They are loud. The boys talk and laugh; they call each other names that I cannot understand.
They speak rapidly, in voices that sound so different than when they speak English for us gringos to understand.
We are blessed to be here, but my soul is gasping for breath along with my lungs. It cannot comprehend how people could choose this lifestyle. My heart does not understand how this is the life that they have chosen to live.
Their lives are polar opposites of mine, and yet I am drawn to them and have fallen in love with these strange fiends whom have welcomed us so eagerly into their homes.
They are some of the most respectful boys I have ever met. We are the most important. Our safety, our comfort, our ideas, our lives. We always come first. If we are quiet or alone, they ask continuously if we are okay, of we need or want anything, or if they can do anything to help us.
We have been sharing dinners. They cook for us, we cook for them. When we cook, they are so thankful, but it is a real grateful thankfulness. They thank us for taking time to prepare the food. They thank us for serving them. They thank us for cleaning up afterwards, and they assure us that it was delicious.
They are each so different, but so similar in many ways. And in different ways, I love them all so much. I love the way they include us and translate their conversations for us. I love the way that they assure us that we are welcome to stay in their home as long as we want. I love the way they look at us when they talk to us and show that they truly are interested and care about our lives.
And I love their respect. I love the way that, for the first time in meeting Central American men, they have not attempted to act as "more than friends". I love the way that, even though we are in their house, they give us space and offer the best rooms, the best beds, the best blankets. Because how we feel is more important than how they feel.
I don't understand, though. How someone can revolve their life so deeply around drugs, smoking, and alcohol.
It is shattering my world. Because despite what I was raised believing, they are still human. They still have fun, they still talk, laugh, eat, sleep, see, and observe. They are just high while they do it.
Everything in me is moving in a weird middle world between "they are normal people," and "I thought people who did drugs had awful lives and sat around stoned and numb all the time."
I think it's crazy, but I am fighting against myself and everything that I think and think that I believe.
I love being in the midst of the deep Spanish voices. They speak so quickly and I can barely understand a single word, but there is no need to understand. I know that they have no care in the world; they are simply living and enjoying the moment and not thinking about a thing.
And I wonder how they got to this point - do they ever think deeply of life and consider other ways of living?
It breaks my heart because everything I have been taught says that I need to show them Jesus, and when I don't, I feel as though I fail.
But I cannot begin to comprehend a place called hell for most of the souls on this planet - especially souls who don't know. Souls that are only following what they were taught and raised to believe, just as I am.
They sip their beer, and go switch from playing a soccer video game to a shooting game with ghosts and zombies and lots of blood.
I am sick of the alcohol. In my first few weeks stepping out of my safe and comfortable Wisconsin, I was intrigued. I jumped into the party world amazed at such a different way of life.
I was amazed at the way alcohol effected me, and I liked it. But at the same time, I was split, because I hate it. I hate that every conversation revolved around alcohol, drugs, sex, and the crazy, stupid things that happened the previous night. I hate the talk about naked women. I am so thankful that these boys can be honest, but I hate that this is what the honesty brings out. I hate that a woman is not a soul - she is just a body here for his pleasure.
I hate that every party and fun time is thanks to the effect of the poison.
I hated it then, and now I hate it more. I hate the smell. I hate how every night at any given moment there are some seven open cans among six people. I hate how alcohol brings back memories. Memories of the times when I let my flesh take over. Times when I let my lust control my actions, changing my entire life in a few short minutes. I hate how alcohol brings up the question of what might have been.
I am not one of them. I love these boys, but there is no connection. None of us speak it, but there is a chasm between us that none of us really understand. I do not belong here, and I had to be shoved in a smelly closet packed with beer bottles, trashy talk, playboy magazines, and blinding smoke from weed and cigarettes before I realized that I do not want any part of this lifestyle.
The flesh once ruled, but mi Dios is calling me back to a life of reckless abandon. A life of power and purity and blessing in abundance.
Maybe I am here to change the world, but maybe that is not my job. Maybe my job is to learn from them and change my life, and let God worry about changing theirs.
