Things I didn’t know about Christmas

(that I Iearned from hanging out with kids at church and working on this year’s Christmas pageant)

-Baby Jesus’ visitors included “Santa”, “my uncle”, and—my favorite—“Jesus”.

-Angels make ghost noises when they fly—“oooooo”—and attack Joseph in his sleep.

-When Mary tells Joseph she’s pregnant, he looks at her and exclaims “WHAT?!?”

Do you see what I see?

My favorite Christmas song has always been “Do you hear what I hear?”, especially the part where we sing, “Pray for peace, people everywhere”. Because if everyeone in the world (and I mean everyone) were to drop what they are doing right now—working, fighting, worrying, watching TV—to pray for peace, it would actually work; it’s hard to inflict harm on someone when you’re praying. The mental image of that happening, even just for a moment, always gives me goosebumps. Makes me think of swords being beaten into plowshares (Isaiah 2:4).

My favorite version of this song is by Todd Agnew, who adds a short but insightful interlude:

A star, a star, shining in the night:
How does this look from so high?

A shepherd boy, shivering with fright:
How does this look to your eyes?

A king to come, so far and oh so wise:
Are you ready for your surprise?

And God on high, paying such a price:
Giving your Son for His bride!

I especially love the line about the king: following a mysterious star, expecting great splendor and circumstance; I can imagine his surprise when he finds a dirty manger with a humble baby.

Agnew actually has an entire Christmas album called “Do you see what I see?”, which attempts to open up the story of Jesus’ birth by imagining what it might have looked like from the perspectives of other people who were there. He even wrote a song about the inn-keeper, who’s stressed from being overworked, and doesn’t have time for this poor, pregnant couple and their baby. She has no idea that, in turning a blind eye to their suffering, she is actually ‘blowing off’ the son of God. How many times do we do the same?

More feasting--this time Greek

Argentine food is delicious, but it's also very plain, and I often find myself craving something that's not pizza, empanadas, or mountains of grilled meat. So it was with great joy and thanksgiving that I found a Greek food store on my home this week. I grabbed a few items from the counter, which turned out to be spiced meat on a pita, chicken with vegetables wrapped in flat bread, and two little desserts with feta cheese and brown sugar. It definitely satisfied my mounting craving for something 'outside of the box.' And even though I ate it fast because I was hungry, I nevertheless enjoyed it and 'feasted' on it as a gift from God.

It cost fifteen pesos. I didn't have to do that. I could have bought something cheaper and used the extra money to help the poor. And I had the whole train ride home to think about it. This my inner monologue: was it wrong for me to 'waste' money on that food, which brought me so much joy? Which I experienced, gratefully, as a gift from God? Three months ago, the question wouldn't even have occurred to me. Now I find myself asking how much is enough of myself to give, and how much am I willing to sacrifice?

God asks for nothing short of everything. And I want to give it. But how do I do that? What does that mean? If I'm going to eat, I need money in my pocket. On the other hand, if I cling to everything I have, even if I proclaim it as God's blessings, I lack love.

Where is the line, therefore, between being blessed and being a blessing?

Gratefulness - and Great Fullness

Last week we gathered in Uruguay for our first retreat, which was great opportunity to gather, share, and reflect together on our experiences so far. An important part of the week was to celebrate Thanksgiving, which takes on new meaning when we are—in many senses—so far from home. We all contributed something special to our time together, from music to devotionals to a hands-on comparison of our lives to the making of bread—which has communal and spiritual, as well as nutritional, importance. In light of the Thanksgiving feast, we also shared in an ongoing conversation about celebrating abundance in the midst of scarce resources. We all have been challenged by coming from situations of abundance to find ourselves in situations where resources are very scarce. Why is it that some people have too much food, and others don’t have enough—or none at all? How does our global economic system perpetuate and widen inequalities, and what can we do about it (as individuals? as citizens? as Christians?) And how do we relate earthly abundance with the ‘abundant life’ triumphantly proclaimed by Jesus? How can we be partake in that life, and how can we share it with others?

With all of that baggage in tow, the culmination of our week was the Thanksgiving Meal—somewhat improvised, but delicious nonetheless. We were staying on an organic farm, so most of our ingredients were fresh and pure. We had to settle for chicken instead of turkey, but the stuffing and green bean casserole had never been better. We even had fruity Jello, as well as apple crisp for dessert.

The cherry on top was singing Holden Evening Prayer after dinner. A very special evening indeed as we humbly celebrated our many blessings and offered simple songs to each other and to our awesome God. I know we all missed being with our families, but this Thanksgiving was certainly one we will not forget.

Oh me of little faith

Last weekend I participated in the churchwide Assembly for Mission and Life. What fun! People came from all over Argentina and Uruguay to represent their congregations, share their stories (and their struggles) and to participate in communion with on another.

About a week beforehand, I had been asked if I would be a part of the music team (apparently word had spread about our late-night jam sessions in the seminary cafeteria...). It was an honor to be asked, and I quickly accepted. And I looked forward to it, right up until the point where my fellow musician Ivan came to my desk and plopped down a sheaf of sheet music.

"What's this?" I asked him, though I already knew what he was going to say.

"The music for the assembly," he told me. I was right.

Now what? What Ivan didn't know is that though I can play the piano confidently and pick out a tune by ear, I've never been particularly good at reading music. And certainly not that much of it. And in such little time.

I thought about giving up, but I had given my word. And, I reminded myself, I was really looking forward to this! So after a few days to calm down, I took my stack of music to church and sat down at the organ. The first thing I did was translate the notes into 'my' system (here, they use Do, Re, Mi, etc, even for chords). And then I began to play through the songs. Some of them, I was pleased to find out, I knew from home!--I simply hadn't recognized the Spanish titles. There were others that I had sung so many times since I got here that I guess I had 'absorbed' them. And there were even a few that I was able to fumble through the music and throw something together. When it was all said and done, there were only five that I determined were too hard, and I set them aside.

Then the Assembly came. I was almost immediately thrown into the hotseat when one of the pastors said, "Can you just go play something? It doesn't matter what." So I did. But as things got going, communication improved and I started to get the hang of it. "I can play anything on this list," I told one of the pastors during a break, "except these five." I circled them in bold, black ink.

The pastors who led the sessions were mostly respectful of those restrictions. But the larger group simply didn't know about the limits I had developed. Most of them simply saw me as a competent pianist who could probably play whatever music was set in front of me. Over the course of the two days, they began shouting out song titles. This was great if I knew the song they were requesting, but if it was one of those five, I was in trouble.

A few times, I told them that I simply couldn't do it, and when they insisted, I bristled. "How can they do this?" I asked myself. "Don't they know how much time I've put into learning all of these other songs? Why can't they just choose another one? They've got more than enough to choose from." One time, I gave in and tried a new song. I was uncomfortable and, sure enough, my playing was a disaster. No one else seemed to mind, but I took it as confirmation that I was right and that what I was being asked to do was unreasonable.

Fortunately these uncomfortable moments were few and far between, and for the most part, the assembly went well. Good times, great people, lots of tears and laughter. Our time was imbued with a sense of excitement. It all culminated in our closing worship, in which we served each other Communion and reflected on our shared weekend. Personally, I was pleased with my musical contribution and glad that nothing had gone horribly wrong. In that sense, I was also glad that it was over.

Or so I thought. As people were saying goodbye and beginning to clean up, Pastor Andrea Baez came over to the piano and asked if I could play some exit music. "Only if you sing with me," I said, and winked. "OK," she said. "What should we sing?"

I went first for several songs that I liked but that we hadn't used very much that weekend. It was fun, but they soon ran out. "What about 'Dios Familia'?" asked Andrea. I recoiled--that one was on my no-fly list, and the music was particularly complicated. But, I figured, what the heck. Nobody's listening, anyway. So we gave it a try. I kept waiting for it to derail, but somehow, it didn't. We made it all the way to the end. We tried another one. Same thing--in fact, I kind of liked the tune. People were still leaving, but we were beginning to pick up momentum! Hungrily, we looked for the next one. Great success. We were now trying new songs with reckless abandon. And it was working. Were they perfect? Obviously not. But they weren't bad, and they were really quite a bit of fun!

Right in the midst of so much excitement is when it hit me: these are things I had said I couldn't do. I had put a dividing line around my own abilities and confidence. As I had shared that limit with others, I also had been reinforcing it in myself. But this 'last hurrah' showed me that my boundary had been based on fear and not reality. If I had only placed more faith in my abilities--and in the power of the Holy Spirit--I could have opened up the song book and avoided some of those needless moments of conflict. I would also be able to relax more and enjoy myself, rather than worry that my abilities were not good enough. In other words, faith makes all the difference.

It reminds me of the words of Henry Ford: "Whether you think you can or whether you think you can't; either way, you're right."

The Sands of New Caledonia

Last Sunday I had to learn a few tunes to accompany a Bolivian worship service, scheduled for later in the afternoon. As I made my way to the cafeteria to use the piano and the wifi, I heard music. Good music. Jazz piano, to be precise. It's not every day that you hear jazz piano in Buenos Aires (they tend to prefer tango), and I figured someone must have been playing a recording.

As soon as I opened the door, I saw that I was wrong--this music was en vivo! There was a big guy with a beard sitting at the slightly-out-of-tune piano, his fingers dancing gracefully over the keyboard playing complex chords and delicate arpeggios--seemingly without effort.

He looked at me and smiled, and kept playing. I sat down at one of the tables, enjoying the music and wondering how long it had been since that old piano had gotten such a workout. When he finished, I told him, “Che, tocas muy bien!” I saw that he hadn’t understood, so I tried English: “Man, you play really well!” That clicked a little more.

Through a little more broken conversation, he told me that he was from New Caledonia, a small island nation near Australia and New Zealand. French is the national language, but his English was better than his Spanish (and better than my French), so that’s what we used. I pointed to my chest and said “My name is Chris.” He smiled and told me his name is Nulu.

I later found out that he was with a group of artists and musicians who had come to Argentina to do cultural workshops for kids up in the Chaco. It must have been very difficult for them to come to a country without knowing the language, and I was impressed with their willingness to travel so far to share their musical and artistic gifts with young people.

I had my laptop with me, which we used to teach each other about our respective countries. The pictures of New Caledonia were absolutely gorgeous--beautiful clear skies, white beaches, blue ocean--I must admit that from the smoggy metropolis of Buenos Aires, it looked like paradise. Nulu was equally impressed with the pictures I showed him of my friends and family back home in the US. When I showed him pictures of when I used to play in the Wisconsin Marching Band, he realized that I was a drummer, and he grabbed my arm and led me excitedly back to the piano.

He played a tune by Charlie Parker (he had figured out the sax solos), and I accompanied him, improvising a drum set out of my knees, thighs, and chest (anyone who’s spent even a little time with me has probably seen me do this). It was absolutely incredible—such a beautiful, unexpected moment. We started trading fours, and then had to end because we were both laughing so hard.

Nulu couldn’t stay long, but before he left, he took a coin out of his pocket and flipped it to me. I admired it for a moment, but when I tried to hand it back to him, he motioned that it was for me to keep. "Merci," I told him, recalling my long-lost French lessons, "Merci beaucoup." He smiled again. "De rien," he said.

So now I have a New Caledonian coin on my desk to remind me of this shared moment. It makes me think of one of those movies where the guy dreams about walking on the beach--a beautiful moment in which he feels alive and at one with the world. The alarm clock rings, and he is disappointed to be jolted back to reality--only to look down and discover that his feet are covered in sand.

Speaking of beaches and sand, New Caledonia is now at the top of my list of places to visit!

All in a day’s work

A police officer stands on a corner in Grand Bourg, watching the traffic go by. As he stands there, I wonder: is he on duty, or is he just waiting to cross the street?

I soon get my answer. As a motorcycle zooms by, he points to the driver and yells, “Put a helmet on!”

It reminds me of a referee giving a penalty in a football game, except this game doesn’t stop. Traffic keeps moving—including the motorcycle—and the officer steps back onto the sidewalk.

Looks like my work here is done, he says to himself.

The Body of Christ

This weekend I attended a workshop on facilitation, given by personnel from the service office of the Lutheran church in Argentina and Uruguay. I work regularly with some of these folks, and I know that they are quality people who do quality work. Nevertheless, I was still surprised at just how well this event was done, from the morning reflections all the way to the evening barbecues and singalongs--and everything in between.

In some ways, the content was nothing new: we talked about things I've been studying for years (democracy, individual vs. community, empowerment, etc). But what was new was talking about it in a church setting. Suddenly, 'individuals' become children of God, 'community' is the body of Christ, and 'empowerment' recognizes every person's spiritual gifts and ability to co-create the body. And unlike most of the political revolutions I read about in college, there was an overarching understanding that none of this is possible without the love of God, the unity of Christ, and the transforming power of the Holy Spirit. That is precisely what made the weekend so exciting--we were talking about a bona fide revolution!

Our workshop was based on Ephesians 4, in which Paul uses the 'Body of Christ' to talk about how we are to build the church community:

'Instead, speaking the truth in love, we will in all things grow up into him who is the Head, that is, Christ. From him the whole body, joined and held together by every supporting ligament, grows and builds itself up in love, as each part does its work.' (verses 15-16)

On the last day of the conference, we closed by sharing the Lord's Supper together. As we served each other bread and wine, I was struck by the simple beauty of this timeless sacrament, which extends throughout the world and still holds the same significance now as it did the first time that Jesus celebrated it with His disciples 2000 years ago. Even today--in the imagery of D.T. Niles--we continue to encounter each other as beggars, our hands cupped, asking each other where to find the Bread of Life.

Her smile made me smile

On Friday night I was teaching the first communion class about the story of the Good Samaritan. I like it when kids identify with what they're learning, so I asked them to draw a picture of when they felt or would feel alone (just like the injured man in the story).

The kids set to work, and after I had finished my picture (a stick-figure version of me falling off my bike this summer in Saint Paul), I started making the rounds. I saw pictures of walking alone on a road at night, of swimming alone, and even being locked in the bathroom. And then I came to a girl, about nine years old, who hadn't drawn anything yet.

"I can't think of anything," she told me.

"That's fine," I told her, "You can make something up. I can tell you're a creative person."

I kept moving around the room, admiring everyone's work. I had all but forgotten about what I had said to Cielo, when I felt a tug on my sleeve. There she was, with a quizzical look on her face.

"I have a question," she said. "How did you know that I'm a creative person?"

"Because I can see the sparkle of creativity in your eyes," I said, hoping it wouldn't sound too cheesy.

"Gracias," she said, her wide smile telling me that I'd made her night.

Again after class, right as she was leaving, she asked me: "What was it that you could see in my eyes?"

"The sparkle of creativity," I told her.

"The sparkle of creativity," she repeated back to herself, as though she wanted to remember it forever.

"Gracias," she said again, and went to meet her parents, who were waiting for her just outside the gate. As they walked away from the church, Cielo turned back and waved to me. Still smiling.

The Road to... Grand Bourg

On Sunday I accompanied my host family to a park, where there was a festival to celebrate the first day of Spring. There were loads of people, and we could barely find a place to park. Luckily, we found a nice police woman who told us to park in front of a line of cars. Slightly dubious, but eager to get to the park and enjoy the day, we did as we were told.

And enjoy the day we did. It was a huge park; the sun was pouring down and there were people everywhere. They laid out on blankets drinking mate while live cumbia music emanated from a large stage that had been set up for the occasion. I walked around with Manuel, my host brother, and before long he ran into some of his friends.

All was well until we got back to our car. As it turns out, we weren't the only ones who had decided to add to the line of cars; sure enough, someone had parked in front of us, so close that it looked like we would need a can opener to get out. However, I went to the Wold School of Driving in Wausau, WI, and my instructor, John Grass, was a master at parallel parking. So I sized up the situation and decided that I could indeed get us out of there. Sara handed me the keys, and I asked her and the kids to be my eyes so that I wouldn't nick the cars behind or in front of us.

Sure enough, little by little, I was able to free our little white Fiat hatchback from our parking space. Just I was beginning to feel triumphant, Sara and Manuel jumped in the car, saying 'Dale, dale!' (Go, go!). I looked in the mirror and immediately recognized what they were talking about: there was a brief break in the steady stream of traffic, and if we didn't leave now, we'd be stuck for another ten minutes.

So I threw the car into first gear and floored it, hoping that my manual transmission skills would come back to me as I ventured out into the crazy Buenos Aires traffic. And sure enough, they came flooding back as I swerved in and out of lanes--which is normal here--trying not to kill anyone (I'm not so sure how normal that is). But I soon got the hang of it, and managed to enjoy much of the sunny drive back to Grand Bourg. At one point, Katia (9), who until then had only seen me walking, observed with a tone of disbelief: 'Chris--you're driving!'

Yes I am, Katia. Yes I am.

The Road to Emmaus

Sorry my blog posts haven't been completely timely; internet access here is limited, and so I have to update when I can.

Anyway, I wanted to share part of the sending service we were blessed with last week before the five of us headed off to our individual sites.

Kate, our country coordinator, shared a very relevant message with us based on the story of Road to Emmaus (Luke 24: 13-35). In that passage, some disciples are walking from Jerusalem to Emmaus just after Jesus had been arrested, tried, and crucified. They had also heard rumors that he had been resurrected, but they did not seem convinced themselves. Anyway, Jesus appears and accompanies them on their journey, but they do not recognize him. As they walk, He asks them questions about what has just happened in Jerusalem--the disciples are amazed that he hasn't heard, but they tell him anyway. And then Jesus proceeds to interpret the scriptures for them, revealing things about himself. Though they still did not know who he was, they invited him to stay and share a meal with them, an invitation which he accepted. Only when he poured wine and broke bread for them did they realize who He was, at which point He vanished. After that, the disciples returned to Jerusalem to share the good news with the people there.

Kate used this story to draw several parallels. The first was with the Lutheran liturgy that I grew up with: Gathering (Jesus and the disciples walking together), Word (Jesus interpreting the scriptures), Meal (Jesus pouring wine and breaking bread for his disciples) and Sending (the disciples returning to Jerusalem). I had never made that connection before, and I thought it was quite beautiful.

In addition, Kate was able to relate this story to our year spent as missionaries abroad: first we Gather with the people around us (Jesus is with us, just as in the story); we share the Word with each other. With time, we are invited for to meals, where we break bread and share in fellowship. Finally, when our time is up, we head back to the U.S. (a political and economic power, just like the modern U.S.) to share our experiences with the people there. Jesus was with them through it all, just as He is with us.

It was really neat to see the connections between our experience this year and other aspects of the Church--both with contemporary worship as well as the experiences of the earliest disciples. I hope and pray that this year can be one of accompaniment and mutual encouragement for me and the people I meet in Argentina. And I'm already looking forward to sharing my experiences with the people I know and love when I return to the U.S. next July.

A day of firsts: Mate, Asado, and jokes in Spanish

Sunday was my host-grandma’s birthday, and after church, we went over to her place to celebrate. She is a wonderful lady with a beautiful house full of old books on theology and politics. As Victoria cooked, the house also filled with the smell of delicious bread.

As we talked before lunch, we passed mate (pronounced mah-tay), which is an herb that is mixed with very hot water in a gourd and then sucked through a metal or wood straw with a filter at the bottom. It’s very bitter and smoky, and normally I can’t stand it. But this time it was more palatable, and so I became part of the mate circle, which is very important in Argentine culture. Many people walk around with thermoses, and drink mate all day long. More importantly, at almost any meeting or social gathering, someone will bring mate and pass it to each person, one at a time. When they’re done, they say “gracias” and passes it back to be refilled and passed to the next person. It’s a very peaceful practice. I’m told that even if there is a disagreement at a meeting, there is still the friendly undercurrent of the mate, which is being passed among friends. It’s an act of community, and therefore I felt honored to be invited and included on Sunday.

And then the main course: my first Argentine asado. For an asado, you build a wood fire, place a grill over top, and then throw as much meat as will fit. And let it cook until it’s smoky and juicy and delicious. It was delicious, and every time I thought I was done eating, they would bring in another round from the grill—and somehow I would find room.

As we ate, we shared jokes. Here are a few favorites:

A man walks into a bar and orders three drinks. The bartender serves him, he drinks each one, and then walks out. This continues for about a week until the bartender finally asks him what it’s all about. The man responds: “This one here is for my brother, who’s in London. And this one here is for my brother in New York. This one is for me, and this way, even though we’re far apart, it’s like we can share a drink.” This keeps up for a few months, with the man stopping in each day after work. One day, he walks in and orders two drinks. Worried, the bartender asks, “Did something happen to one of your brothers?” “No, they’re fine,” replies the man. “It’s just that I’ve decided to quit drinking.”

Another:

A cowboy sits drinking in a bar. Suddenly, someone bursts in and says, “Hey, Joe! Your horse is getting away!” He gets up and runs to the door, but then realizes, “Wait a second. I ain’t got a horse.” So he goes back to his drink. About fifteen minutes later, someone else bursts in and says, “Hey Joe! Your father died!” Again he gets up and runs to the door, but then realizes, “Wait a second, I ain’t got a father.” He goes back to his drink, and about fifteen minutes later, someone bursts in and says, “Hey Joe! You won the lottery!” So he jumps up, runs to the door, and then stops as he realizes: “Wait a second… My name’s not Joe!”

ESMA and Madres

On Monday, we had a chance to tour the ESMA (Escuela Militar de la Armada), which was the most infamous of the clandestine centers where young people suspected of 'subversion' were brought after being kidnapped during the dictatorship (1976-83). Out of the estimated 30,000 who disappeared during that period, 5,000 were brought to the ESMA--and of those, only 200 survived. Most were drugged and thrown out of airplanes into the Rio de la Plata--if they were 'lucky' enough to survive their torture. The ESMA now stands vacant as a memorial to the atrocities that happened there; it also serves as an active crime scene with evidence for the upcoming trials for officials who are suspected of devising and ordering the abuse and killing of young people there.

Later that afternoon, we had the opportunity to meet several of the Mothers personally, and to hear their stories. It was powerful to hear them talk about their children--their lives, their jobs, their loves, their dreams. After they had shared their stories, Kate pointed out that many of their children were killed for doing precisely the kind of work that we have come here to do; working with those on the margins of society and walking in solidarity with them. This probably seemed just as right and just to those young people then as it does to me now; it's scary to think that following their hearts could have led them to such a terrible end.

Church Welcome

Sunday was our big day at Santo Sacramento, which is one of the congregations we'll be working with this year. We arrived early enough for coffee and medialunas (sweet croissants), and met the pastor (Ángel), his wife (Chevala) and several other of the parishioners.

Soon it was time for church--the first church service of our missionary year. It was amazing because I felt pulled in so many directions at once. On the one hand, they used the same Lutheran liturgy I had heard so many times back at Saint Andrew. On the other hand, it was all translated into Spanish--which was neat--and the hymns were all new to us. On top of that, Pastor Ángel gave a very fresh sermon about the letter versus the spirit of the Law. It was a quality sermon, to be sure, but what fascinated me was the interactive environment--people would speak up from the pews with questions or comments that came to mind as they listened. It was refreshing to see that kind of give-and-take, which was made possible by the small, intimate setting.

Right before the end of the service, Kate introduced us to the congregation, and we each said a little bit about our specific assignments for the year. Then, we broke out the guitar and drums for a song that we had prepared the night before (Truly I Believe). It went over really well, with people approaching us afterward to shake our hands and meet us.

After the service, we were greeted 'officially' by a feast of empanadas (meat-filled pastries) and pizza, which are two very typical Argentine foods. We got to meet more of the parishioners, who were very warm and happy to share stories. We performed a couple more songs, and ate empanadas until we were about to explode.

When it was finally time to leave, we were exhausted but grateful to our hosts. It was great to feel so welcome in a place that can often seem so foreign.

Madres de la Plaza

Our driver, Adrian, navigated fearlessly through the mess of smog and traffic. While he drove, he also gave us a quick rundown of current topics in Argentine religion and politics, and I marveled at his thick (though accessible) Porteño accent.

We eventually made it to ISEDET (Instituto Superior Evangélico de Estudios Teológicos), which is the seminary where we are staying during this first week of orientation. We were weary travellers, and it felt great to drop our bags. Kate and David welcomed us with water and snacks, and we had a chance to call home. (My parents were happy to hear from me, and my mom remarked that I sounded like I was 'just down the street'.)

There was no rest for the weary, however, because after lunch it was soon time to head downtown. It was important to go on Thursday afternoon, because that's when the Madres de los desaparecidos do their weekly march in the Plaza de Mayo. We couldn't take the subway because it was closed, and the bus driver warned us that there were protests in the city center. Even though we had just been told at orientation to walk away from protests, we quickly found ourselves on a bus that was rapidly hurtling toward them.

Not to worry, however; if there were protests downtown, we didn't see them. We made it in time to see the mothers, whose dedication is as impressive today as it ever has been. Their sons and daughters were abducted, tortured and killed during the dictatorship (1976-83), and they still march carrying pictures of their loved ones who 'disappeared'. As they marched around the plaza in their characteristic white headscarves, it struck me that this is not ancient history; in fact, I was alive during the final years of the dictatorship. These things happened during my lifetime. Let us not forget the horrors of unchecked power and institutionalized paranoia.

Arrival at Buenos Aires

After we had grabbed our luggage and cleared customs (which consisted of putting our bags through a scanner that nobody was watching), we ventured out into the humidity of Buenos Aires (which translates as "Good Winds"). They are just coming out of their winter here, and were experiencing an unseasonable heat wave.

As we walked out into the transportation area, we looked for Kate (our country coordinator), whom we had met at the discernment event in April, and who would be the only familiar face in the crowd. We didn't see her immediately, however, and I found myself being approached by a bearded man who somehow knew my name. This mystery man, it turns out, was Kate's husband David, who is the other coordinator of our program here. Our flight had arrived at the 'old' terminal, and he had come to collect us as Kate hurried over from the other one.

Once we had that all sorted out, we piled our things into (and onto) a couple of cars and headed out into the labyrinth of Buenos Aires traffic.

Buenos Aires - Day One

This is mostly just a test, but I'll take a minute to write about our arrival in Buenos Aires.

We flew overnight, an 11-hour flight in which I mostly read and tried to sleep. My seat mate was a very nice 81-year old Argentine woman named Haaday. I couldn't always make out what she was saying, but she seemed to like the Lutheran church and was excited for its presence in Argentina. She shared her dinner with me, and I helped her fill out her customs forms because the font was too small for her to read. We got along so well that it was hard to say goodbye, and we were both excited to run into each other again at baggage claim, she being pushed in her wheelchair by an attendant and me with my backpack and two bulging suitcases.