the Beat of the Heart

This isn’t December weather. My dog (the best dog in the world) is shedding like crazy because it’s so hot. I haven’t seen an overcast sky yet, since I arrived in Mexico City two weeks ago. Although there is plenty of smog surrounding the building silhouettes on the horizon, this is my kind of winter. In addition to the 75 degree weather, there are over 50 people in my house today, Mexicans and Americans, upper and lower class, raising the temperature about 10 more degrees. The smell of arrachera beef is floating its way into every corner of the house. Believe me, the smell could make the fullest stomach hungry again.

What’s funny is that there really isn’t anybody sitting around the tables set up in my living room to drool over the juicy marinate smell. Everyone else is in the kitchen. Well actually, the kitchen is too small for us all to fit and not enough counter space for us all to help. So some moved into the dining room. We’re all moving to get the cheese shredded for the quesadillas and the chorizo wrapped to be grilled and the beans and salsa zapped and the tortillas warmed up on the stove. The children are helping by staying out of the way and playing outside. My home is a factory with all the consumers working together to produce something to consume. It’s a cool atmosphere—the sunny sky, the smell of arrachera, the sound of the beef grilling, the smiles on the faces, the laughs after a joke, the kids swinging on the swings and playing soccer outside—an atmosphere I call Heaven. It didn’t matter that I didn’t get much sleep last night.

Last night there was a party about three houses down the street and just like most Mexican new year’s parties, it was loud. The constant latino reggeton beat pounded against the cement walls of my house all through the night as we tried to drown it out with a fan and pillows on our heads. But right around 2 in the morning you kind of give up and try to imagine the latino music to be a lullaby. Doom. Padoom Pa Doom. Padoom Pa Padoom Pa Doom. Padoom Pa…

Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom, the techno beat coming from the Purdue Christian fraternity house can be heard a couple blocks away at the next party house. After getting my glass of cold but flat root beer, I begin to swim through the sea of college students trying to find someone I know. There’s a girl I know from my Creative Writing class last semester. But she just waves and moves on. There’s another girl I met in Purdue Bible Fellowship, but she’s playing cool-aid pong. I would like to get to know her a little more but she’s seems pretty busy.

Don't ask me what the point is to cool-aid pong. Once you take out the alcohol variable it doesn't make any sense. When you don’t get more and more drunk all you get is a fuller and fuller bladder. Is that the point of the game? To see who pees their pants first? That is both sick and stupid. Its a disappointing game for those who have a strong bladder as they often drown to death in cool-aid. Such a waste of a good ping pong table.

I break out into the humid porch and find a couple friends sitting on a picnic table. After a short exchange of small talk, my friends decide it’s high time for me to head to the main attraction with them (otherwise known as the "dance floor). Yes, this is a Christian event with a dance floor and people moving to a pulsing beat (otherwise known as "dancing"). The dance floor is crazy hot and humid, at least 20 degrees warmer, because of all the sweaty people doing their thing. It’s pretty dark and I can barely see my friend’s faces. The speakers are making my bones rattle. I’m not even dancing yet and my shirt is already sticking to my back. I don’t dance much so I just bob my head and every now and then throw out my arms or my legs. We all start laughing as my friend pulls a lame 80’s move. I mimic him a little more exaggeratedly and my friends laugh at me. Then some girl bumps into me. She’s a serious dancer with her arms held up high in the air, her heavily shadowed eyes closed, her damp hair flinging from shoulder to shoulder, her hips making use of the space around her and then some, her beads of sweat glistening in the dark. Another serious dancer, this one a male, realizes he’s found his counter part for this dance and gets up close to her and shows her what he can do. I try to say something about the couple to my friends but they misunderstand what I say and it doesn’t make any sense to them. Too much noise.

So this is a college party. Too loud to be understood. Too dark to know who your touching. Just let the beat move you with raised hands and a body up for grabs. It’s hard to sleep on nights like that because your upset ears yell at you all night long—even after the party’s done and the dance floor is empty and silent.

Fifty people is a lot to feed with just one microwave, one fridge, one stove, and one grill. But when everyone helps, eighty hands make a feast short work. We were hungry too. We ate it all up as quick as it took us to prepare it. With our bellies more than satisfied and our mouths swimming in a variety of Mexican aftertastes, it is now testimony time. Almost everyone stands up to give a testimony of gratefulness.

Some talk about how this church family thing has been completely new to them and has been the most amazing journey and they look forward to getting even more involved in the ministry. Others talk about how they went through some tough struggles this past year and how the Bible studies helped them through. Others talk about what a privilege it has been to serve musically in ways they were never allowed to in other churches. Still others talk about how they grew up in violence and abuse and how this church is the most wonderful family they could have dreamed for. By this time, everyone is crying. Crying is often the best way to cope with a flood of absolute truth and epiphanies.

On top of that, a lady named Susana and her twenty-three-year-old son Axcel move over to the piano to perform a special song of gratefulness to God. Axcel plays the introduction. I can already tell it is a mellow song (not the favorite of most college students). Susana starts to sing. She messes up on her entrance by coming in too soon but she recovers quickly and gets back into the right rhythm. The melody and piano accompaniment flow smoothly. The chord progression is unique with a minor chord in the middle of the theme and an interesting seven chord at the end of the chorus. I think about the testimony of Susana, a lady kicked off the worship team at their previous church because she was too spiritual and closed her eyes and raised her hands and probably sweat and stuff during the music. In other words: God was too real to her. At that moment in time, the only thing more beautiful than the flow of the music and lyrics, was the flow of lyrics and the hearts of those in the room. The reality of a good God.

I’m not sure how many students from Purdue would call what we had at my house a party. There weren’t a bunch of stupid games to play. There wasn’t a keg of cold but flat root beer. There weren’t any college girls in wedgie-tight jeans to flirt with. There wasn’t a dance floor and there wasn’t an omnipotent beat enveloping conversations. The word “God” was mentioned. And the only music and beat I could hear and feel was the music Mexican and American hearts make when pumping out truth together. The reality of a good God.

As the last people were saying goodbye and heading out the door, my sister Natalie asks me, “So Nathaniel, was that fun?”

I’m not even sure how many people would classify that as fun. College students wouldn’t prefer it. But lack of fun doesn’t mean that it wasn’t one of the best days of my life.

And I still don't get what's so great about cool-aid pong.