Seat 55

I just purchased my final bus ticket back to Lima – as always seat 55, first floor, window side, leaving at 9:15am. After having taken this trip a total of ten times, coming to or leaving from Huánuco, it has become quite a familiar route and one that I enjoy very much.

I tend to be rather busy leading up to such trips and welcome the eight hours of drastically beautiful scenery and absence of conversation. I rarely bring a book to read or music to listen to, and avoid watching the frequent Jean-Claude Van Damme action movies. Instead, the ever-changing landscape outside my window provides the ultimate entertainment.

To ride an omnibus, as they are called, with reclining seats and plenty of leg room, is an unfathomable luxury for most Peruvians. More often, long distances are covered in piecemeal, taking a series of overstuffed mini-buses and dilapidated taxis.

I consistantly struggle with lack of seatbelts and breakneck speed of these vehicles. But I also recognize that passengers need to pay as little as possible and the drivers need to pack in as many people as possible, regardless of the number of the seats. Safety and prevention are absolutely secondary when earning/conserving money and arriving at one’s destination are of upmost importance.

The two-story mega-bus which I will ride, at first glance appears mammoth and indestructible. But in a short time, this giant mass of metal becomes an isolated speck journeying along a ribbon of a road between vertical mountains.

After leaving the lush river valley outside of Huánuco, the trek becomes desolate and virtually unpopulated. There are high altitude lakes, snow-capped peaks, distant views of new mountain clusters to pass and those previously conquered.

At about 1pm, we approach Cerro de Pasco, a distillingly flat altiplano at 14,400 feet above sea level. This is where a dusting of snow made my heart skip a beat returning from our Thanksgiving retreat in November.

It is at this point in the voyage that passengers are served lunch. A small styrofoam box with rice and something else, many chicken or mashed potatoes. Afterward we are offered a cup of Coke or Inca Cola, which are always in competition. I usually opt for sweet tea if only to warm my hands with the sudden chill in the air.

I didn’t realize just how cold it gets at this elevation until our bus broke down on my way to Trujillo in May. We waited roadside for at least two hours while some horrid clanking of metal went on under the back of the bus. The mountain air rushed inside as others swung open the doors and windows to see what was going on.

I sat calmly for the first hour, noting how miraculous it was to never have had any road trouble during my previous trips. I started feeling a little nervous when a woman across the aisle began vomiting in a plastic bag, affected by the lack of oxygen at such high altitude.

I then became officially anxious when I realized that the clock was ticking. We were still four hours from Lima and I had an overnight bus to catch to Trujillo.

In a sudden moment of clarity, I decided to get off the bus with a few passengers, hoping to wave down a passing bus. And as I waited outside, trying to stretch my shirt into a warmer article of clothing, I took a good look around.

I managed to disregard the stress of the situation and remark how gorgeous a spot of earth I was standing on - flanked by snowy mountains, resting above a pristine pool of rain water, in a place that I can only describe as the middle of nowhere.

The benefits of land travel do surpass its limitations. While I will never fully trust the top-heavy lumber trucks that barrel down the opposing lanes, I find I am transported into a quiet state of mind knowing the bends and contours of the land between Lima and Huánuco.

And while this trek is only a fraction of the beastly earthen formation that make up the Andes, it is a familiar glimpse that I have one last opportunity to encounter.

(Having written this before actually buying my bus ticket, I can now say that for the first time, seat 55 was already taken. A little reminder that change is good!)

Re-awakened

I thought I had seen just about all there is to see and experience in Huánuco. I expected to quietly finish out my last month in Peru without any major surprises. But this past week has been one of the most unexpected, eye-opening and reaffirming weeks, reminding me why I came here and what it will mean to leave.

The week involved a visit from members of the River Church in San Jose, California. The group of six included a criminal investigator and a forensic nurse, who came prepared to share their knowledge and expertise yet with a deep understanding about how to work cross-culturally.

Their finalized schedule included meetings with police, district attorneys and judges to reinforce the need to advocate for victims of abuse. Evening seminars were organized for primary school teachers on how to identify abuse. Others facilitated Bible studies in the Potracancha jail on how to break down concepts of masculinity.

Law Enforcement

One member for the River Church Community, Mike, is a retired criminal investigator specializing in sex abuse crimes. I had the opportunity to join him and our team of lawyers for a meeting at the Huánuco Police Department. The purpose of the meeting was to give general introductions and also to provide an overview of Paz y Esperanza’s proposal for a sex crimes investigation unit.

In the States, investigation for sex crimes requires highly-specialized training with separate roles in crime scene analysis and interrogation. Here in Huánuco, there is no such distinction, and with that, sex abuse cases do not receive the level of care and expertise they deserve.

Without specialized police, crime scene analysis is done hastily and rarely results in sound evidence. Furthermore, survivors are often re-victimized during the interview process, enduring interrogation that is hostile and demeaning. Such treatment prevents the survivor from giving a concrete testimony and leaves the survivor doubting his or her own innocence.

While I translated for Mike during the meeting, I observed the uniformed men before me. I wondered how each one might handle a sex abuse case. Would he see it as just another one of the numerous crimes that occur in and around Huánuco every day - a name in a file and maybe a bride to gain? Or, would he give the case and the human being it represents, the attention it deserves?

I see police officials walking the streets, driving about in their trucks and motorcycles, and I wonder who and what they are really protecting. However, advancement may be closer than I initially thought.

With recent concerns over safety, our office has now hired a security guard to keep watch. He stands at the front door, patrols the park just outside and monitors the goings on of our small but busy building. He has a tiny desk in the front lobby with a sheet of all our names and photos, to identify who belongs and who might be an intruder.

One afternoon I noticed him sitting at the desk reading some material. After a closer look, I realized he was reading Pacificado, Paz y Esperanza’s quarterly publication of its ongoing work to confront sexual abuse.

He could easily have been bored and read the closest thing in reach. But what’s important is that he was reading it. And maybe, just by observing and protecting the work of our office, he’ll be able to counteract some of the blindness of others in his profession.


House Visits

Later in the week I joined one of our psychologists and two women from the River Church to visit families in the TAMAR Collective, each with children who are survivors of sexual abuse.

The first house we visited was above the city, entering the cerros or hills, where tightly-packed tin and cement homes look as if they’ll slide right down the mountainside if it rains too much.

I know the children well, ages four and nine. The younger, a little girl with pigtails, jumped into my arms before I could barely step out of the office pick-up truck. The ladies who joined us pulled out a fully stuffed bag of fresh fruits, vegetables, eggs and quinoa to offer the family as a gift.

We climbed up to the roof, which I realized was their entire home as another family lives below. The tiny block room taking up a small corner of the roof is where the family sleeps. Two beds are placed along the wall in an L-shape, and baby chickens scurried underneath a small table near the door.

Along with the two parents and their son and daughter is an adopted nephew whose mother recently passed away. He is four years old, the same age as his cousin, but nearly half her size. He is malnourished and has an abscess the size of an orange, swelling inside his right cheek.

He didn’t say a word, as I imagine it’s painful to open his mouth. He simply sat with us, gathered together in the one bedroom, staring beneath giant eyelashes at the giants before him.

Part of me questioned why we were there. There is something very unsettling about viewing poverty simply to exhibit the conditions and observe how desperate the realities are. But I know our visit was more than that.

I can’t describe how happy and smiling the kids were to see us. And also how deeply grateful the father was after my own host father led a prayer of encouragement and empowerment for the family.

The father knows he is poor, making his living selling ice cream and lollipops. Nonetheless, the family did not hesitate to welcome in their orphaned nephew.

As I walked home that afternoon, I felt as stunned and overwhelmed as I did the first time I climbed up those rocky inclines to meet one of the families back in September.

I remember wondering if I’d ever get used to this - empty potato sacks used to cover windows, a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling, mud brick walls deteriorating after each downpour.

But I was wrong to ever assume that I’d “get used” to the realities of poverty. Because the moment I “get used” to it is the same moment that I forget it exists.

The last thing I would want, after spending a year here, would be to leave feeling desensitized and apathetic. I want to stay shocked and disturbed, overwhelmed and uncomfortable. I want to stay awake and constantly re-awakened.

Independance Day

While people at home in the States celebrate the Fourth of July, I’ll be thinking of another day of independence - July 28th. As Peru’s national holiday celebrating its own independence from Spain, it is also the date printed on my ticket to fly back home to Albany.

It seems appropriate, and no coincidence at all, that I should be returning home on a day that represents self-awareness, identity and freedom.

I do feel like I’m breaking free somehow, much more so than when I left home back in September. I didn’t come here to escape or to adventure out on my own. Instead I came here as an act of stepping into relationship. And rather than seek freedom, I entered into some very serious bonds and commitments.

However, the bonds that have held me during this year, in my family and at work, have not been restrictive or limiting. Instead, they have been fluid and resilient because they have been based in faith and love.

Another bond that I deliberately entered into is with G-d. A huge component of my experience in Peru has been an experiment in giving up control and putting my life in G-d’s hands.

I was tired of over-planning my life and writing its pages before the story even began. So, I chose to let go of my expectations and trust the ways in which G-d might work through me in this new place.

In doing so, I have felt a strong sense of being led. At times, this involved arriving in the office certain mornings and being swept up in a new project or invited to enter the outskirts of town on a home visit.

Other times this meant sitting at the kitchen table with my eyes sinking with exhaustion, but staying anyway because my host father just began to tell a story. And still other times, I found myself crying uncontrollably and accepting this also as G-d moving me along somehow.

In going along with the flow, I have noticed a change in my demeanor. Generally, I have been more quiet and subdued, more pensive and reserved. I have only recently brought out my more silly and lighthearted side, which has felt like a distant voice that I forgot I had.

At times I have held back, resisting the impulse to complain and even ask questions. I’ve felt a myriad of emotions, ranging from utterly frustrated to simply elated, few of which I’ve openly expressed while being here.

And this has led me to wonder whether trusting and following G-d means having to dilute one’s personality or, at times, censor one’s true self.

I learned an important lesson when my brother visited Huánuco back in January. I was anxious about how he might adjust to staying with my host family. I prepped him with what to say, how to say it, and generally how to act. At first I thought I was being helpful, but Carl responded by saying, “Can’t you just let me be myself?”

The question is, have I let me be myself this year?

Maybe… sometimes… I don’t know. It’s hard to tell when my “self” is constantly changing, constantly becoming.

What I do know is that I’ve allowed myself to detach from who I think I am in order to see certain possibilities of who I might become. Letting go of a rigid sense of self has allowed me to be more flexible, more sponge-like, soaking up all the influences around me.

I’ve entered a child-like state while here, one that embraces newness and change and is more intent on learning about myself rather than proving myself.

I think of Peru’s Independence Day as my own declaration of independence because I will be leaving a community and a window of time that has shown me the importance of being me.

As I leave, I will carry a deeper understanding of my own identity in relation to myself, others, and G-d. And this, I think, represents more freedom and independence than what initially brought me to Peru.

Patience

The other night while chatting with my host mom in the kitchen, I flipped the wall calendar to July and, admittedly, counted the number of days left.

I lifted my gaze to the image for the month, a baby panda bear lazily hanging over a tree branch, paws dangling down and eyes closed in absolute contentedness. Below the image was the word “patience” and a Bible verse from the book of Lamentations: “The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him.”

This seems to be the ideal theme for me for the coming month as I feel anything but patient, wrestling with how to not wish this time away.

I started the week in good spirits, ready to travel to Huancayo for our last retreat with all the YAVs. But by mid-morning Monday, I learned that everything was on hold as there was a road blockage, caused by a labor strike, along the main highway from Lima.

Worker strikes or paros are common and usually involve miners demanding improvements in working conditions, this time in the mining town of La Oroya. The strikes usually end after one or two days, as staple goods such as chickens, rice and sugar, not to mention people, need to be transported from Lima to the provinces.

As the paro continues indefinitely, I realize how easily one can feel isolated in the middle of the Andes. I can't help but feel stuck, anxious and simply inpatient.

My complaint is a minor inconvenience compared to the more severe disruptions others are experiencing. However, it is enough to hold me still and make me reflect on where I am.

While I struggle with a sense of restlessness, I look to the moments during this year when I felt utterly content, like the sleepy panda bear in the kitchen calendar.

One such moment was a few weeks ago when another volunteer visited from Lima. We rode out to the ruins at Kotosh along with my host sister and explored the Temple of the Crossed Hands.

In my previous visit, I had learned that one of the stones outside the temple has a body-shaped indent, meant for someone to lie in. The idea is to soak up the available energy in the atmosphere, meanwhile basking beneath the sun.

We each took a turn laying in the body mold, having our moment with nature. As I settled down and closed my eyes, the warm surface of the rock infused all its goodness into my back. I felt the mountains surrounding me and the presence of my friends enjoying the moment in their own way.

I stretched out my arms and, in the most concrete way possible, I felt unquestionably content - waiting for nothing, expecting nothing and all the more ready to experience everything… in G-d’s time.

G-d’s time – that progression of life that has so little to do with our plans yet has so much to do with us.

A few years ago my mom’s friend gave me a box of jewelry she no longer wanted. One of the items was a watch with two faces, each with its own battery and ticking hands. It was so unusual that I hung unto it, but never ended up using it.

Since my current watch has taken a beating this year, and with it my own conception of time, I plan to start using the double-windowed watch when I'm back home.

It is a tangible reminder that there are two hour glasses, mine and G-d’s. And the more I accept G-d’s timing the more content and patient I will feel.

Returnings

Lately, I’ve been noticing some curious reversals going on in my world – mirror reflections of my first couple months, which now seem to bookend my experience here.

The most obvious to me at the moment are fresh mosquito bites covering my lower legs and feet. I realize I’m re-entering bug season, which left my legs red and swollen back in September. However, this time I’m armed with anti-itch cream and an awareness that I’m literally partaking in the cycle of nature in this region.

With the slight seasonal change also comes cooler mornings with warmer and more windy afternoons. The dust circulating the air has left me with a never-ending head cold, which characterized my first couple weeks. And once again, a thick layer of Huánuco earth covers every surface in my bedroom, which no amount of sweeping and cleaning can mitigate.

I realize that it’s not so much a return of these aspects of life that grabs my attention. Rather, it is a return of my own attention. I am recapturing the wide-eyed alertness which informed me of my surroundings when I first arrived.

For a while, I became quite accustomed to the endless presence of potatoes and cumbia music, the astonishing size and variety of avocados and the occasional flock of sheep that cross through our neighborhood.

Once again these aspects appear out of the ordinary, distinct and altogether different from what I will return to. And while my refreshed awareness of certain elements are more welcomed than others, all seem to be an inseparable part of life here.

One very significant return was a personal pilgrimage I took to the Granja last weekend. Thanks to the suggestion of our YAV coordinator, Debbie, I realized that I needed a break and I didn’t have to go far to find it.

Being at the Granja felt so familiar and home-like, this time arriving by myself and for myself. I crossed the river (blue-tin-boat style), consumed myself in the last remaining corn fields and slowly came into range of our alfalfa fields, our cows, our place in the midst of all this land.

After a nap in the farm house, filled with memories, voices and faces of the campamentos in February, I met some of the volunteers from England in the eating pavilion to help peel a mound of coffee beans. Brown leathery shells cover tiny light green beans, and before roasting, they smell faintly of almonds and wild flowers.

After about forty minutes, I decided to escape any form of work, even if it was simply a nice excuse to chat. I headed toward the green and white gated entrance to the farm and crossed the pebbled road leading to Tomayquichua. I made my way through some prickly brush and then uphill along the overgrown walking path toward the mirador (look out).

As familiar to me now as the hilltop at Tawasentha Park overlooking the Heldebergs or the stone ledge viewing point at Thatcher Park, this is another one of my “heaven spots.” A shell of a bamboo hut sits behind a row of sturdy rocks, protected even more by immovable boulder-sized cactus plants.

It was about 4:30pm and the sun was beginning to fall toward the mountain edges on the opposite side of the river below. At my elevated spot overlooking the farm, I seemed to be at eye level with the gentle mountain outline.

In the open space between my perch and the opposing mountain wall is a valley of plant growth and a blend of animal sounds – clicking birds, barking dogs and a rooster, all amidst a thick warm breeze passing through the unobliterated openness.

After soaking in the end of the day, I came back down rocky incline, bouncing more than walking, and met up with the two teenagers that live in the shelter Casa de Buen Trato (House of Good Treatment). They brought me along to their shared bedroom where a new bed is awaiting another young girl, who will arrive shortly with her one-year old baby.

Covering the bed is a bright blue crochet blanket, which caught my eye immediately. The girls’ tutor invited me in and showed me that each square was knitted separately by the girls, each with a crochet flower in the middle, each a little different.

As the girls looked over my shoulder examining their work, I could tell they were incredibly proud. And they deserve to feel proud of their work and their lives, after all they’ve put up with.

Later over dinner, asparagus soup and lemon grass tea, one of the girls shared with me what she is most proud of. Pointing to her son’s new leather shoes, she informed me with such enthusiasm that she had purchased them in a nearby town with her own money, which she earned by making Mother’s Day chocolates and selling them at our office. She´ll be doing the same for Father’s Day, but this time, she noted, she’d like to buy something for herself.

She has changed so much since I met her back in September. She was very quiet and at times resembled a small deer caught in the headlights with a stunned expression, unsure of what was happening to her.

But over the past several months, she has really taken up her own space, caring for her son with a deep sense of devotion and finding humor in just about everything.

It’s strange to think that when I first came to the Granja to watch over the girls one weekend last fall, I felt anxious when I arrived and overwhelmed when I left. Entering their world was so unfamiliar and I didn’t know if I belonged.

But now, in a blessed reversal, it has become a place I return to – a place where I can both get away from the world and at the same time feel ever more a part of it.

Incarcerated

My church at home used to have a prison ministry where several women would collect bath products to bring to the women in a local jail. I remember contributing some of my own supply, scented lotions from the Avon catalogue, travel soaps and shampoos from hotels and sample perfumes from makeup counters.

Though I never visited the jail, I learned from my mom that the women inside were not hardened criminals. Many were mothers missing their children or raising an infant behind bars. I learned that the women had made some mistakes which brought them to jail, but they deserved some luxuries like any of us.

This past week, I visited the women’s ward at the Potracancha Prison outside of Huánuco. And I had the chance to meet some of the very same women who I had only heard about.

The prison is located on a rocky plateau overlooking the countryside beyond the city of Huánuco. Accessed by an unpaved winding road, the jail is a cement fortress lined with coils of barbed wire. At the entrance gate we were met by uniformed guards and a flock a sheep grazing on some dry grass.

I arrived with one of the pastors in our office and six girls from England who are volunteering at the Granja farm for several weeks. The girls had prepared some hymns and a short skit of the “Prodigal Daughter.” Pastora Yessy would be giving a Bible reflection, while I was asked to lead another one of my movement workshops.

We entered the damp and chilly check-in area, left our passports and bags behind the desk and received an ink stamp on our left forearm. After a security pat-down inspection, we were led through several gates and behind a heavy iron door.

Suddenly, as if all the metal and cement had disappeared, we were met with several smiling faces welcoming us inside the women’s paballon. We were greeted with warm hugs, hands reaching for our hands, and multiple voices at once saying “Hermana, hermana, bienvenidas!” (“Welcome sisters!”)

We were led outside into a sunny courtyard where just beyond the high walls rose the familiar mountains that surround Huánuco – a glimpse of the outside world.

The outdoor space was busy with about twenty or thirty women. Some occupied themselves by knitting small square patches while three women sat kneeling on the ground weaving fabric on traditional back-strap looms hooked around a metal pole.

On opposite ends of the courtyard hung lines of laundry, colorful blankets, children’s shorts and t-shirts and baby clothes. It seemed like a typical backyard patio.

Inside the windows of the sleeping quarters I could see a mother holding her baby. Miniature cut-out stars hung from the ceiling and paper hearts were tacked to the walls. The women have tried to disguise that they live in a prison, and I imagine as much for their own sake as for their children’s.

It’s startling to remember that some of these women have not stepped foot off the property for ten or fifteen years, or maybe even longer. What brought them here? What did they do?

Some committed petty robbery while others were accomplices in more serious crimes. Many come from the surrounding jungle regions and most have been involved in drug trade.

Many of the women in jails across Peru are involved in drug trafficking, often pulled into the web by husbands and boyfriends. And while they work as a team, if caught, in many cases women end up serving a double sentence. The prevailing notion is that it’s better if the woman takes the burden as the male counterpart can still earn a living.

Sentences are often senseless and arbitrary, with outcomes negotiated in a room of three people. Verdicts are made between a couple of lawyers, a judge and some money thrown on the table. There is no litigation process, no jury of peers, and without this there is a vast gap in justice.

The disproportionate number of women serving time for drug procession brings a startling connection to New York’s Rockefeller Drug Laws and their effect women. Mandatory minimum sentences for non-violent drug offences have completely changed New York’s prison population.

Since 1973, when the laws were enacted, the number of incarcerated women in New York has increased over 500%, the majority being African-American and Latina women. The State Legislature is on the verge of repealing the laws but, in many ways, the damage has already been done.

http://www.interfaithimpactnys.org/positionpapers/womenprison.htm

In visiting the Potracancha Prison I realized how easy it is to forget who lives behind bars, in Albany or in Huánuco. And people do live here, many of whom are women, washing laundry, carrying babies, singing hymns and struggling to stay afloat.

Considering the imperfect justice system both here and at home, the least we can do is enter inside and meet those who live there.

Prayer Chain

At times I act well under pressure, able to focus my energies and carve out a sense of direction. Yet, at other times, when moments of crisis hit, I find I can’t quite manage. Last week was one of those times. And while I fell short in strength and faith, I was surrounded by some of the most deeply grounded people who showed me the way.

Tuesday morning began with a frightening phone call, the father of one of my co-workers calling to say that his son, David, had been in a car accident and was on his way to the hospital. Within moments, the two other psychologists I work with left the office for the hospital, and I was left in the room by myself with a mess of empty desks, including David’s.

My mind was swarming with thoughts and images. What had happened? Someone said he was unconscious. Another said the driver of the car had been killed in the crash.

Unable to sit still with every scenario flashing through my brain, I found myself anxiously pacing the small room and pausing at David’s desk. I think I prayed out loud and said, '' Please G-d, don’t let him die.''

Just as I sat back down at my desk, one of the pastors passed the doorway instructing everyone to meet in the conference room downstairs. I knew what this meant. A prayer vigil.

This is what Paz y Esperanza does when no on else knows what to do. And when no one knows what to do, we look to G-d for direction.

We met in the conference room, a handful of people present, and laid it all out on the table. We prayed for David’s life, for one of the layers who was hospitalized with flu symptoms and for one of the most serious sexual abuse cases, which is on the verge of a verdict.

A few hours later, we met again, this time the entire office, to unload the burdens of hopelessness, stress and exhaustion. We learned that David had regained consciousness, suffered a concussion, broke his nose and dislocated his shoulder bone. The driver was killed and it was and is a miracle that David was spared.

The legal office had reached its edge with the culmination of two critical cases, one of the lawyers out of commission with health problems and the director of the area in tears admitting to us all that she can barely handle it alone.

As I watched her trembling I remarked how devoted this team is to the wellbeing of its members. No one needs to hide behind their desk with the door closed to cry alone when it gets too hard.

At the national level, Peru is also in crisis, dealing with one of the most violent disputes since the terrorism of the 80’s and 90’s. This time it is over indigenous landowner rights.

As the Peruvian government tries to open territory in the north for oil, mining and lumber, indigenous communities are blocking road ways in order to protect their land. The local protests had been peaceful for two months, until this week when both local townspeople and national police were killed in the dispute.

It is obvious that Paz y Esperanza is not just concerned with issues in its own region in Huánuco. There is deep distress when it comes to both local family issues and national conflicts, which so often end in violence.

After words had been shared, my host father, a pastor, stood to draw us together in prayer. I stood next to him and he took my hand. What was previously an outpouring of human anxiety, confusion and desperation became a petition to G-d, that in our feebleness, G-d may intervene.

The prayer was a mantra, pulling in every one of our personal pleas, some unspoken, others whispered simultaneously around the circle. At times the prayer was loud and bellowing and I could feel a rush of energy through my host father’s hand. But as he closed the oration, he paused and then spoke softly in a tear-filled voice. Amen.

At my church at home, we often pass prayers through a "prayer chain," a list of phone numbers and emails where one person prays and then passes the request along. It is a comforting way to release one’s personal grief and lift it beyond our limited understanding.

I image the prayer floating along, hand to hand, heart to heart, building strength as it goes along, all the while speaking to G-d in a myriad of voices.

During this particularly difficult day, I imagined something similar. And just as the prayers moved along in succession, I too felt as if I was being passed along the chain.

The entire morning was a string of prayers, first alone at my desk, then a small group downstairs, and again with the entire office led by my host father. At each instant I felt I was swept up by a moving current bringing me to calmer water.

As I left the office to walk home, my host father swung by and we drove home on his motorcycle. We entered the kitchen, sat down for lunch, and I was caught in prayer once again, among the rest of my host family.

Like a giant safety net set below my feet or two hands placed against my back, prayer met me at every possible crossway on a day when I just couldn’t cope.