Romans 10:15

Just as it is written: “How beautiful are the feet of those who declare good news of good things!”

Obviously this is one of those symbolic, figurative scriptures, in which the aforementioned beauty is visible only to heavenly entities. The way we're covering our territory has changed, and inside of canvassing region wide for English speakers, we're focusing on the houses we've already found. Houses may be an overstatement, as often the "house description" is "shack on stilts with green poles" or "junkyard with lots of abandoned cars."

Once we locate the pins on the map, we find the house by description as there is usually not street names or numbers. These locations may be hidden behind mountains, in ravines, or in plain sight, but guarded by vicious dogs and children. We go back six, yes six, times before leaving a letter. Some of these house require not a bit of effort to get to, and you can imagine our excitement upon trekking up the same hill on attempt number five or six.

For example, consider this territory:

We start from the highway and work our way up. See that house is the very top right corner? That's where we're going. Six times.

Attempt #1

 

Attempt #2

 

Attempt #3

In one of these territories, it was attempt number three and Bronnie, Nat, and Rachel (two girls from England) and I had just about given up on finding a certain block of houses. I was certain that success was elusive. We started our mission down the mountain and tried to look lively.

Suddenly: "I recognize that voice! That's Chelsea."

In my heat induced delirium I had no idea who was descending from the adjacent house, speaking fluent English. Then I recognized him, a man we had called on in the complete opposite side of town, an architect who spoke English and at the end of our visit had asked us for someone who could come and talk to him about the Bible once or twice a week. He had said he was almost impossible to find at home but gave us his card. And now we found him. Or he found us.

He came down the stairs.

Him: Would you be able to come to my house to study the Bible with me and my son this week?

Me: (thinking I might be hallucinating) Uh...yes. How's Thursday at 4:30?

Him: Perfect. See you then. Are you following me?

Us: (delirious laughter as we stumble down the hill, having accomplished something unexpectedly delightful)

Of course, some days are easier than others; some roads are easily accessible by motorcycle, sometimes we stop for juice or tacos on the side of the the road. Sometimes you get to be in an air-conditioned car and go on people's studies (I'm looking at YOU, Destroyer), but every day here so far I've had a passenger on the motorcycle and worked territory. Since I'm only here for other month I'm pushing a bit harder than I usually would, trying to soak up every bit of ministry goodness that I can. I can't wait for the campaign in November, where there will be a whole lot of this:

"Umm...where are we?"

 

Ideally followed by a whole lot of this:

 

In the meantime, I sure hope the angels think my feet are beautiful, because they sure aren't getting any prettier.

 

Two Week Tempest

So it's already been almost two weeks since I left the comfort of my home -- my home being the massage chair in the Tijuana airport -- and am attempting to send this blog post from the comfort of my pool, ignoring the wild cats rustling in the bushes, the fireworks/gunshots going off in the distance, and my raging need to close my eyes and sleep off this amazingly busy day.

(Three hour interlude in which much good is accomplished, including Bronnie and I rigging up a mosquito net and laughing hysterically at each other's accents. Hysterical laughter is not uncommon, including yesterday in which I tried to weigh Bronnie by wrapping her in a sheet and trying to hoist her up with my luggage scale...

It didn't work.)

The raging need to close my eyes has won tonight. I certainly have a lot to share, but fear tonight is not the night. The prospect of a restful night in my impermeable polyester-nylon palace is too great.

So I say goodnight to the cats and the fireworks and my loved ones and my beloved one and the mosquitoes, who sing a melancholy song of sadness over the loss of their golden goose, their walking feast of flesh who is now hermetically sealed in her polyester-nylon palace.

They lie in wait, hoping for a toe or an elbow to escape its gauzy perimeter.

And they wait.

There Will Be Snakes

First time in the water today, treading water and chatting with Jacinta at Carrazillio.

Chelsea: Blah blah blah. Blah? Blahhhhh.

Jacinta: There's a snake coming towards us. We should get out of the water.

Chelsea: Blah?! Blah??? Blah!!!!

Chelsea: ::swims vigorously towards the shore::

Chelsea: ::turns around and makes sure Jacinta has not been consumed by snake::

Chelsea: ::reaches shore, stares in horror at snake still coming towards us with head raised::

Snake: (telepathically) I'm a sssssnake!

Jacinta: ::laughs:: Well, you've got a story now. Welcome back to Mexico.

We asked a local woman on the beach if it was dangerous. She comfortingly said "Si, muy peligroso..."

The locals ran out of the shops to see the sea snake roving through the water. Because I'm evil, I asked them to kill it. Because they are sane, they did not. But this man fished it out and offered "un collar nuevo" (a new necklace) to these little ladies. They refused. Kids these days.

On closer examination, we saw it was a tree snake. Poor guy probably fell off a tree and into the water. He simply wanted to use Jacinta and I as a perch to dry out. Which is great because there are several varieties of fatal sea snakes around and I was not about to meet one on my first day back. Maybe second, but certainly not first. Regardless, they set him free and he was on his way, surely relieved that the locals did not listen to that evil, murderous woman who he just wanted to use for a resting place anyway, gosh.

"Release me."

Outside of the Huatulco airport there was this sign:

Which is brilliant and everything but in Paradise there won't be snakes in the water. Or there will be, but they will announce themselves and their intentions clearly from afar. Actually, if we have talking snakes in Paradise, we might be in trouble.

Snake: Ooooh, I'm a ssssnake!

 

Sitting In the Tijuana Airport With My Homies

It's one in the morning. I'm sitting in the terminal, feeding pesos into one of these massage chairs that announces every few minutes "DISFRUTE TU MASAJE," attracting the attention of more than a few fellow passengers. I shove more pesos into the chair while tears and snot run down my face.

 

Wait, the tears and snot were on the bus to Tijuana. After parting at the bus station, I burst into a frenzy of saltwater and agonized throat sobs. I purposely sat towards the back of the bus so I could have privacy, and was glad for it as I muffled my face in my scarf and clawed at the window trying to get back to Boris. A tad dramatic, but perfectly in character. You would do the same if you had to leave your scrumtrelescent one for six weeks. Also if it was almost midnight and you were surrounded by weathered old men in cowboy hats.

Not one of the weathered old men mentioned above.

 

I finally realized that my soft sobbing noises were probably disturbing the other passengers, so I thoughtfully put on my earphones and continued. Thanks to "Red and Black" from Les Miserables (Julia!), I got it together and made it to the airport, where I let the massage chair soothe the savage beast. (Did you know the original idiom is 'music soothes the savage breast?' Now you do. Don't you wish you didn't?) By the way, there was a man sitting behind me on the bus, thankfully I didn't realize he was there until we got to the border, because I would have had an awkward time pretending my sobbing and window clawing were due to hay fever or restless face syndrome. At thank point we changed buses, and I was welcomed into the loving arms of a new group of cowboy-hatted men, who made space for me in the back row of the shuttle, where they beckoned me with an as-creepy-as-it-sounds patting of the seat (I'm sorry for being ungrateful, but it was late, and I was emotional).

16 long hours later I made it to Puerto Escondido, where it is incredibly hot and sweaty. It's been a wild two years since I've been back, but within hours of my arrival I was riding a motorbike on my way to eat tacos...so things are also incredible back to normal. Also, these waves were called "not so good" by the local brothers this morning...so I obviously know even less about surfing than I thought.

The best waves I've seen in two years. Deemed unworthy.

Bronnie comes from New Zealand tomorrow. She'll be in Latin America for quite a while, in the meantime I'm enjoying reminiscing about the good ol' times, but looking forward to making some good new times.

 

This place just keeps showing up. Or maybe I do.

On a final note, I had to smile when I read this week's Bible reading.

"Look out for the dogs; look out for those who cause injury; look out for those why multilate the flesh." Philippians 3:2

Yes, do look out for them, would you?

Oh, don't look at that if you're eating. Or if you're squeamish. Probably...just don't look at it.

Onwards and upwards!

 

Wait, Mexico Again?

Yes! I have missed it so much. I'm on my way to the bus station to catch a bus to Tijuana and a flight to Oaxaca. Puerto Escondido, I'm coming home to you! I can't wait to catch up with the friends and dive into the ministry. If only I could bring a favorite item or two, like Jake, or Boris. They are my favorite furry friends in the world. But one is my best friend. I'll miss you so much. Next time we go together.