familia mexicana.

According to the ever-helpful Blogger dashboard, it has been over a year since I last wrote. If you have been following my blog over the past four and a half years since I moved to this glorious country, you will realize that long spans of silence are normal for me! They denote times of ministry, of growth, of stretching, of joy, of struggle, of tears, of laughter…of life being lived!

            Despite the fact that I finally have a life, this idea, this pondering and currently this blog post about my ‘Mexi Familia’ have been bubbling and gurgling in my brain for a month or longer. And weekly, daily, moment-by-moment the notion has been confirmed and strengthened.

            Let me start at the beginning. When people ask me what I miss most while being far from my home, the first answer is always “My family”. I grew up in a teeny four member immediate family. My parents have always been an integral part of my life and I have called them regularly since I moved here. They are my go-to question answerers, financial gurus, relationship coaches, health advisors and life compasses. If there is any major moment that passes while I’m here (including my most recent trip the hospital and four stitches in my scalp) they get the phone call first. My younger brother by seven years and I have been on a rollercoaster of closeness or being caught up in the busyness of life, but connecting with him has always been important and dear to me as well.

            Being far from my family has been the hardest because I am currently living in a country and culture that values family above all else. In Mexico, families are the people that will do anything for you, at any hour of the day or night. They don’t ask to be repaid, or expect anything from you. Family comes over for meals uninvited…and expects you to drop by as well. Or take up residence for the weekend on your couch. My fifth grade students are proud to recount the times they spent hanging out with their parents, their big sister or the herd of primos (cousins) that always seem to be around.

            In my first weeks, months and years here I felt so disconnected from all of this family stuff. I didn’t feel like I fit in anywhere as the white girl, the teacher, the foreigner, the middle class citizen in a world of extremely poor or wealthy beyond compare. I remember abhorring Sunday afternoons because of their loneliness, the vast stretches of time to fill as a single person, the sadness of my ‘plans’ that included little other than a phone call to my parents and reading in my bathing suit in the garden trying to get a tan.

            Last year was a year of major stretching for me, primarily because of my first romantic relationship that just happened to be with a Mexican man. It helped me to realize so many things about myself, this culture and my future here. It also placed me at a point where I despised certain aspects of Mexico at the point when I was leaving to go to New Jersey for summer vacation. I struggled with the thought of returning and wondered often if me being here was of any value to eternity. If my being a foreigner, struggling through Spanish with a garish accent, being white in the land of the bronze was forever a hindrance and even more so, a reason not to return. Who cared if I came back? What difference did it make? Because I had promised months in advance, when I was in the middle of said relationship, I returned to Mexico for a fifth year. Kicking and screaming at first. But slowly stopping. And listening to my Father.

            God has been showing me, without fail, on a weekly, daily, moment-ly (?!?) basis that He indeed has provided me with a Mexican family. And that by HIS grace in my life has used me in whatever small way possible for His kingdom. And that now, being the good Mexicans they are, that family is ready to stand up for me in whatever way they can.

            This family includes people in my neighborhood who don’t know my name but do remember me as the white girl who has lived here for a long time…including the taxi driver who gave me the taxi ride to my first date and told me to not let ‘el chavo’ kiss me. And waves to me from his taxi when he sees me running in my neighborhood. The waiter at the café who smiles to me every time I walk by. The waitress at the same café who congratulated me on my new relationship (which was started over coffee she served us) and who hugged me when we broke up. The man at the market who sells me my cheese and has been encouraging my slowly emerging Spanish since the days I only knew ‘Hola’ and ‘Gracias’. The Starbucks barista who remembers my drink, my name, which state I’m from and who took a picture of new boyfriend and I. And asked if he was my grandpa the next morning. And gave me free coffee when I told him it was my new novio! The security guard at the school down the street from mine asks me how my day was every afternoon. The woman who owned the paleta stand my first year and whom, when she saw me at Walmart this year hugged me as if I was a long lost sister. The guys at the taco stand who would like me to be more than their sister. And have said so many times.

            And my dear hermanos and hermanas at Lincoln, both Mexican and American. Who will pick me up from the airport in the middle of the night. Who invite me to their homes and let me practice Spanish. Who invite me out to breakfast, pay for me and listen to my brain that is spinning like a hamster wheel. Who patiently wait for my English brain and tongue to trip and tumble over their language. Who take me to the hospital in all sorts of states of bleeding, leaking, vomiting, constipation, etc. Who sit with me in said hospital. Who visit me at home after trips to said hospital. Who bring me medication, flowers, sushi, notes from my students, hugs, movies, popcorn and even prune smoothies when I can’t do so for myself. Who check up on me. Who tell me things that my parents would tell me if they were here. Who give me the most God honoring advice. Who told my own parents, when they were visiting that they felt like my mom. Or my dad. Or my big brother. And who promised such blood parents that they would continue to act on their behalf in my life while I was living here.

            I still don’t know if I’m meant to live here forever. Nor do I see fruit from my own labors all the time. But I am continually humbled by the way that God provides so faithfully for me in the people of Mexico. I came here to serve them but have been so beautifully, tenderly and graciously been given a glimpse of my Father’s heart through their words and actions.