Erincita

Nobody's Posting
Saturday, November 26, 2005

There's no news from anyone, and no one's complaining. My stuff isn't interesting but it's better than nothing for readers wanting something. There is no news that I care to share with anyone. I'm still working for WaMu, I enjoy it. Church is good, lovelife remains nonexistent, so nothing's new. I have, however, been plagued with bouts of nostalgia and even vivid dreams lately. Here are the latest results that I've been recording with free time. These are unedited, so if you're offended you'll just have to remember I didn't have previous plans to post any of it. Enjoy!

When I first arrived home from Chile, nothing was safe from nostalgia. I still don't know if culture shock or the heartbreak was the culprit. So much happened in those nine months. I fell in lust with Ash the Australian Accountant, then in love with Pato. This was all before I accepted the love of Christ into my heart, which is definitely the most important experience that occured while abraod. If I could leave Pato out of it, I would, but by God's grace I have healed from the wound he left me with, and I cannot deny his role that God purposefully gave him in leading me to the truth.

We had a wild romance, a love-at-first-sight kind of thing, at least on my end. He was my first love. I was always so proud to be on his arm and blind to any faults, lies or suspicous behavior. With all the bad decisions I've made regarding men, I can't be sure whether he was the worst. He was just the first one. In my stubbornness I brushed off any warnings or advice about him. How many red flags did I ignore? I attracted not only by his cinnamon skin and chocolate-brown eyes, but also his ambition and how fiercely he seemed to love me. It didn't seem frivolous then and although I can see how foolish we both were, I don't often laugh about it. I'm wary of fond memories and saddened by the thought that anything I believed to be love was a myth, because we pushed God away. My other love stories that ended sadly were for the same reason: God cannot be in the presence of sin. He will not bless us in the darkness. We have to come into the light. The fact that we have the option to turn toward Him and away from Satan is a blessing in itself. God the Father does keep a record of wrongs because Jesus took them all upon Himself. That's just a fact and any thankfulness I could offer couldn't begin to portray what His sacrifice meant for humanity. I call my series of bad relationships, running from 1997 right up through 2003, with only few breaks, my "addiction". I pined after Pato even after I had left him in that country to fend for himself, so to speak. I wanted instant reconciliation and some form of love from him, after all I had given to him. It was not to be found. Salsa dancing and parties were deliriously effective in numbing the pain, but my trusted friends were inundated with the reality of how hard it was for me to get over him. Being lucid was tough, and I dove into my journal and wallowed in misery to such an extent that I began to enjoy it. I poured my pain out onto paper and congratulated myself on how well I put words to my feelings. I think it was thearpeautic in some ways, but I know now that I took possession of that pain. I didn't want to confess my sins to the Lord because it was so much easier to play the victim.

... But I digress. I began this work of words for a reason. Bariloche. I love how it just rolls off the tongue. Nothing compares to "Valdivia" when pronounced correctly, but Bariloche is allowed room to compare only because not enough time passed in that little town for disillusionment to creep in. It marks the origins of my rebirth. As much as my loyalty to Chile is unparalleled, I must give credit where credit is due.

It had been raining for months, it seemed. And we're not talking about about plain-jane Seattle drizzle. What I'm describing is a constant deluge, a downpour that was exciting for the first day and then just got downright depressing. Most of the norteamericanos in my group longed for a change, and since most of us had left the U.S. in August and had our fill of sun, we chose another weather medium, a medium that just happened to be more accessible. Snow.

After a few intolerably wet weekends, I was off to the Andes. The first leg of the journey was a series of hairpin turns through the mountains. Things got interesting when we finally reached the border crossing. I was one of the few students who went through the trouble to get a student visa, even though a tourist visa would have sufficed. As it happened, the student visa only created problems. I had already been in Chile 3 months, and only when I tried to cross the border was I told that, because of my status, I should have registered with local authorities within 5 days of arriving in Chile. The official told me he could not grant me access to Argentina. I started to cry. I'd already been on the bus for 5 hours and I had made this trip on my own. Though I was prepared to return to Valdivia, the official took pity on me and let me pass, warning me that if I didn't register with the Chilean police within two days of returning to Chile, I would be deported. He was Argentinian himself so I doubt that he even cared if I bothered to register with the police.

Two more hours brought us to Bariloche. At the time, this little mountain town was still one of the best kept secrets in Argentina. I referred to my guide book to find a little hotel it recommended (I later moved to a hostel it failed to mention), and after securing my things I decided to take a look around. One street was lined with chocolate shops and I immediately fell in love with the little gnomes in each store window. I tried to make conversation with a few German gentlemen over hot chocolate but the entertainment was fleeting, and after dark I decided I had better make my way home. It was on that walk back to the hotel that I vividly recall God calling me for the first time.

The trek took me past a little Catholic church. People were singing inside, and the sound was so beautiful I was drawn inside. I don't remember making the decision to go in. It was as if I were being guided by some unseen force. I meekly peeked in the door and a small, kind-faced lady gently pulled me in out of the cold and gestured for me to stand next to her, handing me a song sheet. I was standing near the back of the building but still felt all eyes on me. The looks were warm, and I felt welcomed. Suddenly, the worship ended and all these little women ushered me into line to take a wafer from the priest. I had only the faintest idea what the wafer represented but I obliged just the same. It was at this point that I realized that I was at least one foot taller than everyone at the chapel. When communion ended, the priest stood at the entrance to greet everyone as they left. He looked me straight in the eye and smiled. " Chao mi grandota". I walked the rest of the way home in a daze, my heart swelling. I watched as the residents of the town invited each other into their homes for tea, wishing that one might extend that grace to me, an alien in a foreign land.

That's all for now. Perhaps there will be more to come. I hope you all like it.

5:01 PM |