Pepían

I made dinner for my closest friend the other day.

She is going through a terrible episode in her life and all she wanted was some refuge from the chaos.

Pain is dizzying. It captivates your mind and keeps it vigorously racing, while contrarily forcing your body out of motion.

It teaches you, then almost always dissolves.

Quatervois

Picture it.

You’re barely twenty and devastated because you’ve just dropped out of college and moved back into your parent’s home.

Admittedly, not a totally unique scenario.

What now?

Aimlessly, I began a cycle of sporadic and spontaneous decisions in the pursuit of seemingly inaccessible happiness.

I dyed my hair.

I got my first tattoo.

One day, I decided to go to church.

My mom had caught me retreating from the dark cave that was my bedroom and asked me to go to the Easter service with her the next day. I remember thinking that I didn't even realize it was April, but Jenna asked me to dress up nice and accompany her.

So, I reluctantly agreed.

It had been years, but I knew the church well; it was the one I had grown up in. I'm not wholly religious, despite having spent my childhood in the old Episcopalian church but I nevertheless stepped through the scarlet-red chapel doors in a lilac colored dress and a white sweater that made me feel safe.

The service was fine, packed with what my mom and the rest of the life-long members called C & E's-- those who only appeared on Christmas and Easter services. We sang, we kneeled, we sang, and kneeled again. If you grew up Catholic or Episcopalian, you know the importance of having strong knees for Sunday services.

Of course, after, there was a reception with food and casually malicious gossip. I sat quietly at the white folding table with my hors d'oeuvres.

While I was away at school, the long-standing shepherd of the flock had been replaced by a new guy named Father Bob, who I hadn't gotten to meet. So, when a kind-eyed older lady approached me and sat down, I didn't realize I was speaking to the priest's wife.

The stranger, who introduced herself as Kari, spoke in a sugary sweet voice and implored me to visit the meeting in the library after the reception. She handed me an information booklet about an upcoming group trip to Guatemala and told me they only needed two more volunteers to meet their fifteen person minimum.

My mom smiled excitedly at me from across the table after Kari patted my back and left to rejoin her husband.

I sometimes wonder if she set it up.

Reaching Milestones

I still can't understand what came over me, but I accepted the offer to join them at that meeting.

For the next few months, my stomach did intermittent somersaults of constant nausea and butterflies from the excitement. I had never been out of the country before, or even on a plane.

One yard-sale fundraiser, vaccines for malaria and yellow fever and several group safety meetings later, we arrived at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport somewhere around the crack of dawn with full suitcases and our matching blue shirts.

To be completely transparent, I have always detested the term "mission trip." It is usually middle-class or affluent persons who travel across continents on missions to build schools in Africa, for example. The tone-deafness of Caucasians in search of humility is evident in the plethora of selfies with brown children they often plaster across social media after. Oftentimes, the trip becomes an act of tourism and can be ultimately harmful to the community they visit.

I didn't want to be associated with a white-savior complex that is directly tied to colonialism.

Kari and Bob, however, traveled with this program several times, so they had already established a personal relationship with some of the kids and volunteers stationed at the school. We were a diverse group made up of young, aging, African Americans, Hispanics and even members of the LGBT+ community.

The friendliest member of the group, a guy named Kevin, who always made sure to keep us laughing, ended up being my partner in the aisle, and with about three hours of relentless teasing my fear of planes, we landed in Guatemala City.

On the third day of our trip, we went to a lovely little dinner in town. We all walked back to our hostel after expanding our waistlines.

I awoke around three a.m., and tripped over a loose shoe while scrambling for the bathroom. It doesn't take an author's description to describe what happened next.

Remember kids, don't drink the water.

After one day of sweaty, miserable turmoil and sweet Kari bringing me crackers and gatorade, I was able to rejoin my group.

As much as I want to go into detail about the nine days that I spent with wonderful humans of another culture, the children I got to meet and teach, or the even hiking a live volcano and hearing the thunderous groans beneath its peak, I want to speak about one experience in particular.

On the sixth day, we visited a modest home in the heart of Antigua. We were enthusiatically greeted by Laura, a four foot, nine inch woman whose home immediately assaulted us with the smell of homemade tortillas.

Laura was incredibly welcoming to all of us, and with the help of her two boys, whose names regrettably escape me, she gave us insight on her life and her family, as well as an interesting reflection into the history of pepían, our meal for that evening.

One of the oldest dishes in Guatemalan cuisine, it probably originated as early as the Mayans. It's a meaty, spicy stew usually with onions, chillies, tomatoes, potatoes and either chicken or pork. Laura used chicken in ours. She skillfully weaved her hands and created a beautiful dish while educating us about her ancestors.

When we sat around that table, we all shared stories of each other's lives, some hilarious, some that made us emotional, and we truly felt connected to each other in that tiny living room. After months of feeling hollow, I felt a warmth radiating inside of me. There was an energy passing between everyone and we all went back home with a sense of peace.

I haven't seen most of those people in years.

I can still feel them.

Reflection

Four years later, I am surrounded by incredible, supportive friends, and I'm in my own beautiful apartment. I have recently gone back to school and am close to earning a degree in creative media with a double minor in journalism and marketing. I have hobbies, interests, passions and goals.

I never lost the fierce craving for adventure.

I was floating through life, wistfully regretting my decision to move away right after high school when I truly wasn't ready. I beat myself up for so long, and so mercilessly, not giving myself enough time between blows to think about the fact that I was just an unprepared kid and learning.

I would go back in time and hug that girl, tell her how beautiful life is.

Tell her about the remarkable places we've visited since that year.

The people we've met.

She deserved reassurance during a hard time.

When my best friend appeared on my doorstep with a puffy face and an overnight bag, I didn't hesitate to wrap her up and hold her shaky body. I embraced her tightly as she trembled, until she finally gave out.

Later, over a New Girl re-run, I realized the anniversary of my trip is coming up, and I asked her if she wanted to relive that dish I ate years before.

I quickly found a fairly easy recipe, thanks to Siri, and left my guest asleep on the couch while I braved the afternoon traffic.

The hunt for ingredients probably took longer than the preparation itself. I visited our local grocer for fresh potatoes, tomatoes and other veggies, then headed across town to the Hispanic market for the more specifically cultural items. Being in the central south, finding certain items prove a challenge, but my friend and I have always bonded over cooking and I felt up to it.

I sauteed the vegetables, instead of roasted. I used a blender instead of a food processor. I used chopped cilantro instead of coriander. I excluded pumpkin seeds because I couldn't find them anywhere.

None of it mattered. When I placed the black ceramic bowl in front of my drowsy friend, it earned me a sleepy smile.

We ate it with microwaved white rice and talked about our futures. I knew it would inevitably be a sad fraction of Laura's recipe, but I gave myself a break for a native Alabamian who specializes in hearty casseroles and baked goods.

My friend laughed for the first time all day.

That familiar energy of love and understanding was present again.

Exploring and making connections with others is really when an unbloomed rosebud that is life begins to blossom.

Bloom.

Be easy on yourself.

¡Buen viaje!

If you or someone you know would like some insight into the amazing things Camino Seguro is doing every day to make a difference for families working and living in/around the Guatemalan City Trash Dump, please follow the link I provided below.

Donations are always needed and sponsorships are available. There is also information in the event you would like to volunteer at a school where so many incredible teachers and administrators are working relentlessly to provide food and education for the poorest children in the district.

https://www.safepassage.org