The rain drums softly on the roof above, a melodious backdrop to the rise and fall of the humming conversations that surround me. I've come full circle. Nine weeks ago, I sat with these same people, eating the same kind of Ecuadorian food, speaking the same language; the only difference was that we were at Taite Pedro's restaurant instead of gathered around Abuelito and Abuelita's dining room table and sprawled across their spacious living room floor and numerous couches. The location was only one of many differences, however. The people who were, to all degrees strangers nine weeks ago, are now family to me. The food that tasted so new and strange and foreign to me then now numbers among my favorite dishes--hornado with aguacates, llapingachos, and mote. This time, I stuffed myself full of food instead of gingerly sampling a morsel here or there. The relaxed atmosphere now seems normal, and the hum of Spanish lulled me to sleep for a refreshing hour-long nap. But I never felt out of place or self-conscious like I had before. And the language--Spanish--is no longer incomprehensible to me. Whereas nine weeks ago I would have nodded along and tried to politely smile or laugh when everyone else did during my host cousin's engagement story, today I nodded and smiled and laughed in all the right places because I understood the story almost completely. Although my speaking and comprehension skills are passable at best, I understand far more than I did when I arrived. Nine weeks ago, everything was unfamiliar; now as I depart, I feel like I'm leaving home again.
I stir awake and lift my head from where I've dozed off on the couch. Everyone is coming my way, taking their seats in a giant circle to prepare for tonight's Novena. No matter each person's actual feelings about this Catholic ritual (boredom, anticipation, a sense of duty), still the living room where we are gathered is heavy with the atmosphere of a most precious sentiment--familial love. This love, keeping strong relationships with family and friends, is what has drawn me in to this culture. First I was fascinated by it, then full of wonder, now I can't get enough of it. Sure, there are still issues and relational frictions, but the degree to which Ecuadorians esteem familial relationships is a refreshing mantra to me--there is no greater importance, except one's relationship with Christ. It's an almost tangible feeling, this truth of love and acceptance I see in the faces of this beloved family surrounding me. Though I've never heard this particular song before, I lift my voice with the swell of others', humming along when I can't piece together the Spanish words on my own. I can't imagine a better way to close this adventure than to exist in this room with these people for just a few moments longer. The music hovers in the air, lingering until the last person has become silent. I cling to this moment, committing it to memory as I have done with countless other moments in the past nine weeks.
As I hug family and friends good-bye, I try my hardest to hold back the tears, and I barely succeed. Though tears don't come now, they will later, in a stream, a river, a deluge. My tears will be a mixture of sorrow and gratitude--sorrow that the time has come to whisper "hasta luego" to a place I adore, yet gratitude to those who have guided me, helped me, and loved me in the name of Christ during my journey here. And what a journey it's been.
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