I woke at 3:30 this morning, my mind racing, finally ready to write. So much to say, no idea where to begin…

Crunch week turned into Cram Weekend, as in we crammed in as much stuff — work, social events, goodbyes — as possible, and then we kept cramming: belongings into suitcases, and bodies and luggage into cars and planes. Now we’re home and just beginning to unwind.

But backing up. I can’t just move straight from rush-rush-rush to home. I gotta tell you about finishing out the week: closing out the project! the house warming! the going-away party!

Friday was The Big Day: cleaning up the jobsite and packing, plus the house dedication at six followed by our despedida. We were originally going to have the house dedication on Thursday night, but then it rained — hard, and for hours — and the power went out and life slowed waaaay down, and so we postponed. Which was good, my husband agreed, because that allowed them to get a lot more work done before they had to make the house all presentable.

Funny little poop story: my husband cut the sewer lines while my uncle was using the bathroom.

My uncle found the situation very humerous.

I dreaded the dedication. All week long I felt like I was bracing myself for a tidal wave of raw emotions. Speaking in Spanish — my words never adequate enough — through all the feelings, ugh. I knew I’d be a mess.

We got to the jobsite early. The plates of cookies on the new kitchen counter and drinks in the fridge, we walked around looking at the (almost) finished product and taking photos.

Airy and small, it’s built like a rock. Both simple and efficient, it’s beautiful, too. I am so proud of the work we have done, and so proud of all the dozens and dozens of people who volunteered to make Nilda a home. 

During the dedication, we read off the list of volunteer names. My husband and I read the volunteers from the States, alternating back and forth, and then Lery and Chiro read the names of the local volunteers.

Volunteers from the States
Chris, Brad, Zoe, Gavin, Paulson, Shirley, Adam, Jeni, Joe, Adam, Isabel, Anna, Deirdre, Erin, Brian, Marty, Matthew, Kent, David, Delbert, Sandar, Jeff, Ryan, Deron, Lawrence, Ruei-Jen, Emma, Dwight, Isaac, Dan, Jalyn, Sam, David, Esther, Jim, Sean, Nes, Hector, Carlos, Vandy, Jim, Kenton, Nicholas, Caroline, Rebecca, Jonathan, Jennifer, John.

Volunteers from Puerto Rico
Daniel, Jakelin, Edgardo, Maria, Edgardo, Evelinda, Daniel, Melvin, Israel, Rafaelito, Jose, Heydiann, Mia, Heidi, Fransheska, Juan Pablo, Olga, Martha, Pastor Demetrio, Carmen, Minin, Rolando, Glorimar, Kathy, Glorianne, Iris, Chiro, Lery, Leryann, Dereck, Demeric, Carmen, Nilda, Nicole, Norleene.

Those names make up just two small paragraphs, but if you read each name out loud (do it!), keeping in mind the dozens of people backing each name — providing support emotionally, financially, logistically — it’s more than a little impressive. So much love!

The ceremony was, like the house, simple and straightforward: we gave a welcome, there were a couple prayers, a song (What Is This Place, sung by my uncle and cousin and the two younger kids and me, and I kept it together!), a reading (that I nearly forgot about so we added it at the end), and the presentations to Nilda and her family: the key to the house, a photo album that I’d filled with photos of the building process, a wallhanging made by my cousin Zoe, and a Bible.

We cried off and on (my husband more than me, ha!), but most everyone else did, too, so it didn’t much matter.

And then there were the snacks, and lots more photos, of course.

From the dedication, we high-tailed it over to the church for our despedida. And what a despedida it was! We didn’t get home until after midnight, and the next morning when I popped awake after only a few hours of sleep, I felt aglow with the memories from the previous evening, like I was a-light, from the inside out, with twinkle lights, each one a sweet memory from the previous evening.

The church had been transformed: yellow caution tape over the doors, and yellow paper-covered tables had been set up. Shovels and hardhats leaned against the pulpit, and the table at the front was spread with an array of photos and plaques.

We were crying before it even started.

Sometimes all the attention and accolades lavished upon us by the local community has made me squirm. Look, I want to say, we’re just an ordinary family plodding along. Sure, we’re giving something (though in the face of so much need, it’s hardly a drop in the bucket) but we’re getting way, way, way more: friendships and family time, Spanish skills and a heightened sense of purpose, adventure.

But then, over the last few months as I’ve listened to person after person share about how we’ve inspired them, showed them the true meaning of service, taught them to be better Christians, I’ve gradually come to realize that this isn’t about us. It’s about something much bigger than the sum of our motley parts: it’s about hope. Through dozens of sacks of cement, and a bunch of two-by-fours and sheets of drywall, an entire community has felt, in a very concrete way (ha!) that they’re not alone, that goodness is real, that grace and mercy are tangible.

Olga gave a beautiful, thoughtful meditation, and then there was a time of sharing in which a number of people, in hopes of keeping the tears at bay, made a point of not looking in our direction. Rolando showed a video he’d put together, pretty much encapsulating everything. There were clips of the actual hurricane and news footage. There were photos of Nilda’s destroyed home. There were videos and photos of them getting ready for our arrival, and then a whole slew of videos, still photos, and drone shots of the actual building process (soundtrack: Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Amost Like Praying). There were wonky photo/video collages of  each of the kids in turn (accompanied by the Flintstones theme song), plus old photos of the kids working when they were but little tots (Rolando and his wife perused our photo albums when they were at our house!). One minute we’d be laughing and the next we’d be crying. It was a good thing I packed tissues.

And then we were invited to the front to receive plaques — each one presented by a different person — and then the gifts started flowing. The church had sent out our clothing sizes, and people had purchased everything from shirts and hats, to shoes and socks. Plus, there were handwritten notes, cards with money, gift cards, homemade jewelry, a wooden press for making tostones and a wooden mortar and pestle for making mofongo, coffee, candy, mugs, paintings, and on and on and on. The kids were positively bug-eyed and giddy with glee.

By the time the evening was over, I felt both washed out and filled to the brim. We’d said all the words and heard all the speeches, exchanged hugs, taken a million photos, and both sobbed and belly-laughed. Goodbyes are hard, but done right— and Puerto Ricans know how to do them right! — they are cathartic, too.

Goodbye, Puerto Rico, and thank you. We love you dearly.

This same time, years previous: southern sweet tea, blueberry muffins, in my kitchen: 5:25 p.m., the cousins came, regretful wishing, the quotidian (9.3.12), roasted peaches.

Just FYI, we made it home!

More soon….
xo!

It’s crunch week, y’all. We’re racing the clock to get as much done as possible before flying home on Sunday.

Thank goodness we have two expert workers chipping in this week. My cousin is back (for the third time!) and he done did bring his daddy-o.

The two of them, plus my husband and kids, are whirling around the property like mini tornadoes (the good kind), pouring another porch step, grouting tile, installing doors, putting in the kitchen counter and cabinets, doing the porch roofs, finishing the painting, cleaning up the property.

We won’t be quite done when we leave — but the place will be liveable, fingers crossed — so my cousin will stay for another week, trying to get it as close to done done as possible.

In addition to the work crunch, there’s the social crunch — trying to pack in as much friend time as possible. Saturday night we stayed up late watching a movie and munching on popcorn, almonds, and craisins at our friends’ house. Sunday there was bowling and games and hanging out at Church’s. Monday, Marita, a friend from church, and Carmen came over to teach me how to make mofongo.

They also made churrasco and whipped up a bowl of mayoketchup, and I made a cabbage slaw and blondies. Also, Carmen brought along her massage chair so we could take turns fighting over it.

But hang on a sec. I gotta say a little more about Carmen. Just this, really: She is a HOOT.

Over at the jobsite, she instigated a game of swords with my younger son, and then, because she was worried that my husband would get upset, she went home and crafted swords from foam noodles. My husband said he looked out the window and there she was, battling it out with the kid!

Also, she doesn’t approve of my daughter’s new piercing, so when my daughter came out with an ice cube pressed against her ear, Carmen snapped in Spanish, “You’re the one who wanted a piercing so now just deal with it, ha!” and to me, “translate THAT!” and so I did, and then she leveled my daughter with the hairy eyeball to beat all hairy eyeballs and we shrieked with laughter, my older daughter loudest of all.

So, continuing on….

Last night I cooked supper for Nilda, Carmen, Nicole, and Norleene (and the two volunteers). All summer long they’ve been cooking for us, so it’s high time we turned the tables, I figured. And then afterward, everyone ran off to a basketball game, and now tonight a friend is coming over for a baking lesson….

And today is only Wednesday, pant-pant.

Two other things before I forget!

First, I never told you about The Pan de Agua Car. Nearly every morning a car wends its way through our neighborhood, a recorded voice telling everyone to take advantage now. When my parents were here, my dad kept asking, What are they saying? What are they selling?

I have no idea, I said. I didn’t care to know, really. Ad cars pass all the time, their speakers so offensively loud that I had long since tuned them out as a silent boycott against their rudeness. Whatever that car was selling, I wanted none of it. Just some peace and quiet please.

And then, a few weeks after my parents left, it suddenly dawned on me: that car was selling bread! And then, of course, I had to flag it down to investigate.

In the backseat was a huge sack of pan de agua, the long thin loaves standing on their ends like a bouquet of flowers. Up front on the passenger’s seat, was a box of smaller loaves of pan sobao, and couple bags of sweet buns with raisins.

That first morning, I bought some of everything, and ever since, I’ve been a faithful customer. Mornings when I hear the recording (which isn’t nearly as offensively loud as most, I’ve realized) and we’re low on bread, I snatch a couple pesos from the money jar and dash outside to stock up.

It’s super convenient (though I am eager to get back to homemade sourdough!).

Second, a question: Can I pack homemade (unsealed — it comes in old rum bottles) vinegar in my checked baggage?

At the same fruit stand where I discovered parcha, I found a homemade vinegar. It’s called pique, and, packed with red peppers, fresh garlic, stems of oregano, and olive oil, it’s the perfect blend of flavor and heat.

I pour it on anything — eggs, rice, meat — and have become rather addicted, so naturally I want to bring back a few bottles.

However, I’m not sure the vinegar will be allowed through customs since it’s homemade and the bottles aren’t sealed. On the other hand, Puerto Rico is part of the US, so maybe they wouldn’t be as picky? Anyone have any experience with this?

This same time, years previous: don’t wear deoderant, the quotidian (8.29.16), tomatoes in cream, peach crisp, Bezaleel scenes, puppy love, fresh tomato salad, roasted tomato sauce.