(This is a revised version of my last blog, after getting feedback from a great writer and friend, Jess Edgerton. For all those interested readers, I plan on beginning to blog weekly, or more (which will also mean shorter posts! yay!) when I return to Chicago in a couple weeks. So stay tuned.)
Bolivia is wondrous. It
is wispy morning clouds partially masquerading magnificent mountains on my way
to school every day. It is thousands of city
lights perched as high as stars, illuminating my way home at night. Bolivia is fantastical dream-like landscapes
I never knew existed on planet Earth. It
is eating juicy ripe mangoes year-round that I swear momentarily transport me to
heaven. It is swimming alongside pink
dolphins gliding gracefully beside me in the Amazon River. It is swinging at a playground, feeling like
my toes are touching the mountain peaks.
Bolivia is hands raised and voices blending in Spanish praise every
Sunday.
Bolivia is beauty, but it does not boast. It is humble and simple, and for that is
unknown.
Bolivia is disastrous.
It is a bus with broken headlights that is lost in the middle of salt
flats, the driver desperately asking for help and flashlights. It is passengers pushing the bus when it gets stuck in the non-road we are on—3
times. Bolivia is school closing at a
moment's notice because of blockades and protests and whipping and tear gas
from angry workers. It is keeping my
eyes closed while crazy taxi drivers weave back and forth in traffic and pass
cars as if they're playing a video game.
It is a speeding bus driver who doesn't let his passengers pee. It is a bumpy bus rocking on the edges of
cliffs in the pouring rain and thick darkness. Bolivia is my traumatized soul sobbing on the edge of a rock by the river after
making it through the night alive.
Bolivia is harsh, and it does not soften. It is unbelievable and unrelenting, and for
that I throw up my hands.
My love-hate relationship with this country has grown
stronger this past year as I have experienced this beauty and harshness more
intensely and more repeatedly. It
reaches out and loves me or hates me and I love it or hate it back more than I
did before. A reciprocal love and hate,
I think. I'd compare it to an ex-boyfriend I want to hang out with again because of all the nice things he
did for me and the fun times we had together, but that I also want to slap
because he betrayed my trust. There can
be such intense feelings on either side of the spectrum.
I've always diminished in my mind the amount of give and
take, passion and conflict I can have with a place. And I've diminished in my mind the way a
place can have a hold on me, can reach out and take my heart sometimes just as
much or more than a person can. This
happens because places hold moments.
Moments that can happen in illumination and shadows, health and
sickness, fellowship and loneliness, and in praising and cursing.
Now, my intention is not to elevate "place" or my
relationship with "place"—Bolivia or otherwise. Places and our relationships with them are
not worthy of exaltation. When I look at the mountains from the view of a top
of a hike, I am not in awe of Bolivia, but of God. When I reflect on the
experiences that have shaped my last two years of life, I don't thank Bolivia,
but I thank God, the giver of beauty, the wellspring of life. The glory goes to
God for giving us places to hold moments and stories and for allowing us to
feel this strong relationship with place, for allowing places to change us, and
to mark out seasons of life. And so I give glory to God for Bolivia.
When I return to the states, or wherever I may end up in the
future, I will not think of Bolivia as a country in South America, but a season
of life God gave me in order to change me profoundly through these wide-spectrum experiences. I will remember back to a season of endurance,
of self-discovery, of grace, and recall feelings of love, anger,
frustration, jealousy, joy, and grief. Upon hearing the word "Bolivia" it will evoke memories of blundering Spanish, 6-year old chubby faces
calling inanimate objects "he" and "she", and near-death
experiences with friends I call my sisters. "Bolivia" will make me think of recess conversations, lighting
matches and changing the gas tank to cook food, getting hit with water
balloons, saltenas, running in the mountains, leading worship, tedious lesson
planning, and wise mentors. This place has burrowed its way into my heart and
taken root, and I thank God for that as it shows the last two years in this place have held meaning.
And now, may I begin to grieve and rejoice and grieve some
more over the loss of this wondrous and disastrous place.
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