Stephanie's message

I don’t know about you, but I remember summer family reunions. My family would all pile into a car and drive somewhere far away, West Virginia or Southern Ohio. There would be people there who my mom or dad would try to explain our kinship with. Eventually my eyes would glaze over as someone tried to explain that Rebecca was my cousin because her dad was the son of my dad’s father’s sister or some other complicated relationship. I would hear the story of how my dad and her dad would spend hours hiding up in the trees in the backyard so they wouldn’t have to play with the girl cousins. All I would hear was cousin and was satisfied that we were family. Somewhere there was a common progenitor.

As I’ve gotten older I look back fondly on these family reunions. As the older generations of my life pass away, these get-togethers become even more important to me. It becomes important to find out about the thirteen days that cousin Rebecca went without electricity after that summer storm. It becomes essential to see Roger’s seven children and multitude of grandchildren. Eventually I turn to Vincent and I start to explain this is your cousin; her dad is the son of my dad’s father’s sister. I would explain Roger used to baby sit me and one time fed me a box of chocolate cake mix because he didn’t know how to cook. I nudge Vincent in the ribs when his eyes glaze over, but I know he knows we’re family.

This was my third trip to Guatemala, but only my second visit to the Lake Izabal region. My first trip was a blur with lots of activity. My memories were of long bus rides, smiling faces, heat, making cement floors, doing math in the dirt with little girls, water bottles, heat, a beautiful lake, accepting people, and (did I mention?) heat. In December, our church was able to bring three members of our partner presbytery to Louisville. Perry, Vincent, and I hosted Ramiro. In my bad Spanish, Vincent’s worse Spanish, and Perry’s continued questions in Spanish we learned about Ramiro’s family and life in El Estor. On this return trip I looked forward to seeing Ramiro’s family, smiling faces, a beautiful lake, and accepting people. I knew to expect water bottles, long bus rides, and heat.

What I didn’t expect was the overwhelming feeling of family. It was a family reunion. Somehow these people weren’t just our partners. I had prayed for these people. I had memories of these people and this place. I remembered their faces. I knew my way from Arca de Noe church to the hotel. Most importantly of all, I knew they had prayed for my church, had memories of our visits, remembered some of the members of our group’s faces, and, as I pleasantly learned after our first night in El Estor, those little girls I did math in the dirt with, they remembered my name. They remembered me. We were family.

Don’t get me wrong. I think of Crescent Hill Presbyterian as my church home, but there is something about traveling so far away, not very often, and being accepted. I see Crescent Hill members pretty often. You all are kind of like immediate family. The kind you see all the time and sometimes take for granted. Going to El Estor I got to see my extended family. The kind you have to explain to your child how you’re related.

Exactly like other family reunions, hugs were given freely, smiles and nods were exchanged across the room, children born since our last visit or too young to remember peeked from behind mothers’ skirts. You can also ask our youth, Freddy was still there ready to throw the Frisbee or play soccer. This was just the same as those long trips to West Virginia except soccer w,uld be replaced by softball and cousin Freddy would probably be named Mike.

This trip served many purposes. We discussed our partnership. We visited several churches we had not seen before. We held several workshops. We played frisbee and soccer. But, most importantly. it reminded me that we are family. Crescent Hill and Presbyteriano de Izabal are my church family. We have a common progenitor. We are all part of God’s family.