Discover - Certificate in Intercultural and Leadership Studies

BJ Smith
Reflections on a Year

Plains, Montana

One morning before the sun had risen over the rock mountains of Montana, my friend Amanda and I climbed up to the infamous Cross overlooking camp. It is set into the rock, tall and wooden, protecting the camp and river below. We did not make it to the Cross that morning, as a wrong turn along the shale path led us to another hill. The sun had begun to rise as we tucked ourselves into the side of the hill to witness the breaking of the dawn. As we read Psalm 46 aloud, I realized that the spectacle of the dawn was a small task for God; how much more attention is given to the detail of my existence?while fragmented and seemingly tiny to my eyes?and how much more care is given to the composition of the symphony of myself?

Antigua, Guatemala

My roommate for Spanish language homes and I are nothing alike. She is blond and pretty, a phlegmatic-melancholy, which translates into laid-back perfectionism. When we were paired up to exist together in Antigua, I had my doubts. But instead of the weeks being awkward or forced, they were tinged with hilarity and spiced with life; uncertainty with the Spanish language left our personalities to do nothing but find common ground in our homes. One night Jenna and I stayed up late, talking about our friends back home and experiences that had shaped us into who we are. Whether walking home together late at night or finding goldfish in a street puddle, we came to an understanding of what it meant to accept each other, and to see the beauty in something outside of our understanding.

El Volcan Pacaya, Guatemala

I began the climb of the volcano feeling great, my bones strong and head relatively clear. As the climb wore on, I began to sense the summit, and part of me loathed to reach the top. I had been thinking for the past few weeks what it meant to ask things of God, and expect to receive them. As a young Christian I had always been chided about treating God like Santa Claus, but the passage that I was dwelling on condones the asking things of God. "For everyone who asks receives..." I began asking God things that were on my heart, specifically things that I desired for my life but had been too prideful to bring before Him. The last leg of the volcano was loose volcanic rock and dust, making climbing an object lesson in humility, as I scrambled on my hands and knees, frustrated by the pain and asking God to grant me the desires of my heart. As the summit became clear in the heat of the day, pieces of lava and rock belching from the crater of Pacaya, I finished my prayer.

Tzumpango, Guatemala

During our ministry time in Guatemala, my team had a prayer walk ministry in the village of Tzumpango, just outside of Chimaltenango. One especially hot and dusty day found us tromping the steep streets of Tzumpango, making home visits, praying over those who were sick, and spending time talking about life experiences over coffee and sweetbread. The final house we visited reminded me of a scene from National Geographic: husks of corn, netted sacks of melon, brightly-coloured roosters and lines of drying clothes greeted us into the courtyard of the small aluminum and cinderblock enclosure of rooms. An older Mayan woman lay on a grass woven mat in an earthen-floored room, refusing to be on a bed for fear of falling off. The pastor knelt next to the woman and her daughter, asking questions in Spanish about her health, and how we could help. We began to pray. I felt a tug at my heart, a tug that I had felt before and that I often feel, that told me to take another step. The woman lay on her mat, her dark hands clasped together in prayer, whispering in earnest to the Lord, and I knelt close to her, putting my whole upper body on her little frame. Usually, North Americans do not live with the National people, and especially do not touch them. Touching or hugging people in Guatemala, the pastor told us later, is an incredible sign of love to them. Much later, we were told that the woman, who had not previously attended church, had become a member of the congregation.

Near San Salvador, El Salvador

As my friend David tells it, our day of garbage pickup and burning, curb painting, and sweeping with the small congregation of El Nazaret was the day that the people of Apopa reclaimed the neighborhood. "As soon as the crew would rake the trash into piles and burn it, the space would fill with children and parents," he said. I remember that first day of Practicum work in El Salvador as a hot one, and we buzzed with excitement to get our hands dirty. Plumes of smoke filled the street and parks that we were clearing, the heat from our fires melting brooms and drawing onlookers with rakes and shovels to help. We worked like bees, singing with the kids, lending shovels to mothers, and cutting down scraggly trees with the pastor. Through the smoke of the garbage fires, David saw the Salvadorians of the neighborhood moving into the clean spaces just as soon as they were made. My friend Matt worked digging holes for signs, grunting with exertion, his hands bleeding from lacerations and blisters. I looked at his hands afterward and he just smiled at me. "Y'know, it's just good to be able to use my hands again," he said. "That's what I like. It's how I serve, y'know?"

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