5 months in Monte Sinai was what it took for me to fully entregarme – to fully give myself to the loving and God-like humans I live beside in Monte Sinai.
You would think that being face to face with men, women and children that the moment you stand in front of them, welcome you, trust you and love you without hesitation would push me to do the same right there and then… Well, let me tell you, it took me longer than expected.
The way my neighbors fearlessly give of themselves to us as volunteers literally leaves me speechless. They carry gifts of authenticity, humility, gratitude and selflessness that I can only pray I one day possess.
My neighbors here have surprised me in the ways that they share themselves with us, with retreatants, and with God. The way they can sit beside us and place their hearts in the palms of our hands, without any filter, amazes me.
I don’t know if you’ve ever done it, but placing your heart in the palms of somebody else’s hands is probably one of the most difficult things to do. Being here in Ecuador has dared me to do many things, but sharing my entire self has definitely been one of the most challenging, yet beautiful parts of this experience.
Coming to Monte Sinai as a Rostro volunteer meant a lot of things for me – but one of the parts of our mission that spoke to me the most was being present to our neighbors and listening to their stories. Even though I knew that sharing myself with my neighbors would be part of my mission as a volunteer, I never expected to be sharing so much about myself because I thought it would be them telling stories. And that is true… Every single time I walk into someone’s home, I walk into an ocean with waves of stories sometimes calm and sometimes too strong.
I think of my neighbor, Monica, who constantly shares the struggles she faces with her two older children. I think of the way her eyes immediately flood with tears. I replay the way her voice cracks when pronouncing their names. I think of the amazing relationship I have with her, but the broken relationship she has with the children she carried in her own womb and the way that must hurt.
I think about Yessenia’s family, a sweet and humble family who share the story of one of their daughters who passed away a year ago. I think of the way their eyes light up when they talk about her. I think of how the sisters proudly show me photographs of her. I think about the way their eyes shine off pain as they miss her. I think of how beautifully they portray what family is, but how incomplete they must feel.
It’s always mind-blowing to listen to my neighbors’ stories. I often wonder what it’s like to be willing to share so much of your life with others, even when it can be painful. More often than not, I stand in awe at their ability to do this and in the clarity with which I encounter Christ through them. To feel Christ sitting beside me, chilling outside… To feel Christ next to me, cooking… To feel Christ hugging me… That’s what sets my heart on fire – it’s what reminds me why God called me here.
But can you imagine one day suddenly, feeling the greatest desire to be like my neighbors and borrow some of their courage and decide to share a huge part of who you are with them?
That’s exactly what has happened over the course of the past 5 months.
One afternoon, I spent 5 hours at Monica’s home. I remember sitting in her bed after having my nails done and suddenly, looking at her straight in the eye and saying, “Alguna vez le he dicho que yo tuve cancer?” / “Have I ever told you I had cancer?”
I remember the way her big, black eyes opened widely as her eyebrows cringed together. Her immediate reaction of worry, curiosity, and faith with which she took the news created nothing but peace in my heart.
The way she wanted to know more... the way she said she couldn’t imagine what it was like for my family… the way she sat her 3 younger children beside me and asked me to retell my story so they could learn to appreciate their life… the way she cried with me as I described a little bit of my experience… the way she hugged me tightly and then said to me, “Eres un milagro de Dios… por eso se que Dios existe,” / “You are a miracle of God… that’s why I know God exists,” flooded my heart with love.
I remember eating dinner with Yessenia’s family as they talked about their daughter, Dianita. Diana passed away after fighting a neurological disease for a big part of her life. The mom, dad, and sisters sat in their cane home floor and told me stories about how sassy she was. They told me stories of how outspoken and daring she was, no matter what came her way. They told me about how she had a smile that could light up the world. They told me about the time she lost her hair due to treatments. They told me they believed God loved her so much, He decided to take her a little too early for them.
And suddenly, I found myself feeling more connected than ever. I told them about how I wished I could have met Diana because I felt like she and I would have been great friends. I shared with them how I thought Dianita was a woman of God. And then went on to share how like Dianita, faith and optimism always took the wheel in my experience as well. And suddenly, all of them were crying sharing how they could see and feel a piece of Dianita in me. Their exact words were: “El se la llevo a ella, pero te trajo a ti.” / “He took her, but He brought you.” I remember being at a loss of words when I heard that. In that moment, I knew God was making Himself known, grabbing us by our hands and saying, “I love you.”
Every time I look at them, every time I talk to them, I learn something new. Every time I’m with them, I see God more clearly and it’s the closest I’ve ever felt to Him. But to now sit there and listen to my neighbors say they saw God in me??? That’s what I think every time I encounter them.
How could that be possible?
Henri Nouwen wrote, “The more I think about the meaning of living and acting in the name of Christ, the more I realize that what I have to offer others is not my intelligence, skill, power, influence, or connections, but my own human brokenness through which the love of God can manifest itself. This, to me, is what ministry and mission are all about. Ministry is entering with our human brokenness into communion with others and speaking a word of hope. This hope is not based on any power to solve the problems of those with whom we live, but on the love of God, which becomes visible when we let go of our fears of being out of control and enter into [her] presence in a shared confession of weakness.”
So how is that possible? Entregándote.
Because now I really know that only through my own human brokenness can I live and act in the name of Christ. Only through my own brokenness can I live with hope – a hope that derives from the love of God and that invites me into living side by side with my brothers and sisters of Monte Sinai.