On Thursday we partook of thanksgiving with our Nica “families”, celebrating a ritual that holds little significance for our immediate family. We zipped from Gringo folk at the rich end of town, to Gringo folk at the poor end of town. Nicaragua worked, played and slept, unknowingly, through the entire, glutinous, lethargic affair.
Though our tongues are firmly pressed against our cheeks, we really are grateful to the Gringo community. For they have pulled us into their family affairs and make us feel special during moments which should make us feel far from home (even though for us, this was NOT one of those occasions…). On Friday we had the youth group over for dinner, which was a HOOT and a half. The pool and basketball area received quite the workout. Whilst eating dinner and chatting with the youth group leaders, the power went off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on and off again (VIVA Nicaragua!). Again, God has put some terrific people around us, and we feel very blessed.
On Saturday our family helped the Church folk clean and paint their building (this project involved washing plastic chairs, cleaning the rust off of the bars that act as windows in the Church´s building, and then paining the “windows” black).
For me this was a tumultuous affair. On the outside I was simply shining Jesus everywhere… On the inside I was giving myself quite the what-for (I demanded TOTAL submission from my body: Clean faster! Work harder! Get that rust off now! Look at the 84 year old pastor, she´s finished 2 windows by herself and YOU´VE ONLY DONE ONE BAR!!! My stubborn self: But couldn´t I just pop over to town and relax over a latte for 25 minutes? My slave-master self: You heathen, wretched, frump of a man!!! Pull yourself up, (stubborn self) I´M UP, (slave-master self) suck your stomach in, (stubborn self) TOO HARD, (slave-master) now WORK IT SISTER, WOOOORK IIIIIIIIT!!! )! Then in the evening we enjoyed a service in our nice, clean Church building. I sat by my three bars and admired them for the ENTIRE service.
On Sunday, today, we practiced our instruments and rehearsed our singing. Our pastor had requested on Saturday night that we sing tonight in Church. Our pastor, this dear old lady, will retire at the end of the year. She’s pooped.
Today went fast. Elizabeth and I both had mountains of work to do. The kids enjoyed taking time-out after so many days of eating, playing, conversing, late nights, too much fun, etc.
We drove to Church along the old dusty road. People were out in the cool of the evening, getting somewhere, though taking their time in arriving. The kids sat on the roof of the car as we drove, ducking the trees’ branches and greeting the people as we passed. Every now and then we’d pick up one of our fellow brethren, who was also heading to Church.
When we arrive, the Church members are smiling. We are the only Church folk who arrive on “wheels”. I think our transportation is peculiar to them. Perhaps it´s the kids on the roof? They always smile at us through furrowed brows. It’s like they’re happy to have us, but wonder why we´re unable to walk the 3 kms each way (Not 10 meters of the distance is flat. It´s not the getting there that is difficult, it´s the return. Who wants to walk a long distance, at night, after 3 - 4 hours of Church, with five tired children, over hills, on a bumpy dirt/mud road…).We grab our instruments and head on in. We have a practice, which turns into the opening number. Liz and I are furiously trying to iron out the wrinkles of our songs, when we realise that the Church is full, and people´s furrowed brows, must now be permanently indented on their faces, they are THAT obvious to us. We take our seats.
In time, we get up to sing again, and what a marvelous time we have. Liz opens and does quite the trick. We all join in and belt out our heart-felt praise to God, and then again, take our seats. The congregation clearly love us, they´re only human, as they praise our efforts and furiously thank us for contributing to the worship of God in Heaven above, through this our local Church.
They also ask Sez to return to the drum-set, something we´re all quite unprepared for (furrowed brows returning, though this time they´re gracing our faces…). They start up with their particular brand of praise and worship songs, and we all join in. I´m clapping madly and enjoying the moment, when I look over to Sez and abruptly realize that it´s back… THE TONGUE!!!I´m not talking about the Pentecostal tongue. I´m talking about the tongue of the mouth! That wobbly, slimy thing that we all share in common, though don´t too commonly share. It´s out and about like a loose cannon, though with no object of intention, it´s flipping and flopping, back-and-forth, over and under, like the tongue of a great horse. My heart stops it´s beating.
I remember as a child, my great-grandmother would greet me with such a thing. I´d be so excited to see “Nana”, I loved her Darth Vader impersonations! She´d talk ever-so-slowly and breathe like Darth. Her tongue would go out so far, that I dreamt she was part frog. The warm embrace upon arrival, would always involve a dog-like kiss (plenty of tongue, which is scary for any 5 year old) and to this day I don´t know why she breathed the way she did. BUT, I loved her all-the-more for her personality and the way she´d relate, via her retractable tongue.My father continued the legacy. It used to repulse me and yet I couldn´t look away. He´d be playing squash, or a similar manly sport, and that TONGUE! It never gave up!! Why did it have to humiliate us all so!!!? There were many occasions whence the tongue would grace it´s presence. From driving the car, to preaching, to fixing things, and completing repetitive tasks. It always arrived to say hello and whilst I never learned to love my Dad´s tongue, I have since come to grow accustomed to it.
For me, the first humiliating experience arrived as I was sawing a piece of wood. I was 11 or 12 years old at the time. My good friend Andrew was with me. As I was sawing away he made a joke about my tongue, and then I realised. I had the same hideous beast of a tongue, as my father and great grand-mother. At that time, right there and then, I dropped to my knees and begged the God of Heaven, if he really existed, not to allow this human deficiency to be passed on to my offspring. Well God does exist, but he doesn´t always answer our prayers in the way we might expect.
For there, right before me, was that same insidious tongue given to me. Sez, with all the concentration he could muster, was beating out a rhythm, courtesy of that rhythmic assistant, Sez´s mouth muscle. But, it wasn´t as cruel and hideous as in previous generations. This tongue was handsome, strong and gifted. And though it made him look part-goose, it also made him endearing. Upon reflection, it added, rather than detracted, from the mighty beat that Sez was omitting. And it made my heart praise our God all-the-more. “My tongue will proclaim your righteousness, your praises all day long.” (Psalm 35:28) I like to think that the Brien family takes the scriptures VERY seriously…
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