There we sat with open Bible and a tiny baby in our arms, trying to “do church” by ourselves. Of course the luggage restriction (one suitcase and one apple
box apiece) had been filled with cloth diapers and baby things, so we had
failed to bring even a small hymnal.
It was an awkward and unrewarding experience each Sunday of “camp.”
Sure enough, once we arrived in our Guatemalan village assignment, we
were faced with the reality of no viable church options. Often we attempted “church” by
ourselves at home. Sometimes we
were blessed to receive sermon tapes from supporting churches. Then the post office went on strike and
we received nothing for many weeks and months, forcing our return to sleeping
in on Sundays self-feeding again.
Other times we attempted to join local indigenous church
services. Those were always
educational for learning about the people and culture, but rather disappointing
if we had hoped to actually worship.
For me, it was the slow torture of sitting on a hard bench with no backrest,
trying to keep a one-year-old quiet in the women’s section, while Jim sat
across the room with the men, unable to help me out.
Being pregnant at the time, those long services always meant
at least one trip to the outhouse with a toddler in tow, and then convincing
him (and myself) to go back into the tightly packed pew reeking of the same cook-fire smoke and
sweaty feet that sent me to the outhouse in the first place.
Then there was the Sunday we were in the Mam-speaking
church, and my baby suddenly decided it would be fun to start showing off his
“what-does-the-Indian-say?” trick, patting his little hand over his mouth while
making LOUD woo-woo-woo-woo noises.
One by one the other toddlers and babies started copying him.
Watching to see how the other mothers handled it, I saw them give their papoose (colorfully typical “Mobi” wrap) a tight yank,
whereupon each child became quiet instantly. Not mine. I had to waddle out into the dirt yard, sit on a stone, and
wait out the service with my incorrigible (though amusing) baby.
Those were the days…. Since then we have tried Union Church, home church, local church, Mexican church in the city, and everything in between. Currently we are back to another “union church” of sorts, using podcast sermons
from the Internet, which we watch and discuss with other ex-pats in our community.
At one point we recognized the irony that we had come to
this country so indigenous people could worship in their own language –
yet we were requiring our own dc* to worship in their second language.
How about you?
How do you feel about Sundays?
Love ‘em? Dread ‘em? Or are they just one more painful reminder
that “We’re not in Kansas any more”?
IRL: For me,
“sleeping in on Sunday” is still a weekly temptation no matter where we live.
