In a Million Years

Never in a million years did I think that one day, I’d be 16, in a foreign country and cooking dinner by myself for 10 people while nannying 6 children who I can't fluently speak with.

I guess a million years has passed, then.

There are a few other things that God has taught and showed me during my stay in Peru, too. They are countless, but these are just a few that jump to mind:

One of the more prominent realizations that He's given me is that I need to cherish friends and family. I need to appreciate my family with every passing day and be extremely grateful that I have such a whole one. He made me realize that I am much luckier than I had thought to have a dad and a mom, to have aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents that I love and love me in return. Living in Peru has showed me the brokenness that many families have; the dissonance and hate between family members and how much that taxes the entire family. I despise how often I hear about fatherless or divorced families and it hurts my heart to know that so much of that goes on in the world.

God has made it clear that He has given me the family that I have for a reason. And for that, I am so lucky.

God has given me the friendships that I have for specific reasons, too. To put it simply, I am thankful for the caring, supportive friends that I have the privilege to know. And even though time may pass and those friendships may become more distant, I know I will hold onto and never forget the memories that have been shared. I've learned that God puts certain people in your life at certain times for a purpose and that once they fulfill that purpose, they may melt away into the shadows of your mind and although you may not talk to them as often as you once did, those memories will be ever present.

God has tried my patience and dug deep into my emotions, stirring up things I never thought I would feel so strongly about. By seeing the poverty all around me every day; the dirty little faces of children and bowed backs of hard working mothers, He has sparked something within me. Humility. Thankfulness. Open eyes. Trust. Faith. Love. Acceptance.

This time in Peru has rocked my whole world and entire way of thinking. It has been a trial in itself and even though at times I felt like there was never going to be an end in sight or I couldn’t push through, He took my hand and opened my eyes to the side I wasn’t seeing every time.

He's taught me through trials what it really means to hold onto the phrase, “the dark always comes before the light.” There is no doubt in my mind now that although weeping may come at night, joy comes with the morning. (Psalm 30:5) Because of that, I smile.

Now, I'm just awaiting that sunrise.

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Thank you for your love and prayers and support. <3 br="" couldn="" done="" have="" i="" it="" t="" without="" you.="">
~Vicki

Sunrise, or Lack Thereof

It's 5:39 AM. I haven't slept all night.

Not only haven't I slept, but I find myself in the curious position of sitting cross legged on the roof.

As the blanket of darkness begins to lift, the neighbor’s dogs spot me and their robber-sensors go haywire; but the strange thing is that only one voices his opinion about a mysterious shadowed figure climbing onto the roof at five in the morning.

Three roosters crow in what could only be coincidental succession.

I begin to see everything clearer and at first think that perhaps my eyes adjusted to the darkness surrounding me. But then, when I gaze back up at the cloud congested sky, I see that the cracks between them have grown lighter. From that moment on, the spaces between the clouds continue to lighten every second that passes by.

The dog continues make a fuss until Rosa wanders out to the back of her property to see why the hell her dog is barking so persistently. She finally sees me on the roof and her steps turn slow, I watch, staying still, as she pulls something from her pocket. I assume a cell phone and instantly throw up my hand in a friendly greeting. I sit up straighter; she realizes it's me and waves back.

The foothills begin to materialize all around, shaking the mist and fog free from their sands. The blatant odor of fish and salty beach begins to fade, melting away with the night. A faint light covers everything now, in preparation for the sun to arrive.

The constant hum of the Pan-American highway does not cease.

Birds chirrup from left and right, in front and behind, above and below. Some zip past, anxious to begin the day, while others stay safely tucked in their nests, uncertain of what the day will bring.

The orange street lamps begin turning off in a wave, street by street.

The hole in the clouds catches a few rays of morning sunlight, changing the faded blue to a light peach. I become sad once I realize that I won’t be able to see the sun climb over the mountains.

The air is still, but the morning chill still hangs there, motionless. The Peruvian flag does not twitch and the leaves of the trees do not rustle.

The last of the street lamps die out.

I can feel the fabric of my jacket absorbing the morning dampness.

I pick myself up with dirty hands and a dusty rear, my hope shattered and disappointment evident. I hop down off the roof of the patio and slip underneath it, jumping down onto a bucket, out of sight of everyone and everything but myself.

I slap my hands together to rid myself of the grime and murmur unheard apologies to Rosa.

That damn dog is still barking at me.