Quinceo

Backpacking lesson #5586: you don't have to go backpacking to feel like you're roughing it; all you need to do is get rid of running water and air conditioning.

Strangely, those are the two thing I hear people complaining about the most back home (because I work in a plumbing shop). We do that a lot: receive blessings, grow content with them, and then throw a huge fit when they break down or get taken away rather than remember that they were remarkable gifts in the first place.

Last week, I spent about four days in Quinceo, a mountainous village in Mexico populated by 6,000 indigenous people and standing at about 8,000 feet elevation. The people there speak Purepecha, which, according to the Ethnologue, has about 55,000 speakers worldwide. Many people also speak Spanish, and a handful speak English, so although communication was sometimes a bit difficult, it was never impossible.

We were received with open arms and eager generosity. They offered us their best, which meant making sure we had toilet paper and constructing a quick make-shift door for the bathroom. Although the church there had experienced some persecution, its members were full of grace; everyone wanted the chance to show their hospitality by giving us a meal--so much so that we struggled to force ourselves through five full meals one day in order to not appear ungrateful.

The people don't have air conditioning at all--and probably don't need it because they are high in the mountains--but they also don't have heating, and houses are by no means tightly sealed from the outdoors. The family we stayed with had electricity; I honestly have no idea how many other houses did. They pulled their water from a well and spent at least an hour a day hand-making tortillas with comfortable expertise. (Indeed, one lady, whom I had hardly seen smile in our four days there, bust out laughing at our feeble attempts to imitate their culinary skills.)

Most people there are Catholics (whether by practice or name only, I don't know). The pastor of the Protestant church had grown up there, moved to America for about 10 years, became a Christian, and felt a calling to go back to his village to minister to his people. Unfortunately, his family experienced some measure of persecution at the leadership of the catholic priest. But the church has grown, little by little, and its members live with great energy and enthusiasm to spread the gospel. Nearly every evening after the church service, one or two of the women would ask us to go with them to evangelize to one of their neighbors or relatives.

They all seemed happy, although of course people often smile extra for guests, so my point of view might not be the best gauge. Our last day there, we were informed of the family's plans to make another bathroom, this one complete with a door, running water, a sink, and a shower. We all rejoiced, thinking how nice that would be for future visitors. But then I felt a twinge of guilt: how much time had we spent there lamenting the comforts of home? Not the whole time (we spent much time being grateful and building relationships), but probably more time than we should have. And how much more, when we're back home, surrounded by all those comforts, do we spend our time wanting more?

That's why I love 'roughing it' every once in a while. Lose the comforts we have grown accustomed to and remember that they are blessings--gifts. Remember there are more important things to spend our time thinking about. Remember that God, who sees to the needs of even the sparrows and the flower, also looks after us, no matter which corner of the earth we are found in.  And He certainly has been looking after the people of Quinceo. Although they live with less, they were not starving; their basic needs are met and more and more are coming to Christ all the time, giving them--and us--something we can really rejoice about.