I woke up today just like every other day, it seems. On my side, with sweat soaking my body and my eyes cracked barely, squinting into the dim light flitting through the open window. If you've ever witnessed a Mexican breeze before, you know that it's stagnant and barely-there. Not something my team leader and his daughter could attest to, of course - they get to stay in the Romano's home, rather than our military-style lodgings.
But hey, we all make sacrifices for Faith, no?
I digress; I woke up much later than yesterday (Keep in mind that waking up at 8 is sleeping in, here) at 6:45. My eyes immediately met the eyes across from me, a father of two kids who was worshiping just as I am.
There was a brief moment of supreme awkwardness, as our eyes met and held. I broke it by cracking a wry smile and doing a half-wave. He waved back.
I proceeded to swing my scarcely clad body over the top of the bunk, being mindful of the person sleeping beneath me. (I imagine waking up to the crotch of a virtually unknown Canadian in boxers isn't the best wake up call) After I donned shorts and a CANADA T-shirt, I went downstairs.
The aforementioned team leader and his daughter were already up, typing away on a laptop, quietly discussing something. They looked up and greeted me. After I filled a bowl up with knock-off Mexican 'Froot Rings' (with extra fibre) I sat down with them, eating and surfing the good ole' Facebook. I joined them in the surfing and took charge of the eating.
When the prayer meeting started, Rick, the leader of the Ensenada Project, introduced us to Jamin, a pastor here in Ensenada. His daughter, Jare, was under spiritual attack.
She had dark circles around her eyes, her fingers and belt adorned with various rings. She looked worn out, distraught, and approached us with great caution. Her eyes darted around, examining our faces closely, as if wary.
She had overdosed on pills two weeks ago, and Jamin had asked us to lay hands on her and pray for her safety and recovery from a mental lapse.
We all prayed, gathering and laying hands, whispering to God and Jesus and hoping, asking for her blessing, for her recovery, and for her health. As we prayed, whispered, and clustered around this poor child, the spirit loomed in the room so large that all of our hearts were bursting. It felt like the shoulder I layed my hand on was warm to my touch, and the hands on my back were channeling, so much so that I was on fire for God.
Usually, this kind of experience is few and far between back home, but here, the hits just keep on coming.
Right after this amazing experience, we distributed to build our houses. The one I was assigned to, along with Jon, is located right next to an RV. A family of four lived in this small RV, which was about as long as a car and a half, and just as wide. The supplies were unloaded, the knuckles were cracked, and we settled into a routine.
I was quickly singled out as a 'macho man' because of my size, and so carried heavier loads and was the designated paint-roller. It was demanding, taxing, and altogether satisfying work. The family dogs ran around, happily jumping on Jon and licking my kneecaps.
The second wall was up and the siding was painted when we broke for lunch, and I took the opportunity to attempt communication with the local children.
I succeeded.
The boy's name is Enrique, and he's four. The girl's name, which has slipped my mind at the moment of writing (long and busy day, forgive me) and she's 9. I mainly made faces at Enrique to hear his boyish giggle, while the girl insisted that Canada was beautiful and that I was six, not nineteen, due to a slip in my Spanish.
We left that day with all four walls erected, everything was painted, and the dividers for the inside were set in place. Tomorrow, the drywall.
I left with a huge smile on my face, because the girl's last words to me, in flawless Spanish, was asking if I was coming back tomorrow.
"Si," I replied.
--Chicago Ted
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