Locita

I was walking down the path to the Casa de las Lilas the other day, joking with Milenca and Nicol. As she tripped onto the brick walkway, Milenca decided to let Nicol know she is a locita, or a little crazy. Jumping over a puddle, Nicol bluntly retorted that Milenca is a little crazy as well. Laughing out loud, I thought of recent silly dances, animal noises, and outlandish jokes I had witnessed from the two of them. I assured them that they were both a little crazy. In giggling unison, they whipped around to look at me, “Well you’re a little crazy too!” Smiling in agreement, I nodded.

They were right. I have been a little crazy this month. I would struggle to say that normal exists here, but if it does, we have been far from it. We, the SMs have traveled to La Paz, put on a graduation, thrown a quinceañera, kept Familia Feliz running without a director, celebrated Christmas, and said goodbye to many of our kids. It’s been a full-time, providing me with memories I wouldn’t trade for a million days off. However, I am grateful to now be able to breathe occasionally again.

The crazy kicked off with us SMs heading to La Paz, the largest city in Bolivia, to obtain our Bolivian IDs. As we pulled out of Familia Feliz, the wind in the open-air truck threatened to leave me deaf and violently whipped my hair into a tangle. I realized this was the first time I had left this one place for three months. I hadn’t realized how ready my claustrophobic heart was for something new. Likewise, I had forgotten the beauty of temperatures below a hundred. As we stepped off the plane into the breezy splendor of 60°, the nine of us collectively metamorphosized into energetic, interesting people.

La Paz is beautiful. From the moment I saw the snowcapped mountains stooping over the stacks of red brick dwellings, I was sold. We wandered its colorful streets and floated over ethereal night lights in public transport gondolas. The city quickly found a place high on my list of favorites. Experiencing all of this with such great friends gave me a breath of cool air before plunging into the weeks to come.

Sometime after our return from La Paz, we embarked on the most festive week of my life. Within 4 days, we hosted 3 Christmas parties, created an elaborate graduation from scratch, celebrated two kids’ birthdays, planned and executed a quinceañera, and managed to survive, all without our director present. There are many things Bolivians are not very serious about: being on time, health, planning, and school to name a few. However, if there’s one thing they take seriously, it’s parties and events. For a group of people who had hardly eaten anything but white rice for weeks, our kindergarten and 6th-grade graduation seemed like a black-tie event. The creative decorations were prepared by two volunteers at our kitchen table long into the morning hours, many days in a row. The fancy refreshments were a 4 am masterpiece, and I personally had the confusion of making graduation caps with little more than google and a good bit of cardboard. It was a lot. But when finished, there was also a lot of some other things. There were a lot of proud smiles, a lot of happy tears, and a lot of rare accomplishments by kids who have summited sheer mountains of adversity.

Fortunately, I didn’t have time to get too weepy after our kids’ graduation as directly on its heels followed an even bigger event, a quinceañera. In Latin-American culture, there is little else in a girl’s life as anticipated as a quince. So, even with the extravagant graduation the day before, Veronica’s quince was a priority. By this point, the teamwork between us SMs had been streamlined to a clumsy perfection. Thus, in a day and a half, we split up and planned, catered, baked, pulled together entertainment for the party, and even kept the rest of the kids at Familia Feliz alive. When it all finally came to fruition, it was beautiful. The whole building glowed from the golden lights strung from rafter to rafter. Soft laughter echoed down the long family tables, as the plastic clinks of a toast sounded. As I twirled one of the littlest girls around in her pink princess dress, she stared up in wonder at Veronica. All else paled in comparison to the girl of the hour with her head held high, resplendent in her dress, knowing that she was valued.

Tumbling out of our week of festivities we landed smack in the middle of a whole other kind of crazy: vacation. In Bolivia, school breaks fall exactly opposite of what we’re used to in America. The long break we would have in May to July is swapped to December through February here. So, with graduation past, we’re ready for summer break. Surprisingly, along with the end of our school year comes many of our kids leaving campus. Originally, I had not realized that though I work at an orphanage, most of the kids do have families. They are most commonly here because of poverty, abuse, or other dangerous situations. So, during this vacation time, the majority of our kids go back to their families. If not their parents are not an option then they stay with aunts and uncles, grandparents, or siblings.

It was difficult to say goodbye to each of the kids as they left, but the hardest farewell was probably Keyler. Keyler is one of my 3rd graders. He was what one might call the problem child. Keyler struggles with some pretty intense dyslexia, combined with trauma that would make anyone’s head spin. As a result, it was a constant effort to get him to focus. Dealing with his anger fits or meeting his vacant stare as I attempted to motivate him made me feel absolutely incapable as a teacher. I wished he would just behave like the kids I worked with in the states and desperately tried to stop his constant attempts to run away from school. However, as I learned more about his story, played with him at recess, and found out what an artist he was as he shyly showed me his drawings, Keyler began to steal my heart.

We became friends. Though usually very avoidant, he began to give me hugs when he saw me and call me over for help in class rather than giving up in desperation. We still had a lot to work through before we could get even simple assignments accomplished, but now we were a team. He was so proud of himself as he began to memorize his multiplication tables. With every question he answered correctly, his smile would beam brighter. Still, he couldn’t have been prouder than I was of him. When I found out he was leaving, for good, it broke my heart. Worse, I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

This is the danger of loving. It will throw your life into craziness. You’ll find yourself wandering the streets of a foreign city or awake at 4 am making cookies. Loving will drag you out of your comfort zone and before you know it, you’ll be sewing graduation robes, catering a quinceañera, and even preaching in another language. Then sometimes, even when you’ve loved to the brink of your ability, you’ll find that person, the object of hours of worry and prayer, leaving. Love’s dangerous. I’ve learned this month that it’s tiring and takes every last ounce you’ve got to give. Love is crazy.

Yet doesn’t all that crazy originate from God Himself? Even the craziest things we do for love don’t hold a flickering candle to the insanity of what He’s done. For every late night or moment of patience, He has given irrationally more. To the point that, when we get to heaven, I can picture us walking down some path. Tripping over some golden brick, I’ll peak up at His face, and whisper, “You know, you’re a locito, a little crazy.” And in smiling agreement, I can see Him nod.

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