No. 41

1. I bought some brown eggs at the Green City Market. They were so fresh they smelled like fresh; they even felt fresh, and they tasted like Michigan sunshine. I can't imagine ever eating another egg at this point, after having beheld such egg perfection.

I took a look at the carton to remember the farm from which they traveled to Chicago, and on the bottom was a quote from a Psalm, declaring God's love for the earth.

I tend to freak out a little when people put Bible verses on their products, but in this case I believed it served as a meaningful mission statement for the family's farm. They work and care for the land because it is God's, because He loves it.

"For God so loved the world," John 3:16 begins...God loves the world right now, as it is. Not just as it will be, not just as it was, but right now: God SO loves the world. God SO loves the grass and the chickens and their gorgeous brown eggs. He delights in all of this, and so should we! Thank you, Family Farm from Michigan, for reminding me of this. And giving me fixings for a heavenly tomato-chard frittata. The thing melted in my mouth, y'all.

2. Chocolate milkshakes on the beach after dark, being told that things will get better and really feeling it.

3. Seth called me early in the morning; what comforting glory to hear his voice. I rode the bus and kept talking to him, crying twice quite explicitly, missing:
a) him
b) Chile
so, so much.

Almost exactly a year ago, I flumped all my luggage onto my tiny yellow bedspread at Hostel Santiago, then sobbed and shivered for half an hour, my insufficient blanket pulled over my nose as a shabby attempt to comfort myself. It was freezing and grey and it was such a strange, terrifying thought to acknowledge "I am on a continent where not one person knows who I am."

Eventually I summoned enough energy to walk out of my room to get some tea in the common kitchen, and overheard the following exchange from the living room:
"Te gusta Bob Dylan?" said a male voice.
"Siii, a mi me encanta Bob Dylan!" replied Zarita, our Peruvian hostel mom.

Then the gentle familiar guitar chords, and a soft sweet rendition of "Mr. Tambourine Man" from this tall guy with a hat. No more than an hour after beginning the Grand Chile Adventure, and I knew that it would be okay. This whole scene reminds me of that line in a Denison Witmer song: I thought about the day when we first met/I knew from there on out, you'd be my friend.

And Seth indeed became my friend, my first Chile friend: a friendship cultivated through many explorative walks and gelato afternoons and weekend travels and text messages of encouragement on nights of heartache and homesickness.

I hope that soon I can re-capture that feeling I felt with such conviction my entire days in Chile: the feeling that everything was going to be okay--that any challenge would be covered by God's grace, that any joy could be fully savored in its joyful moment. I want to come back to this feeling of reliance on grace. I want to again depend on these moments of grace, moments like hearing a familiar song on a drizzly morning when I felt so desperately lonely, a friend to show me around town and tell me that he'd be there if I ever needed, or wanted, anything.

I know I can rely on grace, but need reminders that I can. Seth's call was one of those. Now, I will make eggs.