Once Upon a Spain: Humility, Heat Exhaustion, and Poopoo Problems

Yeah, you read that title right.
And if you think this post is about diarrhea, you're...incorrect.

This post is about how I thought I was all that and a bag of chips and God showed me that I wasn't.

The running joke these days seems to be, "Where you going next week, Laura?"
I get it--I've been a lot of countries in the last few years, usually to teach English.
Those experiences, along with having gone to camp more than once--shoot, having worked at a camp, made me feel like this trip would be a breeze.
Culture shock? Teaching jitters? New people?
Been there, done that. This was nothing more than a 2-week road trip. With a plane.

Of course, the bravado was punched out of me the moment I realized just how many new people I was being faced with, and how almost all of them had come in a group or been to L'Arcada before (or at least had one other person there who was from the same state as they were) (GO VOLS).
These people didn't know where I'd been or what I'd done. They only saw the tired, overwhelmed girl of unidentifiable age (High schooler? College student? Wait--ADULT? Surely not!) who, for some unknown reason, had decided to travel there alone.

After a few conversations, though, I felt more comfortable being part of this big group--which meant I had more energy to face the mess inside of myself.
Mess? More like monster.
The behemoth of thoughts and emotions I'd been distracting myself from over the last month.

The stress that resulted from job searching and trying to get ESOL certified, the aching bruise of a relationship that didn't turn out like I'd hoped, and the culture shock of having been in Mongolia and China only five weeks earlier.
Seriously, though. I was trying to pronounce Spanish words with a Mongolian accent and having real cravings for chopsticks.

As staff training week stretched out in all its activity-filled glory, I was stealing away during free time to work through all the baggage I didn't know I'd checked on the way over.
In the busyness of everything at home, I hadn't dealt with my issues. Now I was being called on to hand them over, and I had to do it in tear-full pieces.

And I did.

Towards the end of training week, when I was starting to get a grip on these issues, our devotional time turned to the topic of pride.
There are two kinds of pride: the loud kind and the sneaky kind.
The first screams for others to acknowledge it and the second stays inside, pumping thoughts about how awesome you are into every nook and cranny of your brain.
I was experiencing the latter, which I realized as our speaker was talking about it.

When it comes to having my pride called out, my usual reaction is try to tear at my swollen self-esteem by comparing myself to other people.
She's prettier than I am.
He's been to a lot more countries than I have.
She has a better singing voice.
His nun-chuck skills are sweeter than mine.

That is the WORST way to try to overcome pride, y'all, because it knocks down the gifts and talents the Father has given us. I've done it enough times and knew that I needed to not do it this time around.
So I waited to see what He would do to deflate my high-and-mighty thoughts.

My answer came in the form of a frozen digestive tract.
That's right.
I've never been so constipated in my entire life, and I've never had so many people know about it at once.
(you're welcome, readers)

Here's the thing: in Spain, they eat a lot of bread, pasta, meat, and olive oil. It's REALLY delicious, and with all the activity we were doing I needed to stock up on my calories.
So I ate.
 And ate.
 And ate.
AND ATE.

I knew there was a problem after almost a week without any news from my small intestine.
It became a real issue, though, the second day of English camp--when I almost blacked out during lunch as a result of the heat and my digestive issues.
And that's when, because we were in such close quarters, I started getting all the questions as I laid belly-up on the floor.
YES, I had been drinking as much water as I could hold.
YES, I'd spent the entire morning not out in the sunshine.
NO, fainting is not a normal thing for me.
NO...I hadn't pooped in over a week.

And the word spread.

Two days later, I had another almost-fainting spell that ended in one of the lower points of my glorious young life.
Picture this: me, lying on a shaded mattress outside of the bathrooms with an ice pack on my head, flipped on my side, getting a deep tissue belly massage from a Spanish girl I'd only known for a week who was exclaiming over my crazy in-te-stines.

Teammate passing by: "Laura, do you get embarrassed easy?"
Me, during my belly massage: "No, not really."
Teammate: "Good."

My poop--or lack thereof--became a news story.
I overheard people talking about it outside the bathroom.
I received lots of pills and random advice.
People were constantly asking me if I'd had any success, particularly if I was walking out of the bathroom.

And, because of those spells, I had to miss two English Zones, which made me furious.
It was my reason for going, right? To put my experiences to use. To be helpful. To bond with kids.
But missing those English Zones showed me something.
While my training and experiences are useful--my teammates didn't NEED me.

 That's what humility is: realizing that, while our talents should be honed and used, we are not the be-all-end-all in our areas of expertise. The world will go on without us. The opportunity to use our talents is a gift.

And there's nothing like dozens of new acquaintances constantly asking about your poop to make you realize that you aren't a rock star.

So the lessons I learned in Spain?
Pay attention to your problems and give them to the Lord--because ignoring them won't make them disappear.

Your talents and experiences are not meant to be used for your own glory, and your identity should never be wrapped in them.
Going overboard on bread and olive oil is bad.
Never take yourself too seriously.