I retired before my husband and enjoyed my writing routine. As his retirement drew near we discussed what he’d spend his days doing.
“I’ve always wanted to learn Spanish,” he said. “I want to keep my mind sharp.”
It took a few weeks for him to realize the seriousness (to me) of my writing schedule. But he soon found an online program and settled into a study routine.
We enjoyed our coffee and breakfast chats, then met again for lunch. I left my story characters in peril every afternoon about 3:30 and transitioned back to the “real world”. After an early supper, my husband and I caught up on our day, played a game called Rummikub, and watched television until bedtime.
One day, a friend invited him on a week-long mission trip to Antigua Guatemala. While he was away, I exhausted myself by writing uninterrupted, eating all the foods I like, but he doesn’t, and staying up too late.
Each evening, we’d video chat. One night, he mentioned the schools in Antigua teaching Spanish. Students live with host families. He’d visited the most recommended and loved the idea and the low cost.
When he returned home, we settled the details. I wasn’t interested in going, but I didn’t mind him trying it out for four weeks. Our flyer miles made the flights cheap.
He made the trip back and forth several times. Studying Spanish in Antigua and connecting with the sweet people fits his personality. My husband spoke of its beauty and the ability to walk everywhere in the city. He bragged about the school, his teacher, host families, and the school’s quality program. My husband continually voiced his desire for me to experience it with him at least once. He wished to sit on a romantic park bench with me, introduce me to his friends and host families, and take me to the wonderful restaurants. Aww. How could I resist?
I let go of fear and trusted God. We arrived in Antigua.
On the first night, sound of rapid machine gun fire startled me awake. My husband remained asleep. He had warned me of the “bombas” and the Antiguans’ love of celebration. I forced a peek out into the courtyard of our hotel to verify no invasion had happened. Then returned to bed and waited for the party to end.
On the first morning, we met with the mission group and journeyed to a distant village to take food, meet the people, and pray with them. The next day, in a different village, we hiked up a steep hill to see a small rural school, then back down for activities with the children. The altitude, long bumpy car ride, and lack of sleep curtailed additional “mission” work.
We spent the rest of the week strolling in the city, eating, and resting on a park bench away from the pidgins roosting in the trees. I loved the beauty, mariachi bands, and the people. I understood my husband’s love for Antigua. But I didn’t plan on returning as a missionary. At least not in the traditional sense.
LEARN WHAT HAPPENED WHEN I WENT BACK
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