It has been over three weeks since I returned home and I still don’t think I have been able to comprehend the week I spent in Guatemala. I have now tried a couple times to write out my experience and have yet to succeed, due to my inability to write my experience in one page, but alas I shall try again.
After a long day of traveling, we arrived late into Guatemala City where we were taken to a mission house and had a briefing session on what the next couple days would look like. That night I also had a chance to chat with some of the Guatemalan Champions staff about the zones these kids were coming from. Some of the boys came from zones that were unsafe to enter into during the day; in order to enter you have to have special permission from the controlling gang of that zone otherwise you will likely be killed. Every zone that these kids came from is controlled by a gang, where drugs, sex and violence are abundant.
When we arrived at the church bright and early, 6 am, to check in the boys I knew I would be in for an interesting week. I hadn’t played soccer in about 10 years and didn’t speak any Spanish. We loaded the boys’ bags into the busses, an act we saw as a security issue but they saw as a privilege, and headed out on the 4 hour bus ride. Once we all finally arrived at the beautiful El Faro we unloaded the bags and waited to find out which group we would be working with for the week. I, along with 3 other Americans, was part of groupo siete (group 7). This group was made up of 10 boys, ages 12 to 15, from zone 18, the biggest and most dangerous zone in Guatemala City, and two amazing mentors. When we arrived at the table they were all very quiet, anticipating what the week would look like. From the moment I sat down and tried to talk with them, again, I knew it was going to be a long week especially if I wasn’t able to talk with them.
The first couple days I found myself very frustrated because I couldn’t communicate with the boys, I didn’t know anything about them, their families, what they liked to do, where they were from, nothing. As the week went by, I found myself praying that God would give me a supernatural understanding of Spanish and that I would find some way to communicate with these boys. God answered that prayer, by the end of the week I was able to talk with the boys on a level, a very simple level but none the less a level, that I never would have imagined when I arrived. One of the boys, Mario served as my tutor; I would say something and then look to him for affirmation and he would correct my Spanish when necessary.
As the days went by the boys began to become more comfortable in our group, we played games that didn’t require speaking. Early on we put an empty water bottle on the table and all hit the table at once to see how high we could get the water bottle to go, no words, just smiles and laughter, and we were doing it together. And then there were the soccer games. The first soccer game we played and won I was jumping up and down screaming as if we had just won the world cup; no deep conversations, but my actions showed them that I cared.
One of my favorite nights was the last night. It started off like any good night should, with a dance battle. For those of you who know me, you know I love to dance and I love dance battles even more! One of my boys, Gilmar, represented groupo siete with his crazy back flips off the stage and break dancing moves, I was amazed and so proud.
But the night got even better at chapel. At the end of the message the boys were given the opportunity to accept Christ as their savior, 97 of the 100 boys made the decision that night to follow Christ.
The previous night we had a chance to talk with the boys and learn a little bit about their lives. One boy, Kevin, didn’t have a father and the boys in his neighborhood would tease him and ask him why he didn’t have a father that loved him, because they had a father who loved him. It broke my heart to know that he had a father who loved him, a heavenly Father who loved him more than anyone could ever imagine, but that he didn’t know that. He was one of the first boys to walk up to the altar the last night, it made me so happy to know that he was accepting his true Father.
One of the other boys, Enrique, was very quiet, didn’t say much and was very soft spoken. He didn’t really show much emotion, I tried with all my might to get him to laugh and smile but with little luck (it was probably my bad Spanish skills). The last night he chose to give his life to Christ, I wasn’t able to really talk to him about his decision but I was able to stand next to him and pray over him, words that he didn’t understand but were filled with love. By the time we reunited with them from the trip back to Guatemala City he jumped out of the car and ran to give me a hug with a huge smile; that was worth all of the sweat, soreness and corn tortillas from the week.
Over that week I learned that God’s love transcends cultural and linguistic barriers. I learned the difference between preaching the gospel and showing the gospel. For many of us, who didn’t speak Spanish, there was an unspoken love that developed over the week. Someone in our group said that the hardest part about leaving would be trusting that God loves those boys more than I ever can. That statement became more real as we said goodbye to them on Friday and I thought about the realities they were going back to. I wasn’t able to do anything but trust that God was going to protect those boys because of how much he loves them.
I would also like to thank my family and friends who enabled me to go on this trip, and thank them for contributing to the transformation of a nation. Though you may not have seen the impacts of your support, I can guarantee that your support had an impact on the lives of the boys who attended the camp.
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