Bolivia – A Life Overseas |

Devil Dance

Halloween. Day of the Dead. All Saints Day. This week we observe the earthly and underworld of the spiritual realm. As I regale you with tales of Bolivia, rife with ancient connections to the other-world, consider the spirituality embedded in your dwelling place. Let us begin.

The Devil’s Uncle

I’ve visited Potosí in the mountains of Bolivia a few times. It claims the title of populated city with the highest altitude in the world at 4,100 meters (13,451 feet), a high place. It used to be filthy rich. Conquistadores stripped their silver mines bare then raped and pillaged the land. The duress of depressing poverty left only meager spelunking tours and an ominous statue of the Devil’s Uncle in every cave.

Residents visit the caves regularly to sprinkle on the statues coca leaves, cigarettes and other items to appease the bad tempered spirit. Nicknamed Tío his visage takes many forms prominently displayed throughout the shrunken city. The ignorance of the rage of the Tío is told to have led to the atrocious devastation Potosí suffered. The fear of his punishment grips the hearts of many Bolivians.

Some PG images in this music video filmed in Bolivia, shared solely for cultural context:

Devil Dance

A dispute caused by the actions of a Peruvian pageant contestant had leaders claiming that the ‘Devil Dance’ belongs to Bolivia alone. Called the ‘Diablada’ in Spanish, the dance interprets the fight between good (the arc angel) and evil (the Devil and the seven deadly sins). The dramatic costumes, flailing arms, and vigorous jumping dance steps leave a deep impression on the onlookers. Centuries ago Jesuit choreographers intended to send a clear message to the tribal people of the land that would one day become: Perú, Bolivia, and Chile.

This dance is kept alive as a devout remembrance of the powers in Bolivia. Many believe that to allow this brazen display of syncretism to be extinguished would signal the downfall of the nation.

devil dance

Blessings and Curses

One lady said to me, “I am a Christian, not a Catholic. Though, I do think it is important we observe cultural traditions so that our children can proudly carry on the Bolivian culture to the next generation.” She said this to explain why she practices the first Friday of the month ritual called the Q’owa during which elements are burned so as to fill the house or establishment with a smoke of blessing. The elements include coca leaves, tiny sugar statues, and dried animal fetus.

During this purification ritual one procures blessings from the Pachamama to ward off curses of all sorts, according to their practitioners.

Spiritual Warfare

These are only three examples of spiritual engagement in Bolivia: burnt animal sacrifices to the Pachamama, dances displaying deep seated beliefs of powerful principalities, and gifts laid before the Devil’s Uncle by people cowering in caves. I could go on. I imagine you, too, could share about the spiritual practices of the people of your nation.

Related articles:

Participating in the religious ceremonies of other faith traditions

This I Used To Believe

Can Nations Change?

Voice of the National ~ an uncomfortable conversation

Since the start of this blog collaborative people have requested articles on the topic of ‘Spiritual Warfare’. Due to the beautiful diversity of denominational and theological beliefs represented in our global readership we the editors have requested the team of writers avoid attempts to indoctrinate or persuade, thereby excluding people. Rather, we present what we believe and invite people to respectful conversations in hopes to promote encouragement and growth.

Coca: Repurpose or Eradicate

Bolivia’s top export is coca leaves. It happens to be the main raw ingredient of cocaine, though it does have many other uses. Some believe that eradication is the only solution for the evils produced by drug lords. Others are convinced that the crops can be repurposed for harmless uses.

Might these be two different approaches to the spiritual practices of the nations we serve?

We can enter with the belief we are called to eradicate evil and any evidence it ever existed. Like in Chile where the 31st of October is not Halloween but legally observed as the national holiday: The Day of Evangelical Churches and Protestants.

Or we can take the approach of repurposing, or redeeming, the spiritual practices. The famed story of the Peace Child shows us a missionary who saw the story of Christ in the practices of the tribes who would offer a child to establish peace. Salvation came to the people through the message of this tradition.

Ghost Stories

Under the influence of the oppression of evil spirits in your life and the lives of the people of your nation, what works? Let’s talk about it. Share your stories of liberation from the hand of the enemy. Share the practices which brought freedom.

photo credit: Bolivia Travel Site

The Ignorant Bliss of a Know-It-All

When we stomped off to mission school we knew we were headed to Bolivia. We knew the five-fold reach of our ministry would be: churches, bible schools, social outreaches, Bolivian missionaries sent out, and mass media productions. Our shiny vision statement listed everything in plural with big numbers. We knew that we knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, as they say, what our next few decades, heck, what the rest of our lives looked like.

Or so I thought.

The Ignorant Bliss of a Know It All darkened valley.docx

This November 1^st marks 13 years in Bolivia. So much has changed in that relatively short span of time. I miss the ignorant bliss of being a know-it-all.

Right now as I walk through the valley-of-the-shadow one of the few certainties I have is the shadow of doubt.

See if you can identify a pattern as I share some of our journey.

We were pastors of a local church for 8 years. We are no longer the pastors.

From that church Bolivian missionaries have been sent out. The congregation is still connected to these sacrificial souls, yet we are not directly involved.

We ran a bible school program for over a decade during which time we helped start over 60 training centers throughout South America. We no longer oversee that program.

We led a series of leadership conferences attended by thousands throughout Bolivia and South America over the span of 12 years. We no longer do that.

We authored, translated, and published a number of books and biblical teaching material. We also made available online resources. We discontinued our production department.

Three things have survived the start-stop process that characterizes our efforts.

We founded an orphanage that has helped over 50 kids in the last 8 years. Fourteen kids still live in the House of Dreams. We decided to not accept new children.

We started a K-12 Christian school six years ago. Over 100 kids, the orphans and ours included, receive bi-lingual education from a Bolivian staff.

We purchased the town’s only bowling alley a few years back in hopes to create sustainability within Bolivia. We still hope to see positive results.

In some of the examples above the transition meant Bolivians now lead the operations. In other cases the programs simply stopped. We were able to check off all five things we set out to do from the start. We should be ecstatic!

So why do I feel like crap? Why do I battle depression? Why does doubt feel like a noose around my soul’s throat?

The trade off was too big. Home life is strained. Our finances suffer under huge debt. Relationships have become difficult. I could go on with the list of stressful situations we face; I’ll leave the rest for my skype call counseling sessions.

The ancient story of the Hebrews who clamored for a king haunts my heart. They thought they asked for a good thing. Finally, God answered their prayers in the affirmative. He gives them a king, even though He knows they will be sorry. He knows the oppression they invite when they transfer the rule to human hands.

This shadow of doubt that hangs over my head tells me history repeats itself. Why should I think I would have been any wiser than those folks back then? I truly thought I asked God for a handful of really great stuff. He answered our prayers in the affirmative. Did He know we would be sorry?

King David wrote the psalm I have alluded to with my talk of shadows. Maybe if you are alongside me in a dark, shadowy time we might be comforted as we contemplate the truth of these words.

…though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for You are with me…
(Psalm 23:4)

Another scriptural reference to shadows speaks of an unexpected source of darkness.

This deconstruction has been a long, painful unclenching of the fists of control. Surrender thumps as a mandate, a warning of worse if not heeded. So maybe this shadow of death and doubt, as I relinquish and mourn the loss of these good works, comes not from the evil one. Or if it does, there may be a greater Good overshadowing the immediate struggles.

David as king was not God’s original plan, but He worked with it. Listen to the words of this warrior poet about a trustworthy shadow.

“David, when he fled from Saul into the cave: Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me! For my soul trusts in You; And in the shadow of Your wings I will make my refuge, Until these calamities have passed by.” (Psalm 57:1)

More verses about the Almighty’s shadow: Psalm 17:8 , Psalm 36:7, Psalm 63:7, Psalm 91:1

So darkness closes in and I can’t see the path. I walk slow and unsure, weary and wary. Maybe you are right here beside me, unseen but within ear-shot. This is me calling out to you. I extend to you solidarity in the hurt.

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Are you going through a similar season in your life? Have you had to live through relinquishment and loss? In the interest of conversation please add your thoughts below in the comment section.

Bribery, Piracy and Police Fundraisers

One meets road blocks on our highways. A driver stops and the man by the shack saunters out with a huge rifle perched on his hip. He glances over the vehicle and says with tired bluntness and a slight curve of a grin, “The time has come for you to pay me.” He receives the bills and lifts the branch tied to a rope so the driver can pass.

How do you feel about bribery?

For a business to operate legally in our town the owners pay taxes. Receipts are issued to clients to register transactions for tax purposes. Surprise inspectors stand outside shops and ask clients to show them their receipts. If proper receipts aren’t issued the business is closed until they comply with tax standards.

dvds

Countless shops sell pirated DVDs, CDs, and games. They operate legally and proudly display their tax registration compliance document on the wall, just as the law tells them they must.

What are your thoughts on piracy?

At the end of the year employees are paid an obligatory 13^th month salary. During the month of December motorists choose odd routes so they can avoid strategic police traps. Dozens of officers on foot set up cones and stop drivers at busy thoroughfares. They confiscate motorcycles, write mountains of tickets, and look the other way when cold hard cash is slipped into their hands. Their efforts guarantee their 13^th month bonus.

Do you have an opinion about authorities who take liberties?

The organization you work with may have strict policies about bribery, extortion, and other grey areas. Other foreign residents are left to find personal standards of operation.

The word ‘legal’ has many layers when you mix governments and religious belief systems. Conflicts arise when traditions of dress, diet, and holidays demand a choice. When “tipping” an official to do their job gets the paperwork through in days instead of months we are faced with the realities of cultural assimilation.

Push back against the traditional norms, and even the law, and you may face life and death implications. The moral divide for those who hid Jews during the Holocaust went beyond compliance with legal standards and called for people to invoke action against unconscionable terrorism.

How do you choose to draw the line in the land where you live?

Do you…

Cut corners? Bend the rules? Grease the wheels? Deal under the table? Justify the means by the end goal?

Or are you…

Straight-laced? A stickler? Dudley Do-right? A by-the-book type? An ‘i’ dotter and a ‘t’ crosser?

Feel free to share your stories and opinions in the comments below.

Ice-Cream Theology

Statistics show that the majority of people die. This is an undisputed fact. Yet fear of death is one of the top phobias of the human race. According to Jerry Seinfeld it ranks right after fear of public speaking. Consult with wikipedia and you will find fear of death a bit farther down on the list after: flying, heights, clowns, and intimacy.

Have you ever been afraid of death? I have.

For the first few years in Bolivia a reoccurring fear gripped me. I was afraid my husband would die. And beyond that I was afraid of what I would do if he did die. No matter how irrational that fear was, it ate away at me as I fixated on it.

Two veteran missionaries came to visit us. They were our teachers in mission school. Now they had come to speak at a conference and see how we were doing. One afternoon we went out for ice-cream. My fingers tapped and I wiggled in my seat waiting for the right moment to ask their advice.

“I am worried about if my husband dies what will happen to us,” I blurted.

Everyone stopped clinking their cute little spoons on the glass ice-cream cups. The background noises of the open air restaurant spun around my ears in increasing volume. The awkward, loud silence made my heart beat faster.

One of the seasoned men had the guts to speak first. I think he asked some clarifying questions. I didn’t cry. Although my worrisome tone made him speak in a calm low voice. The others just sat stunned. I can’t remember any specific advice. I remember faces of confusion and pity.

The sole brave speaker told a story, “My grandpa used to listen to gospel hymns about heaven, and he died an early death.” How disconcerting, and odd. So much for that session of ice-cream theology. As far as I was concerned their advice had the consistency of the puddle of pink goo that had accumulated in my dish. Weak. Milky. Useless.

Fears and anxiety marked a struggle with deathly imaginations that lasted more than five years.

Sure, I prayed. I begged God to take away the terrors. I wanted the answer fast. I wanted him to bleach my soul. This was not His plan. The answer came slow. The trying of faith and the formation of long suffering were His chosen path for me.

Not long ago my husband and I sat across a tiny table and chatted during our weekly tradition of ice-cream on Tuesdays. He scooped up a big mound of Snickers Twisters and I slurped a Choco Frio. That frightful conversation of despair at an ice-cream shoppe years ago flashed through my mind.

An awareness filled my soul. I no longer feared the death of my husband. What I had hoped would happen as suddenly as a brain freeze had come upon me slowly like the creeping up freeze of the winter months after a sticky summer and a cool fall.

My answer came. Thank you God!

No mater how irrational, fears can feel all consuming. Maybe you don’t fear your husband’s death. Maybe you do. Maybe you are struggling with other kinds of fears. First, don’t stop praying. Second, talk with trusted people – even if they don’t have any good advice for you, it is good to shine light on the darkness.

What have you found helpful in your life for confronting fear?

– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie facebook: atangie

Banished from Bolivia

We messed up. Most times I want to end that sentence with a question mark. We messed up? Truth is, we all mess up, sooner or later.

Thomas Edison – scores of failures before the light bulb
Abraham Lincoln – lost dozens of elections
Albert Einstein – expelled from school because he was a dunce who asked too many questions

Blah, blah, blah, yada, yada, yada. The quantity of motivational pep talks in no way compares to the quantity of embarrassment one feels after a failure. Call it what you will — mess ups, screw ups, failures, errors in judgment, inexperience, sin — it still hurts.

We came to Bolivia after my husband got his Business Administration degree and after we attended one year of mission school. With a ten week old baby strapped to my chest and my hands clasping the toddler fingers of our two-year-old and our three-year-old we stepped onto Bolivian soil with high hopes for our internship. The mission school program required two years: one year of classes, three months in Mexico with an affiliated missionary, and then back to the States to finish the year with classes. We did the first year of classes. We knew we wanted to serve in Bolivia. We knew that a missionary couple affiliated with the school had been in Bolivia for seven years. We asked for a modification to the program. Considering the ages of our kids and the fact that we knew we wanted to serve in Bolivia we asked about a year long internship serving at this ministry as the second year of the program. They approved our request.

We stayed the year in Santa Cruz, Bolivia (11-01 to 12-02). Then we went back to the States for a few weeks to visit family and supporters. Before that first trip back we decided we wanted to do one more year with this ministry. They agreed to that. We came back and worked even harder.

During those two years we: started 64 bible schools, oversaw an outreach program that facilitated the bible school students teaching moral formation to 50,000 public school students, taught two classes each at the local bible school, ran the children’s ministry at the church, participated in the G-12 discipleship system of the church, and traveled extensively throughout Bolivia doing conferences for pastors and church leaders. We were also intensively learning Spanish. Did I mention we had three small children as well?

In our non-denominational, independent circles people applauded our fervor and passion. Our time commitment was coming to a close and we began to discuss what came next. Tensions had been building and we felt like some things would need to change if we were going to continue with this ministry.

The discussions became muddled and personal. Many hurtful things were said. They told us they would like us to connect with their ministry and come under their covering. We decided it would be best to tell them that we would no longer be working with them.

That’s when the proverbial fecal matter hit the gyrating, bladed appliance.

We were:

told the operations in our charge had grown too fast and things were unbalanced.
told to relinquish all our financial partners’ information.
accused of owing thousands of dollars to the ministry.
visited by lawyers threatening to take us to prison.
immediately removed from every position and our keys were taken away.
slandered and the church members were told to stay away from us.
told to leave Bolivia and never return.

I was stunned. I knew things had become tense. We had seen things we didn’t agree with. That is why we were stepping away. We turned in our official letter of resignation from the volunteer positions we had assumed as interns. It was shoved back across the desk, rejected.

I was baffled. We didn’t receive a paycheck from them. The people who partnered with us funded the operations and covered our family budget. They had asked us to consider staying on with them. We decided not to. So why didn’t they just let us go? Why did they have to make life so difficult for us?

Why did they banish us from Bolivia?

We messed up? Yes? No?

Our options for how to respond dizzied me. We could: cower, blame, defend, reason, negotiate, formulate excuses, quit, throw a fit, accuse, cry, shrink back, play the victim, bend under the oppression, fight, etc.

Through many tears and prayers and the advice of our home pastor back in the States we decided that it was not necessary to leave Bolivia, but that we would start out afresh in another city. We liked Cochabamba best of all the cities we had visited. We moved.

— — — That was ten years ago. This November marks 12 years for us in Bolivia. — — —

In my mind I replay scenes from those first two years as missionaries. I want to say that all has been redeemed; some has, not all. I wish it never happened the way it did; but it did. I would like to have a better starting out story; but we don’t.

The regret tally marks scratched on my soul still burn. What could we have done differently? In retrospect the list is enormous. At the time, though, I believe we did the best we could with what we knew.

I would like to dress this up with a bow and a pretty ending. We could compare the numbers from our first two years and the following ten. Since our move to Cochabamba we: started a K-12 Christian school, pastor a church of 100+ people, help thousands of pastors throughout the Spanish speaking world with conferences and online resources, have provided care to 53 orphans, published a more than a dozen books, employ more than 60 Bolivians, mentored 3 career missionaries, and own the only bowling alley in town.

The balance of numbers feels superficial. We are not newbies any more, but we are nowhere near done with life. I am 37 and my husband is 38. Who knows how this thing will finish?

Does it do you any good to know we messed up? That we feel wronged? That regrets loom over my head like ominous vultures circling a bleeding carcass? That my dutiful dedication to the works of the ministry often find their motivation in paying a penance or seeking validation?

If there can be any good sucked from hearing our tale of woe it will not have been told in vain. Maybe the good comes from knowing we made it through. We are still serving as missionaries. Bitterness didn’t beat us.

I fear my words will be interpreted as complaining or moaning. I worry you will feel sorry for me – which I want none of, for it does no good to wallow.

Hurts come. Each situation is unique. I feel unqualified to advise anybody walking through relational struggles. I can only speak of character and say:

Keep a tender heart before the Lord
Forgive Forgive Forgive
Learn and grow in spite of the pain
Pray Pray Pray
Love people

The words of Maya Angelou might give you solace.

“Do what you know to do. When you know better; do better.”

Pray with me this prayer attributed to St. Francis

Lord, make us instruments of your peace. Where there is hatred, let us sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is discord, union; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy. Grant that we may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.

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– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie facebook: atangie

Do you find yourself disillusioned, discouraged, disheartened, defeated, or destroyed?

What are you doing to keep yourself moving through this valley?

Who can you trust at this crucial time?

My Kid Can Cuss in Two Languages

When the new normal cuts against your soul like a cheese grater on your knuckles, what do you do? Do you lift those bloody knuckles and fight back? Or do you woefully bandage them, let them heal, and wait for the next time the scraping starts again?

We live in Bolivia. We are a bi-lingual family: Spanish and English. Eleven years in a place gives you cool skills like that. Did you know that part of language acquisition means learning naughty words? Bi-lingual means double the fun in this area.

My child comes to me with tears brimming. A foul name from a sibling caused the tears. We do the parent thing. We discuss it. We know our child, the one with the silver tongue, has struggled, been bullied, been picked on. We know the defenses have gone up and one survival technique has been to learn rough speech.

It’s only fair to blame Bolivia for this child’s special knack, right? The romantic tongue of this Latin people makes allowances for explicit descriptions and colorful expletives. I should expect complete cultural assimilation from my children, right? Oh that blessed blame game… like those songs that never end, they just go on and on my friend…

My kid can cuss in two languages. Not an ideal bumper sticker. Although, it could be plastered right next to the one about honor roll. My kid is on the honor roll, too. Somehow that balance doesn’t soothe me, though.

Can I be grateful that our children face real issues under our care? Grateful for the cheese grater? It shall not be said they lived a sheltered life. No indeed.

I was about 11 years old when I had to get stitches because I sliced my finger cutting a head of cabbage. I remember my mom had to drag my younger brothers and sisters with us to Doctor Brown’s office. I sat on the tall bench and screamed as the little ones looked on with wide eyes. Plastered stiff against the wall in that tiny room the whole lot of them maintained perfect silence as the needle went in and out of my tiny index finger. Still have the scar. Still one of my favorite childhood memories. No joke.

Even though blood was everywhere, I was in pain, and the numbing shots did not help, I felt a goodness about me. With all those kids around me I knew I was not alone. I knew I would make it through. And it did.

So my kids fight the habits, and sometimes scrape their knuckles. Oh sure, the guilt still drives me to grind my teeth and bite my nails. Questions buzz around like a mosquitoes in my ear when I am trying to sleep. The prayers turn accusatory with a hint of pitiful begging.

Then the scars on the knuckles of my own soul remind me that our humanity is one of our most becoming features. I dare to hope that amidst the pain, goodness can be felt surrounding us.

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You can share your cheese grater story below. Please know, you are not alone.

What compromises do you feel you have had to make for the sake of “the call”?

When faced with a moral conflict how do you decide your response?

Who surrounds you, reminding you of the good in life, when things get rough?

– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie facebook: atangie

Fundraising

The summer heat of Oklahoma turned our dingy, grey duplex into an oven. I shuffled papers around, crouched over my bulging belly on the crusty, rust colored shag carpet. Expectancy within, the birth of our third child. Expectancy all around, our impending move to Bolivia. The two events would occur in the fall, just weeks from each other, respectively. The papers contained names and addresses.

We finished our mission school classes and counted down to our launch. Consumed with the tasks of unhooking from our natal culture, we took a step of faith. Our most recent correspondence announced to the world we had quit our jobs. We would derive our sustenance from the generous financial gifts people sent to us. Per our instruction in missions school, we took strategic steps to divide our contacts in lists for effective communication.

‘List A’ : people who had given money in the past or who were sure to give in the near future.

‘List B’ : folks who needed to stay informed whether they gave or not, and the praying people.

‘List C’ : all the rest.

My two chubby toddlers took sweaty naps while I sorted the print-outs into three piles.

With my brain fully engaged in the act of classifications, a simple voice whispered at the corner of my soul, “I am your only list.” My fingers flew, filing on the floor, as I knelt before the homage to our own proficiency. I breathed out a distracted, “Yes, Lord, you are on the top of ‘List A’”. In penitence to effectiveness, my sorting sped up.

Then the grace, oh the amazing grace of my God, came in thicker than the squelching humidity sticking to my skin. This time the voice flooded every corner of my heart, “I AM your only list.”

A a parent, I change my tone if I have to repeat myself. I recognized the tone. I let the papers slip from my hands. Palms turned upwards, I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. I repented.

That pertinent conversation, rubbing at my impertinence, happened in 2001. Have I really lived by those words over a decade? When panic attacks, I go back to those words. As I scramble to reduce, cut back, and suck it all in so we can make it, these words bring comfort. In seasons of abundance and in times of drought I rely, by faith, on my Only Source. My God. Through tears of joy, fear, or sorrow, I can say with Paul,

“I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength.” (Philippians 4:12-13)

We trade independence and live in dependency. I cringe when I have to answer, “No, we are not with an organization, we are ‘independent’ missionaries.” For I am NOT independent! I am completely and utterly dependent upon my God. I take faltering steps, trusting Him to show us the path.

He overrides my lists. He requires I draw close to Him all the time. He points out His unique provision. Through other people, by creative ideas, and with undeniable miracles, He proves to me He is my only list.

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This piece comes as a response to the many messages, emails, and comments from newbie missionaries who read A Life Overseas.

There are millions of ways to get money as a missionary.

Let’s take up a collection right now. What?! Not a collection of money, silly. A collection of resources in the comment section below. Don’t be shy! What methods have you employed to finance your passion? My kooky list is included…

– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie work blog: House of Dreams Orphanage

Fair Expectations

We sat in the booth at a sandwich shop. By divine serendipity our paths crossed on “home” soil. She was back from Africa and I was up from South America. As we picked at our oversize, overpriced deliciousness stories poured out.

“Things are so rough in the village. The ladies tell me I need to hit my children. At any time of the day on the street someone was physically beating the kids. When they hit my own kids I didn’t know what to do,” my friend shared as she lifted her hands in exasperation.

We talked of culture, poverty, sickness, and all the other hot topics missionaries share. We cried. We nodded our heads. We even laughed together. Oh, what a hot mess it is when expectations meet reality.

Expectations are unavoidable. Our brains are hard wired to create shortcuts. We read cues and make judgements based on past experiences and learned responses. It’s natural. So we head into new cultural situations and our pea brains can’t compute how to process things that do not meet our expectations.

fair expectations... horses in the city — Horses? In the middle of the city? Yep.

Then comes the real labor of reworking our hard wired synapses and electronic circuiting. We try to readjust expectations. We try to adapt to a new normal.

As a black and white thinker the grays and I have had a hard time getting to know each other. The miscues and confusion started to cause the concept of truth to blur in my heart and mind.

I began to ask: Where is the truth in all this?

As I began to manage the tension of truth vs. perception I began to ask a new set of questions: Might truth be more fluid like a river and not so rigid like an ice cube? Am I forsaking truth if I adapt to cultural understandings of concepts I once thought were rock solid? Can I put on a new set of lenses without losing my core identity?

My son with a great find from the market. “This is a grapefruit!?” Yep.

I know I am not the only one who has wrestled with the expectations factor as a foreigner.

Let’s talk about this.

Which of your expectations have been challenged? What ways have you found to cope when you realized your expectations were unrealistic? How do we keep from falling over into hopelessness, cynicism, or hardness of heart when we adjust our expectations?

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– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie work blog: House of Dreams Orphanage

Landfill Harmonic and Redeeming Rubbish

A missionary friend shared this little video with me. Maybe us mission minded folk here at A Life Overseas can talk about it too.

Take a walk in our town and you will pass by large green trash bins, usually overflowing. If you see the lid of the dumpster propped open with an empty two liter soda bottle it means one thing: pilfering. You learn to not be alarmed when you walk by and hear a rustling from within. Tawny arms and legs scavenge through the refuse. Should I be ashamed that I laughed once when I saw a couple items come flying out that opening as if the bin itself spit out some parts it couldn’t chew all the way?

I have many trash tales I could tell. This is one of my favorites. Members of our church adopted a Bolivian child. They first encountered their daughter as an infant rescued from a trash bag thrown under a bridge on the rocky banks of a dry river bed. Her name suits her perfectly: Victoria. What a story of victory her life has been. She is a vibrant child getting ready to attend kindergarten. I marvel every time I see her.

Can you love what’s been thrown out with the trash? Can you deny the opinion of others and stoop to scoop a redeemable piece out of the trash heap? Can life be found in a putrid, rotting pile?

Yes. Yes. and Yes.

No matter if our life started in a trash bag, a pristine hospital room, or a stable; redemption must be the focus.

As Mary awoke on a day like today, the day after the first Advent, she gazed at the Infant on her breast. The fate of all humanity hung on that Life, cradled in her arms. The scent of dung and unclean animals hung in the air. A pungent reminder of the task of redemption ahead.

My friends took a baby from the clutches of an early coffin in the form of a trash bag, and roared, “NO!” in the face of death. Mary held an Infant in the midst of a detestable stable, filthy darkness all around, and gave the world LIFE.

What surrounds you? When was the last time you visited a dumpster and communed with humanity? What steps have you taken towards the smelly, filthy humans living around you awaiting a Redeemer?

I am speaking in quite a literal sense, though feel free to sweep it away under the figurative rug, should you so desire.

Jesus made us a promise. This promise shares rank with other powerful statements bestowing upon us faith, hope, and love. Sweet Jesus promises: the poor we will always have with us.

In the context of keeping precious communion with Christ the disciples receive a rebuke. They took issue with the extravagant “waste” of the woman anointing Jesus. How odd our human affinity to identify waste. Jesus promises the disciples that they will always have the poor with them and that they should help them, too. Then He draws us into the heart of the matter. He tells us to keep first things first. What we see as waste, he sees as valuable, precious, and necessary. (Mark 14)

Let us first waste ourselves on communion with Christ. From that “wasted” time communing with Him we can go to the “waste” of our community and bring the sweet smelling aroma of redemption.

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Where have you wasted your life lately? Or better yet, with whom have you wasted your life lately?

– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie work blog: House of Dreams Orphanage

Pianos Aren’t in the Bible

You can find verses about stringed instruments. There’s stuff about joyful noises and music. But you go ahead and try to find mention of a piano in your bible. Not gonna happen, my friend.

Water purification systems aren’t in the bible either. Neither are AIDS prevention programs. Not a mention of slave trafficking awareness. You’re not going to see tent meeting crusades either. Other unmentioned activities: youth sports outreaches, bible smuggling, university campus bible studies, business as missions, and orphanages.

These are strategies developed towards a desired end. Is it okay that none of these things are strictly ‘biblical’? Must everything we do as missionaries be found bound in the bible? As providers of humanitarian aid must their be a touch of divinity mixed in with our humanity?

On his blog Seth Godin says,

“Non-profit failure is too rare, which means that non-profit innovation is too rare as well. Innovators understand that their job is to fail, repeatedly, until they don’t.”

Read the whole article here: ‘Non-profits have a charter to be innovators‘.

Then come back and chat about it. You can add your thoughts in the comments below.

We are a strategic bunch of people. We push limits. We challenge. But do we fail enough?

Is “failure” actually a sign of effective ministry? How have you failed in your work in the last 3 months?

To further the discussion on the tension between validity and innovation:

As a missionary do you find yourself running tally marks on a mental spreadsheet to make sure your existence counts? How effective is this mentality?

As a humanitarian relief worker do you justify the dollars sustaining you by logging as many “wins” as you can? What would you do differently without performance pressure nagging you?

Where do we derive our validity as we work in our different fields?

– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie

photo credit: Ariana Terrence

Friend of Missionaries

Alternate title: “Missionaries are like Manure”

Musicians love music. They make their own music but they revel in the music others make, too.

Artists love art. They create their own pieces but they thrive on experiencing the creations of others.

Technicians love techie stuff. A game designer plays hundreds of hours of games on a plethora of gaming systems.

Following this reasoning we could conclude that missionaries love missions.

Right?

When we were in missions school one of the teachers told us that the top three reasons missionaries leave the field are: money matters, sickness, and relationship problems. He went on to expound on the difficulties missionaries tend to have getting along with others. The famous quote we took away from that class made me laugh.

“Missionaries are like manure. Spread them out and they do some good. In a group they are just a stinky pile of… crap.”

I didn’t believe it. Until I saw it with my own eyes. Missionaries fighting against missionaries. Mission organizations undermining other mission organizations. The saddest? People who had given up everything they once knew to help the people of a foreign land, leaving earlier than planned because they couldn’t get along with their team.

I closed myself off from relationships with other missionaries. I could count on one hand the number of other missionaries I allowed myself and my kids to have contact with. It was fabulous for language learning. I connected really well with the Bolivians. I think God was cool with it for a while, for about five years, in fact.

Then I felt urged to consider the possibility of opening myself to relationships with other missionaries. Upon reflection I saw my reasons for not making friends with missionaries tainted by an ugly shade of pride. My miss-goodie-two-shoes mindset kept me away from problematic relationships, but it also validated my sin of pride. I was so proud of myself for not getting trapped in a pile of manure that I began to judge those who worked on mission teams. I criticized the workers bound to the conditions imposed upon them by their overseers. I puffed up our independence.

Knowledge puffs up but love edifies. I have to love other missionaries, too? Yes.

Bit by bit I began making friends with other missionaries. I quit ducking away from the foreigners at the market. I stopped crossing the street if I spotted another pair of blue eyes.

This stirring started about six years ago. Guess, what? I am still on the mission field.

I am so glad that God’s gracious treatment of resentment removal has been fun. It’s been so good to get to know other workers. Our family has benefited. Our mission has benefited. I am most grateful for the personal benefits I have undeservedly gained from friendships with other missionaries.

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What’s your experience with relationships with other missionaries or foreign workers? Are you guarded or welcoming with other ex-pats? As passionate, dedicated, people of mission how can we build healthy relationships with others? Are missionaries like manure?

– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie

Acquainted

They started telling me their stories. We call the orphans of our orphanage the Dreamers. It caught me at the throat when the children decided to speak about their mothers. Pure fantasy spewed from their lips.

“My mother brought me a huge cake,” he said with arms extended indicating the enormous dimensions.

“My mother is beautiful,” another declared with loving eyes.

“My mother is going to come and take me from this place,” the oldest of the group at seven years old crossed her arms in defiant determination. The possibility may exist, due to the foster type care we provide, that the mother would return. The probability is low. Those words shot forcefully from that little mouth straight through my heart.

Suffering doesn’t touch you until you touch the suffering. And until you are touched by suffering you will not touch a sufferer.

I used to say that I would much rather learn from the Good Book that God has provided for our benefit rather than at the cruel school of hard knocks. That is not the case now. I see value in feeling, to bring me to a new awareness not attainable by facts on a page.

In my ignorance of pushing suffering away from myself I also pushed the sufferers away. As I have learned to embrace the hardships in my life I have also embraced the suffering people. Skirting the valley sent me tumbling down in only to realize that there were others going through as well.

Three days to break the body of Jesus and see it revived again with scars to testify. Thirty-three years suffering with raw and blistering humanity to break his heart, never to see it fully restored. He is a man acquainted with suffering.

Can I be acquainted with him yet ignore his empathy and compassion? Can you?

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– Angie WashingtonK10YG K10YG マリッジリングオシャレ ring 指輪イエローゴールドK10 ホワイトゴールドK10 結婚婚約ペアリング人気ジュエリーアイ刻印文字入れ可能人気安い 2本セ, missionary living in BoliviaLIXIL/リクシル【INAX】J1HT-755S(8)YN/LP2H 化粧台片引出し取っ手レスタイプ寒冷地仕様 (クリエペール), South America

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