I’m from everywhere and from nowhere. I’m from the smell of vanilla pines, the vibrant blues of the sky, the minty aroma of sage in the air, the crunch of fallen pine cones, the blur of a crow darting between the trees, the deer in the backyard, the beautiful tree house, the itchy hayrides through camp, the sparkling of the river swimming past. I’m from the humidity of a rainforest, the dripping of rain drops, the chirping of frogs and bird, the motionless “killer sloth”, the huge butterfly pavilions, the sandy beaches, the turtles being hatched, the waves against my feet, the sand castles, the sounds of a quiet hotel. I’m from the bustling city with too many people and too much noise, the car rides made up of a series of stop and go, the yelling of whichever parent had to drive that day, the constant grey and brown sky, the noise of talking and honking and barking dogs that never went away. I’m from the little house under the power lines that looked out over the old town, the humming of electricity soaring above our heads, the pigs in the backyard, the sheep being herded past our gate each morning, the brightly coloured piñatas, the half hour taxi rides to school every day, the countless dogs that died of rat poison. I’m from the tiring walks to and from school, the apartment we somehow fit into, the pool I never used, the neon green of my soccer shirt, the pain of being hit in the face with a ball, the joy of reaching the top of our three flights of stairs and flopping down onto the couch or my bed. I’m from the land that is unbelievably green half the year and completely dead the rest, the birds that fly around in front of my window, the house that’s bigger than any we’ve ever had, the tourist attractions I see every day, the cacti and palm trees, the slight humidity I no longer feel.
I’m from burning up to freezing. I’m from the days when the only way to keep from melting is by standing barefoot on tile floors in front of a fan blowing full blast wearing only shorts and a tank top and drinking cold coke with ice in it. I’m from the agony of walking home after school when with each step I feel my skin falling off behind me in huge drops of sweat. I’m from trying to answer a test when all I can think is how much I need a chunk of ice. I’m from pulling on layers of clothes that have all come from who knows where and preparing to go meet the snow. I’m from snowball fights and failed attempts at building snowmen. I’m from red noses and aching ears. I’m from gloves and hats that never stay on. I’m from sledding down a hill and the long walk back up. I’m from sitting inside bundled up in blankets in front of the fire drinking hot chocolate to try and warm up.
I’m from all my favourite foods from all over the world. I’m from tacos Al’ Pastor, which are supposed to be made from pork. I’m from the tanginess of licking lemon off my fingers after preparing my food. I’m from the bubbles fighting their way down my throat as I take a big swish of real coke from a glass bottle. I’m from enchiladas and tortas and mole and rice and tortillas and albondigas and Styrofoam plates. I’m from long tables and people eating with their fingers. I’m from everyone at church stuffing themselves with pasta and soup and chicharrones. I’m from jamaica and chapulines and tlayudas. I’m from Taco Bell, which is not Mexican. I’m from Wendy’s and Fazolis and Casa Bonita and buffets and best of all, Dairy Queen. I’m from casseroles with who knows what stuffed inside. I’m from amazing thanksgiving dinners, with too much turkey and mashed potatoes and cranberries and sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie. I’m from hot dogs and hamburgers and sloppy Joes and steaks and barbeques. I’m from ice-cream, lots of ice-cream and dessert and junk. I’m from Mexican food in the US and American food in Mexico.
I’m from being the best English student in a class meant for Mexicans to being the best Spanish student in a class meant for Americans. I’m from the struggle of trying to speak a language I don’t understand. I’m from “Abre mis ojos oh Cristo,” the first Spanish song I learned. I’m from good old chilango slang such as naco and simon and camara. I’m from improving my accent until I was told I had none. I’m from wondering what it meant when my classmates called me chismosa. I’m from going back to a world of English, where I miss the smooth musical notes of the Spanish vowels. I’m from accidentally speaking Spanish when I am with a group of Americans. I’m from days of translating and the sore throat that follows. I’m from that lovely mix that comes out when I’m with fellow missionary friends, the beautiful Spanglish. I’m from laughing as others try to figure out what language I’m speaking.
I’m from the contrast of two very different worlds. I’m from living next to neighbours who had nothing and yet were filled with generosity. I’m from giving blankets out to homeless people on Christmas. I’m from sitting in a village where the family might not even get enough to eat, yet they urge me to take another tortilla and to drink more coke and coffee. I’m from a church of people who have too much for their own good. I’m from walking through a four story house with hidden secret passages and a bedroom as big as my house. I’m from seeing people with body guards and two year olds with i-pads. I’m from hearing the word “poor” used in the wrong places, because I know what poverty looks like. I’m from somewhere between the two, sometimes feeling ridiculously rich and spoiled compared to those around me, and sometimes feeling as though I have nothing.
I’m from crushing tears and levitating joy. I’m from those nights spent with my face buried in my striped blue pillow trying to smother the water pouring from my closed eyes. I’m from throwing stuffed animals across the room. I’m from furiously scribbling my feelings onto a piece of paper that will probably never be read. I’m from holding my ears to block out the sound of yelling and arguing. I’m from that mixture of relief and not being done yet when I start to calm down and smile again. I’m from days with friends when I can’t stop laughing. I’m from jumping up and down with excitement. I’m from searching for words better than ecstatic to describe how I feel. I’m from cheeks that are so sore and exhausted from too much smiling.
I’m from seeing so many different levels of religion. I’m from sitting in a youth group in the states and seeing kids sitting in the back passing notes and not even pretending to pay attention. I’m from that girl at school who openly admits to cutting and drugs and sneaking out of the house and many boyfriends, and then told me one day she was a Christian. I’m from not being allowed to say “Merry Christmas”, because it’s too religious and might offend all those atheists at my school. I’m from going to a school with eighty kids in my grade, and maybe fifteen in youth group. I’m from being in a youth group where everyone sat as far forward as possible, and Wednesdays were the highlight of everyone’s week. I’m from music where we all sang our loudest and lifted our hands and clapped. I’m from a school with twenty-five kids in high school, and thirty-five kids in youth group. I’m from a school where we have chapel on Fridays and get candy for bringing our Bibles and wearing ties. I’m from memorizing the first four chapters of Romans for extra-credit. I’m from a school where Jesus reigns.
I’m from the earthly doubts that sometimes fill my mind and from the conviction and certainty of my Lord. I’m from sitting on my bed reading the Old Testament and struggling because I don’t understand how God could kill so many people. I’m from speechlessly listening as my classmates argue over what the Bible might mean. I’m from those glorious moments when it makes sense, and I know what I believe. I’m from sitting on a rock watching a lizard do push ups while I realize that only God could ever have created this. I’m from tears of joy falling down my cheeks at camp as I once again feel my Saviour’s love. I’m from knowing that all these things I don’t understand are understood by Him, and that’s all that matters. I’m from my King.
I’m from burning up to freezing. I’m from the days when the only way to keep from melting is by standing barefoot on tile floors in front of a fan blowing full blast wearing only shorts and a tank top and drinking cold coke with ice in it. I’m from the agony of walking home after school when with each step I feel my skin falling off behind me in huge drops of sweat. I’m from trying to answer a test when all I can think is how much I need a chunk of ice. I’m from pulling on layers of clothes that have all come from who knows where and preparing to go meet the snow. I’m from snowball fights and failed attempts at building snowmen. I’m from red noses and aching ears. I’m from gloves and hats that never stay on. I’m from sledding down a hill and the long walk back up. I’m from sitting inside bundled up in blankets in front of the fire drinking hot chocolate to try and warm up.
I’m from all my favourite foods from all over the world. I’m from tacos Al’ Pastor, which are supposed to be made from pork. I’m from the tanginess of licking lemon off my fingers after preparing my food. I’m from the bubbles fighting their way down my throat as I take a big swish of real coke from a glass bottle. I’m from enchiladas and tortas and mole and rice and tortillas and albondigas and Styrofoam plates. I’m from long tables and people eating with their fingers. I’m from everyone at church stuffing themselves with pasta and soup and chicharrones. I’m from jamaica and chapulines and tlayudas. I’m from Taco Bell, which is not Mexican. I’m from Wendy’s and Fazolis and Casa Bonita and buffets and best of all, Dairy Queen. I’m from casseroles with who knows what stuffed inside. I’m from amazing thanksgiving dinners, with too much turkey and mashed potatoes and cranberries and sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie. I’m from hot dogs and hamburgers and sloppy Joes and steaks and barbeques. I’m from ice-cream, lots of ice-cream and dessert and junk. I’m from Mexican food in the US and American food in Mexico.
I’m from being the best English student in a class meant for Mexicans to being the best Spanish student in a class meant for Americans. I’m from the struggle of trying to speak a language I don’t understand. I’m from “Abre mis ojos oh Cristo,” the first Spanish song I learned. I’m from good old chilango slang such as naco and simon and camara. I’m from improving my accent until I was told I had none. I’m from wondering what it meant when my classmates called me chismosa. I’m from going back to a world of English, where I miss the smooth musical notes of the Spanish vowels. I’m from accidentally speaking Spanish when I am with a group of Americans. I’m from days of translating and the sore throat that follows. I’m from that lovely mix that comes out when I’m with fellow missionary friends, the beautiful Spanglish. I’m from laughing as others try to figure out what language I’m speaking.
I’m from the contrast of two very different worlds. I’m from living next to neighbours who had nothing and yet were filled with generosity. I’m from giving blankets out to homeless people on Christmas. I’m from sitting in a village where the family might not even get enough to eat, yet they urge me to take another tortilla and to drink more coke and coffee. I’m from a church of people who have too much for their own good. I’m from walking through a four story house with hidden secret passages and a bedroom as big as my house. I’m from seeing people with body guards and two year olds with i-pads. I’m from hearing the word “poor” used in the wrong places, because I know what poverty looks like. I’m from somewhere between the two, sometimes feeling ridiculously rich and spoiled compared to those around me, and sometimes feeling as though I have nothing.
I’m from crushing tears and levitating joy. I’m from those nights spent with my face buried in my striped blue pillow trying to smother the water pouring from my closed eyes. I’m from throwing stuffed animals across the room. I’m from furiously scribbling my feelings onto a piece of paper that will probably never be read. I’m from holding my ears to block out the sound of yelling and arguing. I’m from that mixture of relief and not being done yet when I start to calm down and smile again. I’m from days with friends when I can’t stop laughing. I’m from jumping up and down with excitement. I’m from searching for words better than ecstatic to describe how I feel. I’m from cheeks that are so sore and exhausted from too much smiling.
I’m from seeing so many different levels of religion. I’m from sitting in a youth group in the states and seeing kids sitting in the back passing notes and not even pretending to pay attention. I’m from that girl at school who openly admits to cutting and drugs and sneaking out of the house and many boyfriends, and then told me one day she was a Christian. I’m from not being allowed to say “Merry Christmas”, because it’s too religious and might offend all those atheists at my school. I’m from going to a school with eighty kids in my grade, and maybe fifteen in youth group. I’m from being in a youth group where everyone sat as far forward as possible, and Wednesdays were the highlight of everyone’s week. I’m from music where we all sang our loudest and lifted our hands and clapped. I’m from a school with twenty-five kids in high school, and thirty-five kids in youth group. I’m from a school where we have chapel on Fridays and get candy for bringing our Bibles and wearing ties. I’m from memorizing the first four chapters of Romans for extra-credit. I’m from a school where Jesus reigns.
I’m from the earthly doubts that sometimes fill my mind and from the conviction and certainty of my Lord. I’m from sitting on my bed reading the Old Testament and struggling because I don’t understand how God could kill so many people. I’m from speechlessly listening as my classmates argue over what the Bible might mean. I’m from those glorious moments when it makes sense, and I know what I believe. I’m from sitting on a rock watching a lizard do push ups while I realize that only God could ever have created this. I’m from tears of joy falling down my cheeks at camp as I once again feel my Saviour’s love. I’m from knowing that all these things I don’t understand are understood by Him, and that’s all that matters. I’m from my King.
