To missionary-linguist parents I was born at Hospital Los Arcos in Guatemala City during the military dictatorship of a televangelist who turned out to be one of the most brutal figures in an all-too-brutal civil war.
Guatemala, as it happens, is a land of contrasts, and at times, contradictions. Volcanoes, black-sand beaches, rainforests, lakes, deserts, fields, and ruins of ancient pyramids all grace the landscape. The land of eternal spring, as Guatemala is called, is home to more than twenty distinct indigenous Mayan groups, and a small but wealthy European elite.
This was not really Guatemala as I understood it at the time, of course.
When our family moved to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, I was faced with impossible questions from well-meaning classmates at my new high school: What’s it like down there? Did you like it?
With all of this newfound fascination about my childhood from peers who had never traveled very far themselves, I came to appreciate my upbringing as something special. Whereas I had until then viewed life in Guatemala as one of deprivation, these people I was meeting had never climbed a volcano while it was erupting and they had never been robbed at gunpoint in the middle of the night, nor had they lived in a one-room adobe schoolhouse at 9000 feet without electricity or running water. They may have had white Christmases around fireplaces, but they hadn’t experienced the deafening roar and the smell of gunpowder on the streets every Christmas Eve as all of Guatemala City welcomes the Child by lighting firecrackers.
I began to feel, for the first time, Guatemalan.
Rooted.
During college I discovered my wings.
St Augustine once said that the world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page. From Tseikuru to Assisi, I came to taste, touch, see, and feel what we all know intuitively to be true: the world looks quite different depending on the vantage point. I began to wonder at the significance of being born a third culture kid – of being American in Guatemala and Guatemalan in the United States; the blessing and the curse of feeling at home everywhere and yet not quite at home anywhere.
Following graduation I spent three months in Cambodia as a photojournalist with a relief and development agency. During that time I learned a lot about poverty and injustice and was stretched and I missed my friends and lived with Buddhists and ate strange foods and, for the most part, had a blast. If you get the chance, I really recommend going somewhere and doing something that requires courage before Life tells you (in a very grown-up voice) that that sort of thing is irresponsible or foolish. Experiences like these cannot be manufactured while sitting on a sofa.
Prior to pursuing a master’s degree in international development at Eastern University, I worked for a year and a half as a caseworker with Cuban refugees. A typical day found me shuttling clients to and from appointments in a minivan, translating utility bills, lifting sofas through back windows from fire escapes, and pleading with officials at the Social Security Administration to remember these are people they’re dealing with.
Though I don’t know precisely how it will all play out, I think my life’s work will have a lot to do with connecting people, particularly those who are marginalized with those who are privileged. I really believe that both groups need each other, despite all evidence to the contrary. Those who abuse, misuse, or squander their power and those who endure this abuse, misuse, and neglect are wrapped up in a common story, and I think the gospel of Jesus Christ addresses this connection in an astonishingly hopeful way.
It is my life prayer to be an instrument of shalom; one who is on the side of abundant life.
I am extraordinarily grateful for my fellow sojourners, and for those who show us the way.
