I prefer music with drums and guitar.

She likes music with piano and violins.

I like to blare it though the earbuds and rattle my brain.

She plugs in into a speaker and fills the room evenly.

I let the rhythm carry me away.

She lets the melody carry her away.

I let the hard, loud music fill my ears and my soul.

She lets the soft, quiet music fill her ears and her soul.

I jump up and down on the bed, breathing rapidly.

She dances around her room, breathing deeply.

I close my eyes and see everything that makes me smile.

She closes her eyes and sees everything that makes her smile.

I see myself jumping off of the bleachers and dancing like a chicken.

She remembers building a dog house and reading Charlotte’s Web.

The song ends, and I let out that final breath.

The song ends, and she lets out that final breath.

I let go of all the pain and hurt I held inside.

She lets go of all the bad things that happened.

I sigh as I turn off the MP3 Player.

She smiles and puts her CD back in its case.

And I forget about all of my problems.

And she forgets about all of her problems.

Just over a year ago, I said goodbye to my friends, family, and culture. I stepped onto that plane and there was no going back. I had no idea what changes that year would bring to me. It changed the way I look at things, the way I think about them. That year was the best and worst year of my life.

Flying to a country bzillions of miles away –a country I’d never been to.

The tiny clusters of villages and towns that became my entire world.

Learning the water we couldn’t drink versus the water we could—sometimes the hard way.

The hundreds of thousands of itchy bug bites that drove me insane.

The shower that either froze you into an ice cube or scalded you into a pressure cooked tomato.

 Helping build the cabin we stayed in—the dust, the blisters, and smelling like lacquer for days.

The trips we took to Quito, Banos, Ambato, Otovalo, Archidona, Puyo, Tena, Misahualli, Puca-Chicta, Pusuno, Pununo, Campa-Cocha, and Shirri- Puno.

The bugs—beetles, caterpillars, butterflies, cockroaches, spiders— everywhere, the stings, the stinks.

Going to the Sunday Night Bible Study, Girls’ Bible Study, and listening to Guys’ Bible Study from my loft.

My going from being home-schooled to public, from public to private, from private to home-schooled.

The people we made friends with: Ecuadorians, Italians, Peruvians, Argentinians, Americans, Australians, French, Columbians, the Chileans.  

Getting over the “cute” monkeys that stole our ice creams, lunches, sodas, and groceries.

Climbing up ladders into the tiny bedrooms of villagers with new babies and giving them diapers and clothes.

Hiking through the jungle to scout out another missionaries new land.

Having different families over to the cabin every other Wednesday for dinner.

Trying new foods—slimy and gooey, all of them: Cacao, Mangoes, Guanabaya, Guaba.

Putting together the Bible verse slides and being a shepherd with three boys, and three “sheep” in the living nativity.

The hours of canoe rides though the Napo and Misahualli rivers, and the tributaries that run into them.

The bottles of soda and boxes of pills we went through with the medical teams I went with.

The days spent inside during the Halloween, Christmas, New Years, and Carnival festivals and the drinking and gun shots outside of the cabin.

The one trip to McDonald’s while we were in Quito- the Big Mac, fries, and large Coca-Cola.

Drinking hot sauce, eating glue, skipping classes, having mud fights, and doing each other’s homework.

The visits to the Big Tree, hundreds of years old, hundreds of feet high, and hundreds of feet wide.

Going to the markets, making sure we got a fair price, and translating for my parents.

Talking to the waitress at our favorite restaurant—the only safe one in town—and eating Green Banana Soup.   

Helping in skits for the elementary school age kids, manning the technical problems, and running the slides on the big screen for the lessons.

Acting in the dramas in Misahualli and Tena, the practices, the costumes, the props.

Making chocolate—harvesting, drying, roasting, shelling, grinding, mixing, and eating.

Packing an average of sixteen people into another missionary’s SUV to go to Tena, and more than once.

Eating dinner at the chief of Shirri-Puno’s house—a huge honor—without plumbing or electricity.

Seeing all together about five or six boas and anacondas, and getting to hold two of them!

I made friends, and when one of us was going through a rough time, all of us were.

All the challenges, the struggles, the disappointments, the heartbreaks—it was worth it. I learned more this past year than I learned in all the years before combined. That year was the best year of my life.

I woke up several times that morning to “happy birthday” whispered in my ear. If you know me, you know I fell back asleep. But around 8:30 or 9:00, I got up out of bed. I had M&Ms for breakfast (both chocolate and peanut—a gift from Abigail).

We got ready and then put on my sash that said “Birthday Girl” on it. Then we put in our bubba teeth. While I am an embarrassing person, I will have you know we did not wear them in public. But they are fun. I look surprisingly good in them. 

We went to El Toreo where we ate enough rice, beans, chips, and salsa to explode. My reason for choosing Mexican was the restaurant’s custom of smashing the birthday victim’s face into whipped cream. I had never done it, but that’s what I wanted for my birthday.  I looked around as the music started and employees started coming towards me, but I didn’t see the whipped cream.  I frowned. And then got creamed from behind.  I had a thick white bread and moustache. Cameras clicked and I got creamed again. I thought I was suffocating. I poked holes for my eyes, nostrils, and mouth.

 A few months ago in Ecuador, my friend Eulalia and I tried this with our friend Albin. With a chocolate cake with chocolate icing. He didn’t get it, which complicated things a little.

Anyway, my family surprised me by taking me to the mall where they sat me down in a white chair and let a strange lady cake 3 inches of make-up on my face. I heard “hold still”, “tilt your chin up”, “you’re sure it’s a dark enough color”, and “You won’t actually make these faces when you apply the make-up yourself, will you?” about 300 times each. But I think it turned out worth it. It’s not that much, but it’s plenty for me.

Then we went to the theater to see Monsters University in 3D. It was pretty cool.

We came home and made my birthday cake, with 13 candles. I would tell you what I wished for, but then it wouldn’t come true.

I’m leaving in three days.

Going back to the States, where I will most likely have reverse culture shock.

If you were looking for the truth about how I feel about going back, I’d lay it out without the slightest hesitation.

I’m dreading it.

Go ahead, suck air, re-read the sentence, faint if it suits you.

I’m dreading it.

Not as much going to the States, but leaving here.

Every second I’ll be there, I’ll be thinking about what I could have done. What I didn’t.

I’ll regret how I never tried overly hard to make a friend; how I always held back, how I didn’t really try to share my precious Jesus.

I sat back and watched, like my home, Ecuador, was a television program. Like the kids here, some of who are beaten and starving, were too far away to reach.

And this line should say something that reassures you that this kid writing did something with this year. It doesn’t.

I look at the town here, and see everything’s the same. And it feels like I’m leaving it the way I found it.

Broken. Lost. Hungry.

And I look at the kids I should know but don’t. And think about how I could have helped them.

How even though they couldn’t have left their lives, they could have had something better. But they don’t.

It’s the most frustrating thing, feeling like you’ll never make a difference.

And it’s the strongest emotion I feel right now.

It’s crushing me.

I don’t want to leave.

“I- I think I’m gonna throw up, so I can’t go on- you’ll have to go in my place-” I say dramatically, preparing to crumple into a heap on the sidewalk.

“Don’t worry, there’s nobody here,” Eulalia comforts me.

We missionaries are the only ones on the boardwalk.

That’s okay with me- I don’t think I could handle all of Misahualli watching me do these three 5-minute skits. Sad, I know.

There’s a team at Ms. Eunice’s, and they come down to help us with the flash mob. Still nobody.

So we start packing up.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“The park,” Saida answers.

I choke. There are actually people down there. I can’t do this.

While Tyler gives the introduction, we grab our props and costumes.

“Where’s the Bible?”

“You packed my sweater, right?”

“I have no idea where your money is!”

It takes us a minute, but we are finally lined up- in the correct order- and ready to start the show. I’m the Christian in this one, so I’m excited.

We get through “Drama Hambre” with no major problems. It’s a relatively easy skit anyway. 

The throw-up feeling goes away.

We line up and get ready for “Drama Ciego.” This one’s the hardest. I’m a demon in Ciego- joy- so I’m wearing what feels like a 40-pound black jacket.

The music starts-

and then stops.

“Pauses are good,” I tell myself. “They build suspense.”

The music comes back on-

and stops again.

So Mr. Roberto gets another speaker.

It worked for 10 seconds.

He turned down the volume, and the song started playing.

It works this time, and we do great. Maybe I ran out of fake money and gave blind-folded Keri her cue too early, but other than that, totally awesome.

Marisol gives her testimony, and we get ready for the last skit, Everything. This is actually a great skit to Hillsong music.

I was worried that I would mess it up. We were improvising, so I was one of the two drunk girls. I don’t have much experience with these things, but I think we pulled it off.

After Ms. Charmai’s testimony, Tyler did the conclusion and we passed out fliers.

We told each other how good we did and talked about whether or not the people who saw the dramas cared about Jesus or not.

Even if just one person thought about Jesus and if He cared about them, it was definitely worth it.

So All May Know,

Madeline Studebaker

“Are you sure about this?” I ask. “I mean, look at this thing! Probably a hundred years old, and the cement’s not even stuck in the holes anymore!”

I get the old chicken-out-if-you-wanna-it’s-fine-by-me look.

Let’s do this thing! I tell myself. The worst that could happen is these  5^th and 7^th graders carrying you to an ambulance with a broken neck. I frown. Not very encouraging or uplifting.

I climb up a chin-up bar (or whatever you call it) one hand after the other with my ankles crossed to keep from slipping.

“Okay! You can do your thing now!” Jadyra tells me.

“Ready?” I ask weakly. 

“Yes!” Junior yells.

I hang by my arms and pull my legs through. I push the metal bar with my bare feet and the world turns up-side-down.

I let go and my feet hit the ground.

“See that? Did you see that?” I ask. I am so proud of me, I think. I didn’t even break an arm!

I get two nods and two little smiles. “Uh-huh,”

They do chin-ups and flip over the bar a few more times.

“Okay,” I announce from the top. “I’m doing it again!”

“Go ahead! I’m getting old here!” Junior says.

“One. Two—” I start to let go.

“Oh, wait!” Junior steps in to my path.

I think, We are on a direct collision course.

Then, My face is in the dirt. I am never going to hear the end of this one. I’ve drank hot sauce and eaten glue here, but add a mouthful of dirt to truly enjoy the landscape of Ecuador. 

“Madeline! Are you… okay?”

“Is my nose broken?” I ask.

Jadyra examines my nose. “I don’t think so,” she says.

“Is it at least bleeding?” I ask.

“No,” she answers.

“Good. Junior: WHY DID YOU DO THAT?” I yell.

“I, uh, I’m sorry?”

“Uuuuhhh! What am I going to say happened? I can’t just say “Oh, yeah, my face looks like it does because Junior here stuck his head in my way and I busted my nose.””

“Why?” he asks.

“Why what?”

“Why can’t you say that?”

“Too complicated. Can I just say Jady held me down and you punched me in the nose? It’s already bruising.”

“No way.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” I ask them.

“You have a really dirty face,” Junior comments.

“Thank you,” I say.

I walk home with my hands covering my cheeks and nose, even though Jadyra said I got most of the dirt off.

“What happened to you?” Abigiail asks.

“Complicated,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“I fell off the chin-up bars,” I add.

“Your face is really dirty,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say.

So All May Know,

Madeline Studebaker