the return

i am back. i have had a long hiatus from writing. i am determined to make a comeback. just like michael jordan, i hope i can return to whatever form i had before. over the next few weeks, i am hoping to post some stories from south america, passages from books, maybe a picture or two, some stories of life in the office and these such things that make up my life.

a good accident

i found a book in my bag when i arrived home. mary oliver's red bird. here is a poem of her many that i enjoyed.

"of the empire"

we will be known as a culture that feared death
and adored power, that tried to vanquish insecurity
for the few and cared little for the penury of the
many. we will be known as a culture that taught
and rewarded the amassing of things, that spoke
little if at all about the quality of life for
people (other people), for dogs, for rivers. all
the world, in our eyes, they will say, was a
commodity. and they will say that this structure
was held together politically, which it was, and
they will say also that our politics was no more
than an apparatus to accommodate the feelings of
the heart, and that heart, in those days,
was small, and hard, and full of meanness.

fernando

fernando is twelve years old. he is pudgy with jet black hair and warm round cheeks. i usually find him wearing a blue sànish futbol jersey. at the church, fernando is is quiet but pleasant, following behind the boys half his age and size. the buildings where fernando lives are behind the church. they are tall and rusted, stained with graffitied walls. there is a colo-colo mural painted on a back wall marking a futbol allegiance. the alleys are dark with shadows from the hot rancaguan sun. people walk the corridors at all hours. music comes from within the walls at all hours of the day. a small river runs beneath the stairways, in between buildings, probably from broken pipes. fernando walks with a spirit on innocence about him, much different than the other boys. how can a child surrounded by drugs, violence and poverty shelter such a soft heart?

pastor luis presented our theme for vacation bible school. ¨con christo en la familia, en feliz hogar¨, a seemingly ironic theme for the community that luis lives and now works in. each day, we taught about different parts of the family with reference to a bible story. i wondered about how these kids could grasp an idea of seeing christ in their families. i wondered how they could understand parents when their fathers deal drugs, come home drunk, if at all, and their mothers walk street corners late at night. they are raised by brothers and sisters who are only with a couple years of entering the same life as their parents. these families are drastically different than the ones we presented. how can they hope that god will provide for them? that god will remember them like abraham? and spare their lives like isaac? they are forgotten daily. their lives do not offer much room for a trascendent hope.

sunday morning. a remnant congregation arrived at iglesia del pacto. there was not much to the music or sermon. words echoed from the emptiness within the church. during the service, the large green door opened and fernando slowly wandered into the church to take his seat for the first time.

¨one of the strongest arguments in favor of christianity is the failure of christians, who thereby prove what the bible teaches about the fall and original sin. as the world goes wrong, it proves the church is right in this basic doctrine¨.
- g.k. chesterton

peter crouch, chilean futbol

the sun glowed a deep red off the chilean andes. layne, emily and i shared a meal together with our new chilean family, luis, arleyi and their son, pablo. jorge, our contact, was there as well. we learned a little of vida here in chile and the life of the church we would be staying in. rancagua is a poor neighborhood, distinct with massive, worn red and blue apartment buildings. our interactions were met with some first date jitters. jorge concluded our meal with and much to my surprise, ¨ok, sean and i will go play soccer now¨.

luis, layne and i strolled through the dimly lit streets to meet jorge at the soccer field with all the young life kids. youth were lined along the fences of their homes. shadows walking to and fro with no destination. a broken and rusted chain linked fence guarded the cement basketball court where we would play futbol. kids luaghed in their warm summer night like the ones i so fondly remember.

jorge introduced me as a former member of manchester united and a teammate and good friend of david beckham. i think that my new teammates still were skeptical about my soccer aptitude. their worries soon became realities. my headers sent the ball everywhere except near the goal. i would like to believe there were fans cheering for me, but it was more like a chorus of laughter. in between games, i would sit with gustavo. he wore a blue soccer jersey and has big brown eyes. he was the only person willing to tell me about my lack of soccer skill or how i had most recently made him laugh.

i persisted nonetheless. i was passed the ball in the midfield. i turned kickly, took a step and the with a quick strike, the boal soared into the upper right hand corner or the net. my first goal! gustavo jumped to his feet and i celebrated with my teammates.

¨peter! peter!¨ they cheered. i was a good foot taller than all my opponents and soon nicknamed after the gangly, 6'7 english striker, peter crouch. i was a feared english striker now. ¨mira, peter!" for the night beneath the chilean stars, i was a foreigner with a place in this poor community. i should probably wear a red english shirt tonight as i return for another night of starlit soccer with the chilean youth.

my return home...for now

i am not sure if people keep reading this. i have been terribly inconsistent. my journal was stolen halfway through my trip at a bus stop in mendoza, western argentina. i have struggled entering into writing again. hopefully the new year will bring new inspiration. i am leaving for tahoe tomorrow and will post when i return a little bit about each of my friends that embarked the first part of the adventure with me in buenos aires.

dostoyevsky

"the awful thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. god and the devil are fighting there and the battlefield is the heart of man. but a man always talks of his own ache."

- dmitri karamzov

words from james joyce

"he wondered whether he could write a poem to express his idea. perhaps gallaher might be able to get it into some london paper for him. could he write something original? he was not sure what idea he wished to express but the thought that a poetic moment had touched him took life within him like an infant hope. he stepped onward bravely. every step brought him nearer to london, farther from his own sober inartistic life."

from "a little cloud"