Sunday, January 29, 2017

dos años.


We meet in an old recording studio. It has a small open-air courtyard that we cover with a tarp (it's only once dropped a big water bomb on us during the rainy season). This morning we packed into that little courtyard anxious to celebrate together. 2 years. For two years, we've met together, welcomed new faces, made new friends, and grown our family. We're still trying to figure out what it means to live the gospel in community, but I think today was a glimpse of what it's supposed to look like. 

We officially recognized David as our pastor and it only seemed right that we'd continue celebrating by going out for tacos al pastor

¡Feliz aniversario, comunidad! 
Los quiero. 




















Sunday, January 22, 2017

la peña de bernal.


We woke up to the wind whistling and gently knocking on our door. The streets were quiet except for the sound of our gym shoes rhythmic beating against the cobblestone and the occasional cackling chicken on the side of the road. Cobblestone was traded for gravel, and gravel traded for a winding trail of tumbling rocks. As the path became steeper, our run slowed and we navigated our way on the ever upwards path, now with our hands to help us climb. 

And when we finally made it to the top, we were rewarded with gulps of cold, crisp air (the kind you have to leave the city for
and a view that makes you stop, sit, and stare for a while. 

As we made our way back down, the sun was making it's way higher up. The creases alongside my eyes started to hurt when I smiled, telling me I already had my fair share of sun. Chatty people now crowded the path and shop owners offered candy and trinkets to those at the base of the trail. Descending farther down into the town center, we made our way to breakfast. Then to ice cream. And to tacos. And coffee. And the candy shop...

















----

- a view that a photo will never do justice


Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Thank you.



When I was growing up, Dad kept a radio in his bedroom that would sound off the calls that came into the firehouse. If you kept listening, you could hear details of the call being patched through, and later, conversations between those actually on site. If there was a big fire nearby, sometimes my brothers and I would ride our bikes to watch the guys in action. Other times, we would just sit on the bedroom floor listening to the radio for some news of Dad or Papa who was the chief at the time.  

One day while Dad was on duty, Mom listened to the details of a fire the guys were called to. I've heard her say that on that day there were panicked voices saying that they didn't know where Dad was. 
Sometime after that, I remember the radio being gone. 
But radio or not, the sounds of sirens passing past the house at all hours gave the same sort of reminder that Dad was on call. 

I guess I never thought on it too much as a kid. The risk, that is. The fact that when Dad left the house in the morning, he was committing himself to serve the people of our city for the next 24 hours regardless of the danger it might present. 

That's a hero if you ask me. Maybe I'm biased because I have so much family history in firefighting. Or because two of the guys I love most in the world stand beside each other every third day at the firehouse down the street from where I grew up to respond to all the calls that come in. 

But the truth is that all the men and women who serve their cities in that way have sacrificed much. 
And those that faithfully support them from home have sacrificed much. 
Today is International Firefighters' Day and I wanted to use it as a chance to say thank you. For your sleepless nights, the time away from your families, the risks you willingly face and fight for us -- thank you



















);