Music and laughter wake us.
“Is that music in Spanish?”
For a moment I thought this really had been a terrible dream and I was waking up in our beloved village.
But instead I take in the unfamiliar walls of our rental house in Colorado. I lay awake listening to the music and the lively conversations of our new neighbors. I feel comforted to learn the family next door speaks Spanish, but I ache to look out the window and see the wild untouched valley of El Rosario. I long to hear our doorbell and swing open the gate to find a mom holding a tiny baby.
When the Guatemalan borders closed, travel was banned, and private clinics began shutting their doors – things escalated quickly. Considering the higher risk nature of my pregnancy we were forced to make a quick, life altering decision. With less than 30 minutes to decide and just a few hours to pack, we boarded an embassy flight for the USA. Our breaking hearts fed us a sweet lie – that it was just for a month or two. We knew from the loss of our first baby at 12 weeks of pregnancy that things are fine until they are not, so we’d simply “wait it out” in Colorado where healthcare is near if necessary. Then, we’d make our way back to Guatemala. We left food in the pantry and most our clothes in the closet. But as time passed this sweet lie no longer could cover up the endless news articles, climbing case numbers, and the harshest reality —- we weren’t going back to Guatemala. Not for awhile.
The embassy flight touched down and instead of finding the people and food we miss dearly we entered this blur like reality of sanitizing groceries and standing 6 feet from family we haven’t hugged since Christmas. We converted our entire non-profit to emergency response mode. We video chat with our local staff countless times a day about food deliveries, or the obstacles that stand between us and babies on the edge of death. We cut our operating budget as charitable giving will be one of the victims in this spiraling economy. Jeff took a job with his parents construction business so we can afford to live stateside. We moved into a little rental on the edge of a cornfield, yet still haven’t hung a picture —- it doesn’t seem real. Settling in doesn’t seem right.
We’re not just grieving the loss of our home but of our purpose. We use to wake up to a Guatemalan sunrise over a valley, to the smell of sweet rain and smoke from open fire cooking. We lived above a clinic and could see babies being revived, mothers finding hope, and women enjoying employment. Now we wake to the loneliness of quarantine and face countless phone calls about a hunger crisis.
As the music from our neighbors backyard fades, the pain of our aching hearts steal any chance for sleep.
“What are you grateful for?”
We do this every time grief nears. We know we’re the lucky ones in this pandemic.
“A healthy baby on the way, the health of our loved ones, groceries …”
“Our marriage, seeing family, our sovereign God…”
We’re involuntarily roaming in arenas only formed when allowed due process.
This life assigned to us is a vapor compared to eternity and this dark force has inadvertently yielded some light through the slowing of time.
“I’m thankful for the slowing of time.”
It means the pages to our Bible have turned more often, and our prayer time is not hindered or rushed. [We are uncertain of the next step but certain of God.]
We both smile.
“We have so much to be grateful for.”
…
We will return to Guatemala. Our hearts are still there. Our amazing local staff is forging on. And with technology, we all are working together daily to keep the little babies healthy and aide in the hunger crisis. Our role has largely evolved into grant writing, fundraising and donor communication – while maintaining daily contact with those on the ground. Like always we don’t pull a salary from any public donation, 100% continues to those moms and babies who need it most.
Thank you for sticking with us, we know that joy and peace awaits us – even in this season.