March 26, 2007

Dear Friends,

"To be a woman in Guatemala means to be nothing. That’s why when they kill us, they beat us, and they rape us. No one cares.” This Guatemalan woman is speaking in a film about women’s murders here. According to recent reports, 665 women were murdered in Guatemala in 2005, and not a single person has been charged. One of the reasons I (Jeannene) came to Guatemala was that I hoped to participate in Guatemalan women’s growing awareness of their beauty, their worth, their capabilities; I wanted us to discover together God’s desires for our well-being, both as women and as citizens in God’s world.

Where has that lofty hope taken me? Recently it took me to a two-day convention of the Occidente Presbyterian women.

Seven of us were to meet at the bus terminal at 7:00 a.m. so that we could travel together. Lora, one of this year’s Young Adult Volunteers, spent the previous night in Quetzaltenango in our home to be nearby for this early-morning leave-taking. She and I arose at 6:00 a.m. from our warm blanket-laden beds into the 50-degree air of the house and gave thanks for hot-water showers. We wolfed down some bananas and cereal, careful not to drink much so we could go for a long distance without needing a bathroom, and set off following the footpath through the frost-browned field behind our complex of houses.

I had not really looked forward to these two days. Even after a year and a half in Guatemala, I still resist leaving the comfort and convenience of my own warm bed and flush toilet a few steps away. For this trip, we were traveling an hour and a half, higher up into the highlands where it promised to be even colder. I wish I were different, but I continue to have to make that conscious choice to move out of my comfort zone in order to make more contact with Guatemalans.

We traveled to San Pedro via a microbus—a 15-passenger van frequently crammed with 20-25. We arrived at the cinderblock church and joined the preparations for this annual event. Two 11-year-old boys, Omar and Yefri, caught my attention when I passed them in a hallway. Omar ventured to engage me with “thank you,” an English phrase he knew. I love the thought of beginning a relationship saying “thank you!” It seems to foreshadow the blessings held in store for us in each new relationship.

Before the meeting started, a pick-up truck (picop) pulled into the church entrance loaded high with sleeping mats that could be rented for three quetzales (about 45 cents). I was pleased to have something more than my sleeping bag between me and the concrete floor that night. (Little did I realize that, for the same minimal charge, I was also renting the company of a family of fleas with which to spend the night.)

Once the meeting of 50 women commenced, the morning and most the afternoon were spent listening to annual reports from the many small women’s groups in various churches. The reports answered questions like: “Number of services at which a woman preached in the past year?” “One,” maybe “two,” or, more likely, “None.” “Number of women elders in your church?” “None,” (with rare exceptions). The average education for Guatemalan women is 1.3 years, and a significant number of Presbyterian women are illiterate. That very fact makes each report and summary of activities a noteworthy accomplishment. Miracle is part of every such coming-together.

Following our evening meal of black beans, rice, stewed plantains, and tortillas, we reconvened for evening worship. After witnessing how few women have opportunities to hear a woman preach, I was sad that the night’s preacher was a man. My distress increased when he started his sermon at 9:15 p.m., and it lasted an hour! One of the women, Marta, had explained to me earlier that she gotten up at 3:00 a.m. to complete her housework and prepare the day’s tortillas, beans, and rice so she could be free to attend the meeting. I knew that the preacher was intent on doing a good job, yet I wondered if a woman preacher might have recognized what a long day the women had already had and how ready they were to put their children to bed, close their eyes, and simply rest in the Lord.

Despite my wonderings, a special grace brought the day to a close. When we gathered for the service, I slipped into a metal folding chair next to a local couple in the sanctuary. After brief introductions they proudly told me they had been married for 48 years. As the preacher elaborated on the text and the cold of the evening settled into our bones, the woman draped the knitted blue-grey blanket she had brought over both our knees, tucked my arm into hers and patted my hand until we both nodded off in the back row.

I don't know if my being in Guatemala helps any of these women know God’s delight in them. I am certain that the chilling statistics about women's murders won’t be easily changed. But what changes me is seeing the dignity and sisterhood in these Presbyterians coming together to share their experience, strength, and hope. I see the careful planning they have done, knowing that this does not come easily for women without much formal education. I hear their steadfastness and trust in the songs they sing. In the face of all the statistics, God is already here, and I am blessed to be part of that universal reality.

Jeannene Wiseman

The 2007 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p. 63