in the air worship people--there's a couple songs that move me that way, but back in the States it's still a little foreign to me. Perhaps I'll get there. I did jump up and down at an EDM concert at the Shrine in February, but that music had more beats per minute and a bass drop. Still, I think about the worship songs and how potent they are if they can get people to put their hands in the air without the command. The kids seem more into it than I would think, and I see tears hanging in the balance. It's only a matter of time before the Spirit strikes and moves us all...
Sunday is the big day in my mind, even though Saturday was a huge rush. First we go to the beach to surf, or in my case, go into the whitewash and push the little kids into the waves since I'm too much of a barney to get into these powerful South Mexican Pacific waves. The best part for me is watching the kids charge it with no fear. But I guess that's what happens when you have a horrific past--I would imagine dropping in on these massive swells must give the sensation of running away without running...carving hieroglyphics into the glassy surface as an escape from the past. That's what the Somewhere Near Tapachula documentary captures...so I know this is a special time. It's special for me too when the kids go into the jungle to get me a coco we crack open in order to rehydrate. I buy coconut water in the States, but it doesn't compare to the freshness of the beachfront jungle cocos. I drink all the water from a large one, and I feel completely hydrated in this unforgiving humidity...which is good because we have the futbol match in a couple hours.
I haven't played soccer in about 11 months, since my knee surgery. I've knocked the ball around, hopped very briefly into a drill or two while I was coaching over the past year, but I haven't played since a futsal match in late July of 2013. One of my students back home offered to donate money for my trip. I knew money was at a premium for her family, so I asked her instead to pray for my hip and knee so I could make it through the game. I should have asked her to pray for my right shoe, which fell apart right as the game started. I tied it up with some spare shoelace, and it lasted for 10 minutes. Fortunately a random right shoe appeared (there was never a left matching one to it found), and I was able to finish out the game in two different shoes. It took me about two and a half weeks for my hip to recover, but it was worth it. To play a game in the Southern Mexican jungle with the kids is Heaven...even though this Heavenly surface was 1/3 grass and the rest a thin layer of mud on top of rocks and baked dirt that causes one to slip every quick cut. I get in a shouting match with Kirk at one point over an out-of-bounds call. We joke about it now, but the competitive side came out in me after all that time off...I would have had no problem dropping him on my next tackle had I had the chance. The match itself is chaos...it's 14 on 14 or something like that. You take breaks when you want, individually, but then you get back in. Contrary to popular belief, not all Mexicans dive. If you fall down here (which happens frequently because of the mud/baked dirt), the kids laugh at you, so one better get up quickly to save face.
The match is now tied 7-7 and the next goal will win the game. And all the sudden people who haven't played a minute of defense are on lockdown now. No one wants to lose. I summon the last bit of juice my hip flexor has left and get up and down the field. One time I even feel myself play the defense that got me into college. This is a good feeling. Most importantly, it's just to get out and compete with these kids--it makes us feel more alike, because we are. We play for another 30 minutes until it gets dark...no one scores, so ironically, it's another tie in soccer.
When I first started coaching soccer, I used to pray that our teams would win. I'd go sit in the back pews of St. Lawrence in Redondo Beach...the only person in the beautiful church--the sun bouncing off the leaves through the stained glass windows. I'd be nervous, and I'd ask God to win. We won two CIF championships in a row in 2006 and 2007. But those never felt complete. Now I'm the head coach, but I don't pray for wins. I still pray for the kids--that we are safe, that we compete fairly, and that we honor God through intense play. And heck, I still want to win badly. But I know that is not to be bargained for. Because I know now that a CIF championship is no more important than a Sunday match that ends in a 7-7 tie in the middle of nowhere, according to most people, between the kids of Mission Mexico, some gringos, Alan, some older kids who have moved out of the orphanage and into the working world, and a couple of their friends. We pack 30+ in a van that should only carry 14 or so legally, but the kids laugh and play grabass and sing all the same. They remind me of my strange soccer team back home in Palos Verdes that likes to sing "Hooked on a Feeling" and other songs on the way back from their games...
It's Monday now, and it's time to go home. The morning is a scramble--Kirk's trip to the store to buy Bibles for the kids makes us late to the airport, or so I think we are going to be, but we make it in plenty of time. Jackson had to come back after dropping us off to help convince the authorities to allow our giant surfboard bags on the puddle-jumping plane. My Type-A personality rears its ugly head...I need this part of the trip to go smoothly. Tomorrow I will be coaching the summer soccer camp at Palos Verdes...tomorrow is back to regular life. I tried not to let the goodbyes at the orphanage become too emotional. I don't know if that's good or bad. But I know it's good when Griselda, one of the older kids who is now living on her own, tells me she could tell by what I said at the Saturday night Bible study that I care. But it's really the action--the coming back three years later that proves it to her most, she tells me. Three years ago it was difficult...but maybe because there was some kind of internal prophecy that knew I wouldn't be back for three years. I'm hoping that the ease of the goodbye with the kids this time is prescience of a return trip, hopefully in a year. In life there are no guarantees, but one can wish. Still, it is hard to leave...it seems like we just got here.
When we got back to LA Kirk told us that if any of us felt like we were being spiritually attacked to let him know. I greatly appreciated the sentiment, but I felt fine. But as every day passed, I felt worse. I thought the weekend would help, but it didn't. The return to regular life was not pretty. For those of you who know the works of the devil simply put--I was under attack.
I got past my own machismo after about a week of this and told Kirk how I was feeling. He told me he's battled the same feelings, and that he would pray for me...
The next morning I woke up and felt better. I was able to pray again myself. Well, we're always capable of praying, but I just didn't do it...there was a hold on me, and I had to ask someone else to help free me of it.
And perhaps this was what this was all about. I didn't do this on my own. I had to first have faith we could raise enough money for the trip, and I thank you deeply for those of you who contributed. I had to battle doubt that it was okay to leave in the middle of summer soccer and miss our first three games. I had to battle the doubt that I could do this trip in general, even though I had done it before. I love the kids, and I think this doubt is because I know how difficult it is to leave Mexico and come back home. I battled the selfishness of leaving a relatively cush teacher summer schedule to go work for God and do something greater than myself, on my vacation--but I know I have more than enough time to do so. And I could only do these things with the prayers of my friends and family. I learned on this trip more so than my last just how important prayer was and is. Because on this trip, I really didn't feel anxious. I felt like I was in the right place the whole time. When you work for God, you are in the right place, wherever you are. So I thank you for letting me experience that, and strongly encourage all of you to experience something like this when you get the chance. Don't pass it up because the kids are counting on you, and the kids are great wherever you go. And there are always great people wherever you go willing to help if you allow yourself to see it.
God Bless...
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