Born Again

I was in the shower when they showed up, by which I mean I was dousing water over my head with the help of a bucket in the bathroom. My town assumes I know and/or am related to every other American in Bolivia (they still think Emily is my sister). Thus, someone led two young missionaries from North Carolina and their translator to my house.

Now, if there’s one thing people have here, it’s religion. Indeed, sometimes it’s all they have: a faith that the sick will soon be well, that someday their lives will be prosperous and the world a better place, that heaven is waiting when our days come to an end. The result is somewhere between divinity and apathy. Change is difficult to inspire when everything is in the hands of El Señor, but sometimes the thought comforts even me.

I learned that their church has sent missionaries to this area twice a year for the past eight years, and that the same group five years prior built the evangelical church in Gutierrez. I said I hoped my trees in the school held up as well as their church five years from now.



They were curious about the local culture – no one spoke a word of Spanish, let alone Guarani. I described the outlying communities where no one has electricity or access to water. They seemed surprised when I explained the school schedule (4 hours per day, little kids in the morning and older kids in the afternoon), which meant the older half would miss their activities in the church. They hadn’t seen it, so I told them about the trash everywhere (I’m working on it), about how the kids don’t have books, just notebooks, and are required to pay for their own exam copies on test days. I explained that the windows are broken and the students shiver in their chairs during winter. My host mom often keeps my littlest brother home on the coldest days. These are not things you learn on two-week trips while staying in swanky hotels and zipping around in a private bus.

Their plans included a bible-themed puppet show, games and some coloring, face-painting and balloon animals.

I thought they would be interested to know that the PDA, a branch of World Vision (a Christian organization), works wonders here. They provided the notebooks, coats and backpacks that all the students have. I coordinated with them to start my school garden; they gave me the seeds. They covered medical and transportation costs for a local boy who needed an expensive surgery. PDA hosts festivals that always include (locally-contracted) lunch; they coach sports teams and run summer camps. Most kids have padrinos, or godparents, in other countries that send money at Christmastime. My host mom was able to buy Sair (age 6) a new mattress, winter coat, some clothes and a bicycle with last year’s gift.

I couldn’t help but add that the Catholic priest here, Father Tarsissio (from Italy), started a scholarship-based public health school that is thriving just down the road, and furthermore he adopted an entire community, Palmarito, way out in the campo. I’ve seen it and was blown away. He built an entire school, bought instruments so the kids could have music class and computers plus the generators to run them. He started adult literacy classes in his community room. The list goes on.



But my visitors were eager to get to the point. They practically cut me off. I do love to talk about my town. “I have to ask,” piped up the sandy-haired young man who appeared to be doing all the talking. “Have you been born again?”

Those of you who know me well will be impressed by my courteousness.

“No,” I admitted. “I’m Catholic.”
“Do you think you’re going to heaven?” he challenged.
“Yep.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m a good person.”

He countered with the usual argument, and I nodded politely because there’s no sense arguing with someone so (Young? Inexperienced?) vacantly certain of how and why the world works. He was obviously not interested in a respectful discussion of differences and truthfully, neither was I. I’ve done it one too many times. Finally, somewhere between the Resurrection and my burning in hell, he seemed to run out of steam.

“Hey listen,” I said. “I’m really glad you all stopped by. It was nice to meet you and great what you’re doing for my kids.”

“We’re just here to bring the light,” he said, and the three of them got up to go. Of course I immediately thought, what else ya got? This business of saving souls might better be executed with the light and say, some hats and mittens for the second graders. Imagine how many one could buy with the price of those plane tickets!

But living here has changed my outlook immensely. So much that I’ve decided, after mulling it all over, that the next time someone asks me if I’ve been born again, I am going to give him or her a wholehearted “yes.”

I will never be certain of how and why the world works, but one thing’s for sure: I get closer every day.