Dirty Socks

Dirty Socks
I’m standing in the middle of a creek, soapy hands tingling from the chilly water, ears ringing with the laughter of nude children daring the cold plunge, and the strange music of a foreign language swirling around me like the stream as the women gossip over their daily laundry. The scene challenges all of my senses as I struggle with the paradox of the newness of this experience with the ancientness of the land and the people I am surrounded by, whose very language expresses the antiquity of their Mayan heritage.
How did I end up here?
I thought I knew the answer. I had signed up for a mission trip to rural Mexico and thought I was on my way to enriching the lives of poor villagers. However, during the past week that belief had been completely deconstructed.
I had spent the last week struggling to move one bucket of dirt for every five that a native moved. I had struggled with a clumsy tongue as I tried to lead a herd of straggling children in meaningful activities that lost their meaning in my broken Spanglish. I had witnessed the beauty of a girl my age cradle her young infant as her 3-year-old daughter offered me her snack. I had seen the sacrifice of someone’s livelihood as they slaughtered a cow to serve as our last meal. I saw our plates heaped with food while the villagers took only the broth. I saw tears glide down white and brown faces as the women of the village asked for forgiveness for the inadequateness of their gifts in exchange for ours. I heard them ask for the opportunity to give one more gift by washing our clothes.
This morning I’ve seen dark and pale hands covered in suds and turning pink against the chill of the water. I’ve seen my friend try to explain that the permanent paint stains on some pants had survived washes in washing machines, only to see raw hands hold up a pair of spotless pants a few minutes later. I had seen muddy brown socks turn to tan and then off-white as my sister and I competed to see who could get them the cleanest. After 15 minutes of scraping and the completion of an entire load by the woman beside us, I heard the word “sucio” and felt gentle hands take the socks from me.
I’m standing here in the middle of a creek, soapy hands tingling from the chilly water, watching a woman whose name I do not know as she scrubs my socks to bleach-white with her gentle, yet calloused hands.
How did I end up here? I walked here in dirty socks. And now that they’re clean, I have a lot of walking to do.