Eating Cake In The Dark

The graduation of two of the Casa G boys.

"And I think back to when
my brother and my sister slept
In an unlocked place
The only time I feel safe
You show the lights that stop me
turn to stone
You shine it when I'm alone
And so I tell myself that I'll be strong
And dreaming when they're gone
 - Lights, by Ellie Goulding

For weeks I have been working on and planning a graduation celebration for two of the Casa Gabriel boys, Jesus and Miguel. They are brothers who were living on the streets, working as entertainers who begged coins from drivers at stoplights, and slowly getting into robbery before being given the opportunity to living in Casa Gabriel. Now, they're graduating high school, and not just that: Miguel is graduating after having had a nearly fatal accident, and Jesus is graduating with many honors at the top of his class, at the top of the Ecuadorian education system, at that. Miguel's accident happened when a parquor flip went wrong and he fractured his neck on the pavement. It took months of physical therapy and determination before he was able to walk again. He fell behind in school but caught up. Now, the long scar on the back of his neck is the only reminder of how close he came to paralysys or death. 

This was before I really knew Miguel. When I arrived in January he was still in therapy but on the mend. In the months since I've gotten to know the boys better and better. I was working hard on planning for a grand graduation celebration when one night, a week and a half before the event, I recieved a terrible call about a second could-have-been-fatal accident: Phil, the director of Casa G, had been on a motorcycle which ran off the road and left Phil unconcious in a ditch. It took two hospitals and several x-rays and scans before doctors diagnosed two broken vertebrae and the need for an operation. Those first few days, I was a quiet mess. Phil and his wife Debbie have become my family here in Ecuador. I thanked God that Phil was alive and didn't injure his brain and would be able to walk again, yet the thought of how easily something terrible can happen is a shattering feeling. 

I relayed messages of Phil's condition from Debbie to their four grown children living in the States. It was a relief to be able to do something. Even while Phil was being diagnosed and preparing for surgery, he sent me a message through Debbie: the celebration would go on as planned, even if he couldn't be there. 

The next week was a whirlwind of working out all the final details, as well as taking care of finances and other things Phil couldn't at the time. On top of everything, my roommate was in the States so I was in charge of her cat and garden, two girls were here for a mission outreach from their church and needed to stay with me part of the time, the Casa G house leader was on a mission trip to Columbia, and I was asked to do orientations on the history and mission of CG for two short-term teams. The orientations were actually pretty fun, though my mental calendar and to-do list was overflowing. 

Yet everything came together beautifully. Phil was released from the hospital the day before and was able to be there in a wheelchair. I had plenty of help with the decorations and tech. Jesus and Miguel's mother cooked food for dinner. There were hiccups and upsets, such as the family all arriving late and Jesus arriving even later, but it was wonderful none the less. The celebration was in a church, with a special program in the sanctuary and dinner in the hall below. All day I helped cook and decorate and ran around in old jeans and a t-shirt, but by 5:00 I was able to change into my dress and do my hair and makeup. Finally I took my camera and captured the dining hall: strands of white lights I had borrowed and hung from the ceiling; balloons everywhere; vases of flowers Debbie had arranged; baskets, pens and notes on each table and hand-lettered cards asking people to write notes of encouragement and blessing for the boys. It was perfect. 

For the program, we went around and introduced ourselves and said how we knew the boys, Ecuadorian-style. We played a slideshow of pictures of the boys. Jesus and Miguel shared their dreams for the future. Another Miguel, a graduate of Casa G who now runs a jewelry ministry for women rescued from human trafficking along with his wife, gave a speech. Amparo, the Academic Coordinator for the home, spoke. Phil spoke, standing and walking more than he should have. I could only guess at his level of pain. The boy's mother sang, and everyone could see how proud she was of them, and how thankful. The boys were presented with Bibles and with certificates in which I wrote their names in caligraphy and then framed. Everyone gathered around and prayed over them, and I was brought back to my beloved church and how I was prayed over before I came here. Then, with everyone still standing in a close-knit circle, Phil thanked various people who had helped. He thanked me, searching the crowd for me as he spoke until he saw me, my eyes involuntarily filling with tears at his thanks and for the fact that it had all come together and that he was standing there at all. 

We had dinner - rice with shrimp, chicken, and vegetables; platanos; small sandwiches; and Ecuadorian salad with choclo, other vegetables, and a mayonaise dressing. We had cake. I sat beside Debbie and Phil, in his wheelchair. I took pictures and thanked everyone who had helped. I laughed when some of the boys came up to me and acted aghast at how tall I was with heels, taller than several of them. I said many goodbyes, customery kisses on the cheeks exchanged in parting. Finally, I helped take down the lights, fold up the tables, stack the chairs, and mop the floors. The boys and I, and the two girls who were staying with me and who had helped a lot, were still cleaning up when Debbie decided to take Phil home. The pain and exhaustion was visible in his eyes, yet he was also thankful and happy. 

When everything was clean we spilled into the back yard of the church. The leftover food sat on a picnic table, and I opened a large box and extracted a piece of cake. I held it up, and then began to eat it from my hand. A couple of the others followed suit, and there we sat, tired and happy and content, eating cake in the dark. We caught the crumbs with our tongues and licked frosting from our fingers. We sat on the grass and counted stars between city lights. In the yard was a playground, including a kind of merry-go-round with a tall climbing structure on it made of rope and rods, shaped like the skeleton of a tee-pee. Some of the boys took hold of the sides and began to run round and round, jumping on and wooping as they spun. Soon everyone had jumped on and was holding tight as we spun around and around on that somewhat dangerous contraption. My heels slipped on the metal base and I had to wind my arms through the ropes to keep from tumbling off. We spun and spun, laughing and shrieking in the dark. The chill night air caressed my bare arms and felt like flying, felt like bliss. Afterwards we sat or collapsed and just laughed. For that moment, all cares were gone. All work was done, and everything was and was going to be okay. For that moment, nothing mattered but being able to laugh and eat cake and have silly fun. We just were, and we knew we were blessed. That was what matterd.

As a little girl, Peter Pan was one of my heroes. I too, longed to fly and crow and follow the second star to the right, straight on till morning. I wanted the fantastical Neverland to be real, a place of continual childhood wonder. I wanted to believe in fairies. At the end of the story though, I always felt so sad for Wendy. She had to grow up. She loved Peter Pan and wished for him to return. But when he didn’t, she had to go on with life. She had to grow up and marry and have a daughter. I’ve grown up, like Wendy, yet there’s a part of me that will always thrill at imagining fairies and pixie dust, Borrowers and dragons and, of course, being able to fly. So now I’m Wendy, all grown up, but it’s alright: all my dear Lost Boys are here with me. I’ll be an older sister to them. I've always been and always will be an older sister; a privilege. I’ll help look out for them, but we'll also be silly and eat cake in the dark, and every now and then, they’ll help remind me how to fly.