The amor of my abuelito

I don’t remember my real grandpa who died when I was two but I’d like to think that he would be like my abuelito here. Barely coming up to my shoulder, he is balding with silver lining crowning his head. He smiles at me every day after school when I fight with our dog so that he doesn’t escape our court yard. I would visit with him after my classes and inhale the scent of oils and passion colliding in his art studio. I always felt a little guilty because I knew I was interrupting his work but he always welcomed me in with a kiss on the cheek that told me I could do no wrong in his deep brown eyes. My abuelito calls me amor and hugs me real tight making me feel small even though I tower over him. It scares me to say but I like the feeling of being someone’s granddaughter.

My abuelito has been a self taught painter for seventy years and has art all over the world from Canada to Peru. He has painted the coast of Colombia, the faces of the indigenous community in Ecuador, the waterfalls of Washington, the forests of Venezuela, and in all of this he has captured a history while creating a legacy. My abuelito tells me every day that God created two things—nature and people but that when God made sunrises and sunsets He made them just for him. My abuelito tells me that the world is a gift from God that he has the privilege of painting. It is there in that studio that my abuelito wants to die painting the reflection of his Creators creation.

            I loved listening to my abuelito tell me about the beauty of our Savior as I breathed in the truth of God’s love mixing with oils, water colors, and charcoal. One day my abuelitos wrinkled hands held my face and looked into a lie I had been believing for a very long time. “One day,” he said, “I would like to paint you because when I see you, I see a part of God’s lovely creation.” With the tenderness that somehow knew the pain of my past he told me that I am beautiful and for the first time I believed him. My abueilito saw me as his hopelessly lost often frazzeled granddaughter whom he loved very much. In every painting there is a piece of my abuelito, in each brush stroke there is his love and that’s how I would like to think of God when He made the world—putting His heart and love not only in all creation but in each sunset and sunrise  just for my abuelito. 

A reflection: 30 de septiembre

The past forty-eight hours have been like nothing I have ever been through in my sheltered little world as a privileged and protected, apple pie, stars and stripes, all American girl. I haven’t had a lot of time to process and filter through everything; when I try it’s just a swirl of mixed emotions, all I keep coming back to is that nothing has changed but yet everything has.

On September 30^th, 2010 during my five hour Spanish class phones began to ring and the radio was turned on telling my teacher, my peers, and I that there was an attempted coup d'etat in Quito just thirty minutes away and that we needed to return to our home stay families immediately. We lingered not knowing what to say to each other as contradicting emotions collided, excitement and fear. Not knowing which feeling to harness, we began to say good bye to each other and go our separate ways. A group of us headed the same direction as like any other day but that day we stopped into a cell phone store and made calls stateside. I called my mom first because she would be the most likely to worry and call the National Guard, Red Cross, and White House. I remember my mom asking me if I felt safe, I tried my best to have my “brave girl, please don’t worry about me” front for my mom sakes. Next I called my Dad and more than anything I wanted to hear my father’s voice. It’s the little girl in me that thinks my Dad can fix the world and save me from anything and everything but there was no answer, he was at work and I was a world away.  

            In my world businesses shut done, province state lines closed, public transportation stopped, banks closed, and crime skyrocketed. A car was set on fire in the central of my hometown, Sangolqui and someone was robbed near my school. Mid-morning police surrounded the presidential palace and surrounding ministries in the “Plaza de Independencia”. From there President Correa was attacked with teargas and was rushed to the hospital after his knee gave out (he had surgery early September). From the hospital late last night there was cross-fire between the loyal military and police officer as Correa fled. The media here is graphic—I watched everything unfold as men died outside the hospital as the President was evacuated.  

I checked up on CNN, BBC, and the New York Times but they haven’t quite grasped the magnitude of this event. What the media and people abroad don’t understand is that here security is maintained by the presence of officers in every major store, university, and bank. This prevents looting and robbery—a major problem in Ecuador. With the police protesting the security of this country became no existent and all the citizens could do was hold their in the anticipation and hope for stability.   

With all of this happening my family seemed so calm. My sister was doing her nails when I got home and my brother was playing Halo—no one was watching the news. I think my mom knew that I was freaking out so we turned on the news during lunch after my Grandmother prayed for her sons. The only precaution taken was sending my brother out to buy bread (my family really loves bread). After watching the news for awhile my mom and sister got bored and decided that a coup d’état was the perfect time for ice cream! After driving around for an hour we found the only ice cream shop open in all of Sangolqui and ordered our cones.