I had decided within my first month here that if I accomplished two things this year it would be to cook a green salsa and dance a mean salsa.

Perhaps a bit of an overstatement. I am here to serve. Seriously donors. But I really have been looking for an opportunity to learn how to dance salsa.

I picked up a love for swing dance at Bethel after joining the social dance club. This does not mean was a natural. It literally took me a month to learn the basic step. Ask about any girl on campus. But I was determined, and after two years I was helping lead the club and making occasional outings to the Wichita Swing Dance Society.

Salsa seemed like a natural second step and Mexico seemed to be the natural place to learn it. The trick was how.

See, working with youth in a church environment can be a bit tricky. I could not simply ask a girl a few years younger than myself for one-on-one salsa lessons. I needed to get to know the youth, to learn how they interact/flirt/date in comparison with youth in the US, and to become good enough friends with the girls I work with that there would be no confusion between friendship and sexual interest. Despite the best efforts of some of the mothers, I am absolutely not interested in looking for a Mexican wife.

Secondly, I needed to get to know the church I am a part of. If dancing was perceived as “of the world” then salsa would have to wait.

After about six months of careful observation I have out that A. dancing would not be a problem with my congregation and B. that the young lady whose family lives in the church, is know to be a very good salsa dancer.

I proceeded from there.

After testing the waters I learned that Anna was not only very eager to teach me, but the entire congregation was very eager to watch/support/teach. My Monday night lessons became a big social event for the church. People would crowd in to give advice and ooh and aah, and laugh. Afterwards all the middle age couples would take the floor to “show me how it was done.”

Though I enjoyed the social environment I have had our lessons moved to a different time and location. One teacher is better than six.

As we move into our fourth week of lessons, there are a few things I have learned:

1. All Mexican people have natural rhythm and grace. This is not fair. Though I have much more formal training in music, I struggle to make my dancing look good. Anna consistently chides me for counting the music instead of feeling it. It might sound the same, but it is very different.

2. There is a big difference between the music with which you dance salsa, cumbia, and merengue and I can’t tell a bit of difference between any of them. I have been promised to learn all three before I leave.

3. Knowing swing helps me a ton. They are really quite similar. One could actually say that swing is salsa without…passion. I have tried teaching Anna swing. She picks up on it almost immediately and seems to be instantly bored with it. I have to agree. After an hour of salsa, swing feels very mechanical.

4. One of the first thing that you learn in swing is that you “gently guide” the lady with your hands, you don’t jerk her around. This is not true in salsa. Anna grows tired with my subtle gestures, insisting that I man-up and make a bold move. She then proceeds to show me the twist of the arm she is looking for. It usually about brings me to my knees. She says the man needs to be in control and show her what to do. I have to wonder how much of this reflects the differences between Latin and US perceptions of women.

Anna has me on a strict practice schedule. I practice with real salsa every week, one up-tempo and one down-tempo. She scoffs at both American perceptions of salsa and my love for mix-genre salsa. For now I follow her rules. I am also to dance holding a pillow so I learn how to adjust to a partner.
This practice happens under strict privacy.

For now I work on not thinking about what my feet are doing. But by the end of the year I shall rival Antonio Banderas. And then I’ll roll up my sleeves and start working on that green salsa…

One of the things that stands out to me about my congregation is the level of importance that is given to prayer.

Prayer is important to me too. I’m not sure how it all works, but I know that when I spend time in deliberate communication with God, putting the concerns of “me” aside and thinking rather of others, my small world view containing my petty concerns and worries is shaken up like a snow globe and for a moment I get a brief glimpse of God’s bigger picture.

As highly as I speak of prayer, I am terrible at maintaining the discipline. I become lazy and use the following formula:

God knows all my thoughts
My prayers almost always take the form of thoughts
Therefore God can take my thoughts, sort out the prayers, and save me a bit of time.

I think when I do this I really miss the beauty of prayer. My church body here in Mexico City has encouraged me to step up my game.

My congregation is very open in their sharing. Sometimes prayer request time is longer than the sermon, with almost everyone in attendance sharing something. At times I get impatient, as it sometimes seems to be an opportunity for the emotional soap opera watching women of the church to tell us every small thing that bothered them throughout the week.

I reprimand myself when I catch myself doing this. Though it may seem to drag on at times, the beauty of having a spiritual family close enough that people are willing to bear their souls openly is a beautiful thing, something I believe the church in its ideal state is supposed to be.

In the US (and I won’t single out my home congregation because I have seen this at most churches I have been to,) sharing time is bleak. Ushers pace the isles with microphones, an awkward cough the only thing breaking the tense silence. Unless there is someone gravely ill, we sit patiently in our pews and check our bulletins so we can get a head start on finding the next hymn.

Why would we share? People are supposed to think we have it together. Sharing our problems would ruin people’s perceptions of us. This logic (which I am also guilty of) is unfortunate and I believe is because of an often cleverly disguised pride.

This is not an issue in my church here. People offer their requests up to the congregation for prayer. And it’s not just the small stuff. People bare it all, whether they are having problems at home, struggling with depression, or dealing with addictions. A mother a few weeks back burst into tears as she told of her son having a birthday and not having enough money to buy him a cake.

You would never share these things in the churches I have attended at home. And it’s a shame. Because we were never meant to face life alone. And if we can’t share our concerns and weaknesses with our fellow believers, then with who?

Prayer here is very deliberate. Little pieces of paper are passed out every Sunday on which people carefully write down their prayer concerns. These papers are collected at the end of the service and we meet for almost 2 hours on Tuesday nights to prayer for these requests.

Sometimes I feel we take the “I’ll pray about it if it crosses my mind” approach in the US. Not here. Everything must be prayed for. Two weeks ago a few ladies of the congregation decided that there was just so much to pray for, so they organized a prayer service. A four hour prayer service. That news will make all but the most pious wilt.

But we did it, 6-10 PM. I’m told they do several of these every year.

I’m still not sure how prayer works, but I do know that long after I leave, congregation “Seguidores de Cristo” will still be praying for my health, my family and my future. That, I believe, is an important element in what it means to be the body of Christ.

CLUB RECH, SECOND TIME AROUND

This past Saturday RECH hosted the second ¨Club Rech¨ since I have been here. Usually held once a month, these club events are kind of like a youth group night with all the frills.

A week or two before, a group of 8-10 of the core RECH organizers (including a few adults) get together to organize it. This includes picking a theme, organizing a schedule of games and a speaker, and putting together promotion, from posters to audio clips that are put online. This usually takes twice as long as it should, but it’s on account of us having too much fun, so nobody minds too much.

I was very encouraged by the amount I was able to contribute in comparison to the first club event. We decided on a theme of making resolutions for the New Year and I actually contributed the ideas for both the games we played, one from a previous MCC retreat as well as telephone pictionary, which in my experience has always been a hit.

Both games proved to be a bit complex, especially in translation, and essentially crumbled before my eyes. When it came down to it, not much went according to plan, but we had a larger turnout of over 40 and everyone enjoyed themselves. I am still learning to swallow my need to be in control and just be satisfied with offering what I can, whether my ideas are taken into consideration or not.

We are starting to receive a consistent support and turnout from three local congregations, which is an encouraging base to start with. Hopefully it branches outward from there. I am also starting to make more connections on a personal level with some of the youth outside of my congregation. I keep in good contact with a youth named Fredy, who travels almost 3 hours to every RECH event. The need for RECH is out there, but we still struggle with how to best promote it.

OUR GRAND SUPERBOWL PARTY

Occasionally on the weekends Samantha, my fellow SALTers from Cuernavaca, comes for a visit. We decided a while back that we needed to throw a Superbowl party, to celebrate America´s joyous pastime of unhealthy eating in front of a football game that lasts four hours.

Mexicans love to party and to eat, so anticipation was in the air. We prepared nachos and bought a couple bags of chips (though to our great disappointment, the Doritos here are highly inferior to the American ones). To ease our guilt of unhealthy eating we also chopped up some apples and offered a caramel dip. This was a new concept to our Mexican friends and proved to be quite a hit.

Unfortunately, the game did not arouse nearly as much excitement. Sam and I enthusiastically cheered Arizona on and Cha Chas was nice enough to root for Pittsburgh to spice things up.

As for everyone else, once the apples and dip were gone, people started disappearing. There were several naps and outright incredulity at halftime that the game was only half over. Despite all of this, fun was had by all. However we sorely missed the commercials as Mexico did not put forth much effort to compete in the ad war. I also missed the super bowl sermon my church inevitably had.

AND THEN THERE WERE TWO

A few weeks ago Anna Julia arrived, a volunteer with YAMEN (another MCC program that facilitates exchanges between countries outside the U.S.). Anna is from Nicaragua, about my age, and is working with RECH as well. While we will share some responsibilities, her job is to work more specifically with the females. This is a welcome contribution, because as willing as I am to help everyone, a young man of my age working one on one with young women is a bit too complicated to risk.

Anna is still adjusting to the altitude difference (about 2000 meters) and the temperature. She absolutely cannot believe how cold it is here. She also has a very low tolerance for spicy. Boy is it good to not be on the bottom of that chain anymore.

MY EVOLUTION INTO A ROCK STAR

I must admit to being a bit anxious about H20´s next concert. Maybe it’s the fact that it is a highly anticipated 10-band festival. Maybe it’s because of the $10.00 at the door ticket price. Or maybe it’s because of the two radio interviews we have before it.

But most likely it is because since one of our guitarists cannot make it, I am playing bass and singing backup vocals for our next concert, alongside my spectacular rap. I have 4 rehearsals to learn all the songs. We all practiced together yesterday morning and it was a blast.

If relations with our guitarist continue to be strained I could be on for several more gigs. This would include the invitation we received from Mexico City’s Hard Rock Café, following in the steps of The Village People, KC and the Sonshine Band, and Cheap Trick. I am consistently amused when I think of the thousands of aspiring rock stars that pour their time, energy, and life savings into their music, that would kill to play the gigs we play. All I had to do was go to a few band rehearsals and sit in the corner. What a strange life I live.

My last Saturday began with being shaken awake at 8:00 AM by three high school boys. I am not terribly wild about waking up this way, as it usually takes me about half a minute to remember where I am and another five minutes until my Spanish kicks in and I can understand the context of my rude awakening.

In my confused state I picked out the phrase ¨get dressed! We’re going swimming.¨

I went through the calendar in my mind. It was indeed still January.

I poked my head out from under the covers.

Sigh.

It was definitely still 40 degrees outside.

So I stumbled across the room, grabbed a pair of swimming trunks and we headed out the door and packed into Mario’s car. On top of being tired and cold, my dislike and fear of swimming generally keeps me out of large bodies of water unless I am on fire.

But a year of service has never been about what I wanted to do, and if this is as tough as my job gets, I’ve got it pretty good. So heck, let’s go swimming.

After swinging by the pastor’s house to pick up Cha Chas, we started an hour and a half trek to the nearest water park. As we took the last mile over a rough and dusty country road in the middle of nowhere, I was starting to wonder what this place was going to look like.

A large walled-in complex appeared out of nowhere, and after paying 30 pesos, we went in. It was almost worth the 30 pesos just to take a look around.

A dozen pools, varying in size and depths were scattered around the grounds, surrounded by grassy lawn and sad looking dilapidated playground equipment. The pools themselves held a fair bit of dirt at the bottom.

The one cold and echoey enclosed building held a pool with actual lanes and diving platforms, though the paint was chipping and a sock floated lazily in the center. All in all the place looked like it had seen its prime about 30 years ago, now standing barely maintained like a ghost water park of sorts.

There appeared to be no regulations of any sort, judging by the chickens that contentedly pecked around the pools and the fact that despite there being little kids everywhere, there was apparently no need for a lifeguard.

We spent the day swimming, lying around, and playing some intense games of three on three soccer. After an hour of nagging I finally dipped my feet in the water, but 20 seconds later after losing complete feeling in my feet I decided the full plunge was not worth the pneumonia. Everyone has their limits.