|
November 11, 2000
Dear Friends,
To watch a rose bud as it grows and opens in our garden is a
wondrous sight. First there is a tight bud, then, slowly, with
the rays of the sun and water from the heavens, the bud will begin
to open. Sometimes we can watch this gradual opening as day by
day the petals of the rose peel away from the center. What a beautiful
sight, to observe the infinitely small changes that result in
a rose in full bloom. As I live and work with the women of Guatemala
sometimes it is like watching a rose bud grow and open. The lives
of many of the women, especially in the rural areas and among
indigenous women, are tightly bound, restricted to certain places
and tasks and roles within the world of their families, their
home, the market, and at times the fields where some plant and
harvest crops. They are permitted to do, to wear, to say, to be
according to unspoken rules and traditions. And many of them feel
quite comfortable within their small restricted world, as it is
the only world they know.
But sometimes something happens—there is an invitation to
a meeting, someone comes into their community to listen to them,
there is a Bible study in their church especially for women. The
Spirit of God blows when and where it will, and the tight, small
bud of their lives begins to open, to flower. I think about Amalia,
who recently in a meeting said, "it was hard to leave my
home the first time, to go to the church meeting. I was afraid,
but I went, and I kept going, and now I am losing my fear."
Amalia told us that as she continued to venture from her home,
she was losing her fear of speaking in front of others, of asking
questions. It is as though fear is a living thing that has the
women in its grip, and I have the privilege of watching as that
fear loses some of its power.
And there is Louisa. The first time I met this lovely 20-year-old
girl, she said not a word in either her language, K’ekchi,
or Spanish; she covered her face with her hands when spoken to.
It was obviously painful for her to be in this strange setting.
But what changes I have seen in Louisa! She kept leaving the comfortable
confines of her home and community. She began to study Spanish.
She was encouraged and loved along the way. And now, when I see
her she reaches out to embrace me. She is an eager student and
little by little is participating in class; she no longer uses
her hands to cover her face, but to write or draw or embrace a
friend.
And I will always remember watching Dominga, a 30-or-so-year-old
woman who never went to school as a child because that was not
the place for girls, carefully and slowly write her name for the
group of visiting North Americans. And the smile on her face when
she finished the last letter and listened to the applause of the
visitors. And I ask myself, what causes the fear to lose its grip
on these women? Why is it that at least some of them can leave
the comfort and security they know within their homes and within
the boundaries that the culture and tradition have assigned to
them? I believe that it is when they hear and experience the good
news of the gospel, the good news that they have value as women,
that they are loved by God for who they are. When they hear and
experience the stories of women in the Bible as their own stories,
eyes that have been closed begin to open; hands that were used
to cover faces, now reach out to hold a pencil or another hand.
My sister Catalina
Her life is so very different from mine. Catalina cannot read
nor write in her mother language, K’ekchi, nor can she read,
write or understand more than a few words of Spanish. She lives
in a community called El Mirador. It is a nice place to visit
for an afternoon, which I have done on two occasions, but I cannot
imagine myself living there. The women must walk each day some
three kilometers to get water from the river. During the rainy
season every bit of earth turns to mud. The houses are no more
than sticks, plastic sheeting, and, for the lucky, a tin roof.
They eat beans and tortillas three times a day. Catalina’s
life is very different from mine, and yet there are strong bonds
of friendship and love between the two of us, invisible but very
strong, bonds which connect us one to the other. I can feel these
bonds as she arrives for the three-day workshop and reaches out
to hug me. I see them symbolized in the bananas she brought on
the bus as a gift for me. I think one of the reasons for our strong
connection is that she wants so much to learn, and I want so much
to teach, and together we make a good pair! Because we are connected,
because in some small way I am a part of her world, I can enjoy
her wonderful gifts, the bananas she carried in her basket for
me; her hugs, awkward at first but now firm and sure. I marvel
at her deep wisdom, the way in which she is able to make connections
between the Bible stories and her life today. The peace I see
in her sun-bleached face, in spite of the very difficult life
she lives, is a gift for me. I think the greatest gift she has
given me is simply the privilege of being in some small way a
part of her life, being her sister in Christ.
Ellen Dozier
The 2000 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, page
236
|
