CYNDI LAUPER IS HOME.

This may very well have been the week to end all weeks.
It was draining.
Wet.
Swampy.
Nonetheless, I enjoyed myself. I reconnected with two ridiculously close friends, led two workshops on my own, drove for twenty minutes down a dark, marshy road with six kids piled into my backseat, fought viciously with a Derk-ish seminarian, discovered the beauty of minor food poisoning, and actually played a swamp monster named "Ooga Booga", who looked remarkably close to Satan.
I am minimally exhausted.
Luckily for me, I met some very interesting people. Some of the kids we were leading were absolutely hilarious, though I daresay that none could compare to the supreme wit of Kelley. I worked my arse off. Seriously.
The seminarian, José, was quite possibly the most intriguing aspect of the week. He's originally from Puerto Rico, with a minor in Acting, and speaks a mangled, garbled, yet very correct form of English. He'd get deeply into conversation with someone, and suddenly turn to you and repeat the last word he'd said to make sure it fit correctly into his thought.
Total geek.
He was funny, but in a rather proud, bold sense; a sense that simply demands for me to retort the only way I know how: Demeaning cruelty. But a funny sort of demeaning.
So, we clashed. We also happened to be very, very much alike, which, thankfully, allowed for some amazing conversation in-between the violent, bloody sparring. We shared some really compassionate moments, actually. We had a Taizé prayer service on Wednesday night, during which we handed out letters to the kids from their friends and family. José had mentioned earlier that all of his family lived back home (PR), and that he hadn't seen them in close to a year. I decided it would be a nice opportunity if I were to accompany his family letters with one of my own. Little did I know, he had no family letters. In realizing this, and recognizing the fact that the only letter he would read that evening would be mine, I tore into the upstairs portion of the house the service was set in, and hid in a chair, praying to remain undiscovered for a lack of embarrassment, if not the overwhelming need to take the letter back while the opportunity still existed.
[Editor's Note: It would have mattered little if the note were given at a different time, when reaction would be inappropriate or inaccessible, due to my absence. All of the letters given out were from people back home, who were immune from emotional ambush as a result of kind words and compassion. But I was very much there, very much accessible, and very much vulnerable to anything that might be thrown out in reaction to a note the caliber of the one I gave him.]
Minutes later, I heard footsteps trotting upstairs (Nora, one of my co-workers, had been kind enough to tell him I was hiding in the fetal position upstairs- Thanks, Nora. Or not.). José made his way across the upstairs "bedroom" setting, pulled me out of my chair, and embraced me. It was a nice, if not horrific moment. I wasn't sure how to react, but I think I handled the situation appropriately, staring blindly like a deer, and then leaping down the steps, plowing through candles and young teenagers. Smooth.
Last night, we were required to give a "witness talk," formulaically a rambling speech about the special and godly things we'd experienced during the week. I was horrendously funny, and managed to squeeze in that I thought José was a "hyperactive ball of seminarian energy, but in a good way."
His talked widely about the group, and then specifically about each of the team members. I sat next to him, solely for bathroom and hallway control of the cabin, and was the second-to-last person he spoke about. [Editor's Note: Paul, the final victim, had spent the week building "trust" and other crappy elements of personality with José. Plus, they spent time rubbing Icy-Hot on each others' shoulders. They went to Wal-Mart together. It was the kind of relationship that demanded final-speaking rights.]
To me, the little foreign man said (and this is a rather crisp quote, if I may say so myself):
"Cyndi Lauper-"
[Editor's Note: At this, there was chuckling by Paul, sitting to the left of me and José. He retorted: "Just you wait, Paula Abdul. I talk about you next."]
"Kelley- you are an amazing girl. Awesome. We fight. A lot. But our temperaments are so alike, it is alright, because you and I know it is. You are very, very talented. You are an actress with power. You have the gift to lead others and to take control. And your letter- it touched me. You are so beautiful. You will do so much. I pray to God that you get everything you wish for. Because you deserve it. I love you."
I've probably forgotten the majority of what he said, but I know I remember those fragmented, Spanglish sentences. I could feel my eyes welling up with tears, and I was shivering, but not from temperature. I could hardly stand to look him in the eyes as he was speaking to me, yet I could hardly pull them from his own glare. It was a really difficult two minutes. Too much emotion. Too much concentration. Too much.
But, we ended the week pouring root beer floats over each other, and arguing, and teasing. It was rather back to normal.
Obviously, as aforementioned, the week was one of oddities and obscurities beyond all belief.
And I'm exhausted.