It's been a while since last I posted, so I wanted to give everyone an update on things.  

Looking back on Costa Rica, my time there mainly consisted of construction work and homeless ministry, the last portion of time in the country spent in Puerto Viejo, a small seaside town with a reggae vibe and quaint atmosphere- the ideal place to be for Central American bayside night life. Often, our ministry consisted of work in the jungle, thick sheets of mosquitos often hovering around us as we cut lush plant life to clear a path through the jungle.  There were legends of snakes, but never did I see one, although once there was a tarantula beside a log near the dining patio of the YWAM base we occupied. Most days, the sky became somewhat of a rumor, the treetops and lively green canopy shading our every day.

Let me paint with words a picture of the Costa Rican jungle:  Standing in a small clearing, the grass near your knees and untrimmed, you are itching, insects buzzing around.  You can feel the tiny illusive bugs on your back, crawling or landing, some on your legs, some on your arms.  Above you are looming monoliths of trees, tall and grey, wrapped in vines, echoing off of them like canyon walls, the screams of howler monkeys, low bellowing roars that hint of frustration and irritation.  Far up in the trees there are large clumps of dark brown, like globs of dirt stuck to the sides.  These are termite nests, and some are ant hills.  The shrubbery goes deep, and the canopy becomes dark before you.  Plantain trees are plentiful, some shorter than waist height, others looking twenty feet above.  The ground is a composition of grass and mud of the variety that sticks to your shoes and soaks through.  It's humid- perhaps not hot, but humid and atmospheric nonetheless.  There is life all around.  Though insects crawl on every leaflet and mosquitoes buzz and horseflies zip by and everything is sticky, one cannot help but stand in awe of the diverse and intricate works all around.  

The jungle is like no other place I have ever been, and although I am from the middle of Texas, where oftentimes drought is an issue and the dry climate and heat are day to day comrades, I nonetheless enjoy the immense and vast differences between one place and the other.  As well as one culture and another.  

Visiting with some of the locals, I found that many had lived in Costa Rica their entire lives, never having even left the country.  They love it.  A love of the homeland.  A love of the culture.  In fact, I too found the "Tico" life a very enjoyable, relaxed, and laid back way of living.  It is so different from the constant hustle and worry of American life.  I often remember the homeless man I first encountered in Jaco.  I remember that though the man was tired, or perhaps drunk, there was a light in his eyes.  He had hope, he had passion.  He was proud of his homeland.  He was proud of the sea and the waves and the fish and what it stood for.  The light I saw in him was something I rarely find in America, something rare, something distinguished and different.  It was a humble pride, but an honest one.  I cannot help but imagine what things we could learn from the Costa Ricans, and the rest of the ethnicities all over. If only as people of a constantly evolving culture, we took time to slow down, adapt, and be thankful.  Learning to live humbly.  Having a humble pride.  As if saying "This is just the way things are."  If we could settle ourselves- think of the things we could learn from others.  

I was able to see God in so many places during our time in Puerto Viejo.  I was able to see Him in so many people.  I was able to see Him in a whole culture.  

After leaving, with only my memories left to reflect upon the riptides and waves, the beaches, some of grey sand, some of white, some of black sand like stardust; I cannot help but wonder about the passers-by in the streets.  The huddled figures on corners and in byways, wrapped in tarps and blankets.  The fruit salesman and jewelry pawners and the silhouetted figures on the blue horizon, amongst the waves, bobbing up and down- just waiting to catch a wave.  They are still there, all of them- images and stories, each their own.