Quaker grey, Bolivian style

We’re home again, but I’m still under the spell of Bolivia. Certain images swim through my mind, and one of these is of Aymara women and their beautiful clothes. Here is one area where the Quaker testimony of plain clothes has not caught on. Cultural aesthetic values tend toward bright colors and glitter. Perhaps that has to do with the harshness of the natural context, at least on the high plains where most of our Friends originated.

A beautiful shawl tells people, “I’ve arrived. I’m important.” Even among Quaker women. It also tells people the family is prosperous enough to purchase one of these costly garments. And some of the shawls are homemade, of course—knitted, embroidered or appliqued.

If the Quaker value for understatement and plainness is to catch on here, it has to come from within the culture, not imposed from the outside. In the meantime, I, personally, enjoy the display.

Following are photos taken during yearly meeting or in a Sunday morning worship service. Some of the ladies are friends of mine, others are strangers.

Grace sightings #2, 2013

I don’t usually pay attention to insipid and generic fortunes—those little slips of paper found inside cookies served by Chinese-American restaurants. But when I read, “You find beauty in the ordinary things of life,” I thought, “How did you know?” For the first time, the cookie got it right.

Here are some of my grace sightings for this last month:

1) The joy of being an intercultural person: Our first church service in Bolivia during our February trip was among a group of older Quakers all speaking Aymara. As the wonderful sounds poured over me, I thought to myself, “How good to be home again!” Three weeks later, this week, in fact, the church service I sat through took place on a totally different planet. We were back in Newberg attending North Valley Friends Church, and as the wonderful English sounds poured over me, I thought to myself, “How good to be home again!” Yes.

2) The incredible hospitality and generosity of the Aymara people: At times it was hard to get our work done because so many old friends wanted to host us for a meal.

3) Abundant tropical fruit, especially mangos: Mangos, along with chocolate, prove the existence of God. A course in Mango Apologetics (MA101) should be offered in all seminaries.

4) The beauty of La Paz and the Andes: I never get tired of it. We had a marvelous view of the city and surrounding mountains from the roof of our hostel, right in the heart of it all.

5) Good books, always a grace-gift: I read several books on the trip, taking advantage of airport layovers and time at night after work. My favorites were My Year of Biblical Womanhood by Rachel Held Evans, and the Whalesong Trilogy by poet Robert Siegel. (Hal and I are reading this last one aloud.)

6) Barely back in Oregon, our lost suitcase being delivered to our door, only one day late:  To this grace, I need to add the fact that we managed NOT to worry about the suitcase in the meantime. Maybe growth is grace really is possible.

7) Grandkids: Our first day home, grandson Reilly played his latest piano composition over the phone. Not bad for an 11 year-old!

8) Other people’s children: I loved watching and listening to Aiden Lowrey play the violin for church, the youngest member of the worship team. I love seeing children develop their talents, and I love being part of a congregation that encourages them.

9) Our silly cat’s almost-humanity: As usual, Chiri ignored us when we first got home, acting aloof and standoffish. He gradually morphed to attention on demand, including sickly yowls and getting right in our faces at 3:00 in the morning. Now, having made us pay for our neglect, he’s settled down and seems content. Little does he know….

10) The last grace sighting I’ll mention has to do with hope, anticipation, and, yes, another trip. We have the grace of knowing our next journey is to Rwanda, this time to be with family. With barely two weeks between trips, I have not put away the suitcases. I’m calculating how lightly we can travel in order to carry as many treats for the grandkids as possible. This kind of packing is fun.

Life is good. God’s grace is abundant. I don’t need a fortune cookie to tell me that.

The Little Red Hen strikes again

About 25 years ago in La Paz, Bolivia, I gave a class in a Friends Women’s Conference that has haunted me down through the years. I taught the class in Aymara, thanks to the patience of my language teacher and hours of practicing the lovely raspy sounds. Knowing the Aymara’s love for their own animal stories (the rascally fox, the astute humming bird, the deceitful condor), I chose to tell the American folk tale of the hard working little red hen who tried in vain to get the other barnyard animals to help her with her work that went from sowing the wheat to baking the bread.

As I mimicked the sounds of the cow, the sheep, the pig and the llama coming up with all sorts of excuses, the ladies laughed until they cried. Their reactions surprised me. Then I related the story to us women in the church and the need to be hard-working (another Aymara value) like the little red hen, not lazy like the other animals. I went on to teach about spiritual gifts and the Spirit’s help as we do God’s will.

I gave that class several times in different areas of the country, accompanied by a flip chart with my silly animal drawings, and always with the same enthusiastic result. It was the most fun I’ve ever had teaching a class.

Much time has passed since then. Recently we find ourselves visiting La Paz several times a year on different assignments. What has amazed both Hal and me is how many old ladies come up to me and tell me their memories of the little red hen. (I taught lots of other classes on biblical women, on the Christian family, etc., etc., etc. No one mentions—or probably remembers—those. What is it about that hen?)

It happened again last week. Our old friends Ildefonso and Brígida invited us to their home, and we had lunch with them, two of their five kids, and Brígida’s parents who have come to live with them. As we were sharing memories of experiences our families shared together, the Grandmother piped up in Aymara and began talking about the little red hen. She not only remembered details of the story, she summarized the lesson about working hard for Jesus in the church. That was 25 years ago.

It’s wonderful when cross-cultural communication works. I’m always amazed. And I continue to wonder—what is it about that chicken?

A Quaker Aymara blessing

Hal and I have been in La Paz some five days now and are slowly adjusting to the high altitude. This past weekend we participated in the Bolivian Friends Pastors Conference here in the city, with some 70 people in attendance. It was challenging, but I want to write about yesterday, Sunday.

At the conference our good friend Humberto invited us to worship on Sunday in the Villa San Antonio Friends Church. We’ve had close contact with this congregation during the years we lived in La Paz, so we gladly accepted.

Early Sunday morning we found a trufi (mini-van bus) whose regular route literally took us from the door of our hostel, across the city and up the hill to the very door of the church. (Usually one has to take several trufis to cross the city.) We arrived at 9:00 to take part in a Sunday school class of older people that Humberto teaches. These are Aymara people who prefer using their own language rather than Spanish, and who prefer the old hymns above the newer praise songs. (Sound familiar?) So Humberto taught in Aymara, inviting lots of participation as these wonderful old men and women shared from their experiences of how God reveals himself to them. It’s been a while since I’ve actively spoken Aymara, so a lot of it went over my head, but I reveled in a sense of being washed in the beautiful sounds of this language. There were just a few in attendance at 9:00, but around 30 people an hour and a half later as we concluded.

For the worship service, young people and families with kids filled up the sanctuary. We kept our place among the old ones. After an hour of praise songs in Spanish, accompanied by a small band (that made a very loud noise) and a team of worship leaders, pastor Juan Yapura, another old friend, gave announcements and welcomed Hal and me to the service with words of appreciation and warmth that almost embarrassed us. As if that weren’t enough, after the morning offering and a few more songs, Juan told the congregation that he felt led of the Spirit to take a love offering for us, in gratitude for years of service and to help us in our present ministry. The congregation gave a great “Amen!” So the baskets were passed around. We felt humbled and blessed.

Hal then went up to the pulpit to give a word of greeting. Juan gave him a big hug and then stepped down, and at that point Hal realized he was to give the morning sermon. He had done no preparation, didn’t even have his Bible with him, but that may have all been for the best. He spontaneously shared memories of our family’s relation with the congregation, thinking back to when the group met in a small adobe sanctuary on the side of the mountain until a heavy rain sent the building sliding down the hill. He recalled the miraculous project of the new property, of sharing in the ceremony of laying the foundation stone, of the many trips with elders out to the Lago Norte region to plant new Friends churches (now an established quarterly meeting). He mentioned how important this congregation was to our kids, how the youth group sponsored Kristin’s quinceñera, of all the friendships formed. This was in the context of remembering God’s faithfulness and being grateful. It was quite moving.

When Hal stepped down, Juan invited us both to kneel and asked all the people there to gather around us for a prayer of blessing. Juan led the prayer, using the microphone, while everyone else also prayed aloud, as is the custom. It was a beautiful prayer for our health and our ministry, for David and Kristin, their work and families, full of gratitude. These were no mere words. This was a blessing, real and tangible, a prayer that will make a difference in our lives. After the blessing, one by one, people gave us the abrazo (hug), another lovely Aymara custom.

We hung around a while, visiting with people, taking photos, saying “Goodbye” yet again. Then Humberto took us to a popular restaurant where we each had a huge bowl of chairo, a traditional Bolivian soup full of chuños, vegies and meat, topped by a delicacy called chicharón, actually deep-fried pig fat. (It’s a delicacy I usually skip.)

Looking back at the experience, I’m reminded that generosity and hospitality are core Aymara values. These are magnified when people become Christian. And the affection of these people comes from long years of shared experiences and deep friendship. Yes, we have been blessed.

Meet Maud

Certain inconveniences of life in Bolivia have actually endeared themselves to us through the years. I write this tongue-in-cheek, but it’s true. The cobblestone streets, the rattle-trap busses, the heavy blankets that make going to bed seem more like being buried—the list goes on and on. These are life-style quirks that make us smile.

I put electric shower-heads on this list. We are currently staying at a hostel in the upper section of La Paz, near the New Jerusalem Friends Church. Like most hostels (and homes) this one does not have hot running water. Here is where the electric shower-head comes in. This device houses electric coils that heat up, allowing the water that flows through them to become somewhat hot. “Somewhat” is a key word here. When the water pressure is sufficient, the coils automatically switch on. When the pressure lowers, they switch off. This all happens quickly. In a hostel, water pressure varies depending on how and when other people in the building are turning water off or on.

I suppose one could consider it a rich sensual experience. In rapid succession, the water goes from tepid to cool, back to tepid and up to somewhat (that word again) warm. If the pressure gets too low, the coils switch off and you have to quickly turn the pressure up before the water becomes icy. This is tricky and you will most likely have to fiddle with the faucet before you reach a temperature that approaches lukewarm. And once you get there, someone in the next room turns on his faucet.

We’ve named our present shower Maud. Personalizing the thing helps us focus on the humor rather than the inconvenience. “Shower” in Spanish—“la ducha”—is a feminine noun, which helped us name her. But something else convinced us of her femininity. Maud is clearly going through menopause. While normally providing us with water ranging from cool to tepid, she occasionally has these glorious hot flashes. For a few seconds, I can actually imagine that I’m home in my own comfortable, convenient, and consistently hot shower in Newberg, Oregon. It never lasts long, but I’ll take what I can get. Way to go, Maud!