The other day, a completely normal thing happened.
I lost my wallet.
I was hurrying up from La Paz at night, carrying two grocery bags and my backpack, the one with the dysfunctional zipper, slung over my shoulder. As I hopped out to change buses, it started raining like a lost monsoon. I ran for the next bus, crammed myself into the last empty seat, and swung my backpack onto my lap to grab money for the bus fee. My wallet was gone. The dysfunctional zipper spread wide open.
My heart sank to the bottom of my wet socks. Credit cards, debit cards, Bolivian ID, phone cards, a little cash. It represented a small material loss, but hours and hours of paperwork, phone calls, and hassle. My Bolivian ID would be the hardest to recuperate. In these fragile political times, when the Bolivian government seems to be looking for excuses to oust foreigners, begging for a new ID would not be easy.
I could have kicked myself in the soggy pant leg. It's true, I'm not the most responsible person. I leave my sunglasses, keys, and pens scattered like a trail of breadcrumbs into the dark forest. And even though my infernal zipper was to blame, I should have checked behind me as I left the bus. Especially because this was quite consistent with my routine, I couldn't let go of my self-flagellating thoughts.
Then, as I hopped of my last bus in the downpour, a most unusual and abnormal thing happened.
I got a phone call. From a women who works for the Department for the Defense of Children. Her husband had found my wallet, and they wanted to return it to me. They even counted the cash and told me how much there was, so I could be sure they hadn't taken a cent.
I hadn't once thought, not since my hand reached into my backpack and came out empty, that I would ever get my wallet back. That was ridiculous. Out of the question. Bolivia is a desperately poor country, with many, many hungry mouths to feed, and the $20 in my wallet could have bought weeks worth of potatoes and rice for anyone who had found it. I wouldn't have even faulted them for it. Others need the money far more than I do.
The next day, when I met the smiling, frizzy-haired women who had astonished me by going out of her way to help a foreign stranger, I realized what God was whispering to me.
He was saying, I want to rework the way you think about people, about this place you live in. I want to raise your expectations. Must you always be astonished when I do good things for my children? When I touch the world, it never remains the gray, dismal place that you see. I want to give you new lenses to look through, and have you live fully into the new life I've colored for you.
The old has been washed away. The new has come.
Happy New Year.
Cara Strauss