Beyond Mountains are Mountains

The title of this post is a Haitian Proverb and the title of Tracy Kidder's book Mountains Beyond Mountains. I don't remember exactly how it was used in the book (I think to describe one of Paul Farmer's treks across Haiti?), and I'm not even that sure what it's supposed to mean in the cultural context, but yesterday I think I got a glimpse into what it might be trying to say...

By the way, I'm in Peru! Lima, to be exact. I've been here for almost a week and so far am having an incredible experience! Orientation was wonderful (particularly the worship services...hopefully I'll have time to write more about that later), and though saying goodbye to Andy for a year was really hard, I've found myself feeling very alive here in Lima. My fellow YAVs are wonderful (check out the links to their blogs on the left), and I've really enjoyed living with them this week. Though I know we are all going out to where we are called and where we belong, I'll be sad to see 4 of the 6 leave for their placements in the provinces of Peru at the end of this week. (Though Joe will still be in Lima with me. Poor thing.) Regardless, I'm excited to be building a community that can offer each of us fellowship and support during our time in Peru. It helps to know that there are people I love and care about who are going through similar experiences.

Anyway, onto the real subject of this post -- mountains. Yesterday, we went on a hike with some friends of the family we're currently staying with and members of the churches where I'll be working. Many of you know this, but for those who don't, I'm not the biggest fan of hiking. I'm in terrible shape and I always feel self-conscious about how slow I am and guilty for holding others (usually my fast-walking mom) back. So needless to say I was apprehensive yesterday morning as we prepared for what our Peruvian friends called our "walk," especially when I learned that it was 13 kilometers (for American brains like mine, that's a little more than 8 miles). Fast-walking mom's jaw probably just dropped as she read that. That's right, Mom, 8 miles. And aside from being very sore and sunburnt, I'm still in one piece!

We started the hike at 9 AM in the shantytowns of Comas, a district of Lima very near where I'll be living and working. Many of the poor families of Lima have built their one-room homes up along the side of the mountains we were climbing. It was a moving and heart-breaking juxtaposition -- the natural, divinely-created beauty of the mountains next to the heaps of garbage and rampant poverty that our human institutions have brought about. The mixture of emotions it brought about in me really can't be put into words. I wish that I could share pictures with you, but my camera actually broke (sad times...anyone looking to get me a birthday present?). However, I know you can see at least a few pictures on the blogs of my fellow Peru YAVs, so please explore that if you have the time. It's the best and really only way I know how to describe what we saw.

We were told our goal was to travel over a mountain between Comas and San Juan Lurigancho another district of Lima with similar poverty to Comas. To be honest, for the first hour or so, I hated it. Like I said, hiking's never been my thing, and this was by far the most difficult hike I'd ever been on. There was no trail like my cushy Blue Ridge Mountain hikes, and we were literally scaling surfaces that were at about a 45 degree angle to the ground. I found myself many times on my hands and knees climbing over the rocks and dirt (apparently my face got pretty dirty too and served as the entertainment for many on the hike). While I enjoyed the time with my fellow YAVs and new Peruvian friends, I felt physically exhausted, and my self-esteem was taking a pretty big hit.

And here's where the title comes in. Each time we made it to the top of one mountain (which, naturally, got progressively bigger and more treacherous), our Peruvian guides promised that the next was "el ultimo cerro" (the last hill). However, we soon learned that "el ultimo cerro" means something a little different to us gringos. Each time we made it to the peak of one mountain, an even larger loomed before us. The Haitians are right -- beyond mountains, there are mountains. They NEVER stop. And apparently for the Peruvians, all these separate peaks were one big "cerro," el ultimo cerro, in fact.

After awhile, I gave up believing that we would ever reach el ultimo cerro. Which was good, because there must have been at least 4 "ultimos cerros." But the thing is, I started to really enjoy the hike. As we climbed on, I became accustomed to the physical exhaustion and began to accept the self-esteem blow as a lesson in humility. There was no way I was going to make it through the mountain(s) by myself -- I needed to accept Efrain's outstretched hand, listen to Joe's expert climbing advice, and accept Alissa's knee-brace on the way down (and listen to Anna when she oh-so-motheringly insisted that I put it on right then!). At the same time, I was provided with small opportunities to reciprocate generosity to the group -- I could carry Sarah Alta's water bottle in my backpack, catch Sarah Baja as she slid down the mountain behind me (most likely because I had loosened up the dirt by sliding down myself), and offer my hand to Jose to help him make it up a particularly difficult patch of rocks. Yesterday, I feel that I truly learned about solidarity and reciprocity. Those are two buzzwords that the YAV program likes to throw around that I've contemplated and "theorized about" countless times, but yesterday, I lived and experienced them as realities and integral parts of the Christian life. Why else am I in Peru except to practice solidarity and reciprocity? How else can we live as disciples of Christ?


I leave you with this: a reflection from Eduardo, my host dad and the pastor of one of the churches where I'll be working. For devotion one day this week, he shared the story from John's Gospel of Jesus healing the cripple at the pool of Bethsaida. (Read it here -- John 5:1-9) In this story, many who need healing have congregated around the pool of Bethsaida, for legend has it that the Angel of the Lord comes down periodically to stir the waters and, after this happens, the first one into the pool will be cured of any disease. The man that Jesus heals is a cripple who has been waiting there for 38 years and has never made it down to the water in time. When Jesus sees this man, he asks him a strange, either sarcastic or dim-witted question, "Do you want to get well?" The cripple does not answer the question, but responds in an even stranger manner, saying, "I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred.
While I am trying to get in, someone goes down ahead of me." Eduardo proposed to us that this is not so much a story about miraculous healing as it is about solidarity. So many people lived together by this pool, likely in some sort of community, and some for as long as 38 years. They must have shared with one another and been integral parts of each other's lives. Still when the water was stirred and the miraculous healing was offered, it was every man or woman for him or herself. Despite living in community for so long, when it came down to the wire, selfish individualism won the day. However, Eduardo proposed to us that maybe these desperate and sick people had been experiencing this miracle the wrong way. Maybe it wasn't about getting to the water first. Maybe it was about helping one another get down to the water. Maybe it was even about circling the pool, joining hands, and and stepping in at the same time so that all present might be healed.

What would happen if we all joined hands and stepped into the pool? Perhaps that, in fact, was the "milagro" (miracle) that Jesus wanted us to experience.