Dear Friends of Boundless,
I hadn’t led a Boundless trip since 2006, so when I stepped back into the role this past July, everyone braced for comical chaos.
I was lured in by Padre Hernan Astudillo of San Lorenzo Church. This 62-year-old, still hanging onto his greying Latin curls, built up the second-largest Anglican congregation in Toronto. From a modest church at Dufferin and Lawrence, across from the Dairy Queen, he raises funds for his parish one tortilla-sale at a time.
The congregation is nearly a thousand strong, comprised of South and Central American refugees. These wayfarers carry poverty, trauma, isolation, and a painful nostalgia for lives left behind. Their young people, in particular, often feel the most displaced.
I figured I was the right choice to lead. The Padre has a fierce reputation for poking holes in sluggish bureaucracies. I feared he might devour a younger trip leader.
On July 2nd, under stifling heat and swarms of Asian Tiger mosquitoes, 35 members stepped off the bus. Ages ranged from 10 months to 79 years. They greeted Boundless staff with smiles that ran from leery to magnetic.
At lunch, the grandmothers stole the show. Seven of them giggled like schoolgirls in pigtails, casting mischievous glances at the staff. I turned to the Padre, who looked a touch embarrassed, and asked, “What’s the word for flirt?”
“Coqueta,” he replied, hesitating.
I grinned, pointed toward the grandmothers, and blurted out, “Coquetas!”
They erupted in laughter. Keating, my co-leader, rushed in thinking disaster had struck.
“Coquetas!” I repeated, pointing again.
From that moment on, these matriarchs were all-in. They became the group’s anchor — a pride of lionesses, happily letting the cubs clamber over them.
When I gathered the group for our intro talk, Nico translated. The giggles quieted.
“I know all of you have been through a lot,” I began. Silence.
“I want Boundless to spoil you rotten. Every one of you. You deserve this.” I gestured wide to the landscape.
Faces turned incredulous.
“I also want you to go home proud.”
That landed.
“And you shall be challenged.”
Kenny, 25 and completely blind, sensed the anxious energy.
“We’ll do anything you throw at us,” he said.
The group rallied and Kenny became its emotional leader. From then on, we belonged to each other.
They formed a band and danced the nights away. The elders swam rapids, awing their teens who were, shockingly, more hesitant. Feasts were cooked, art created, kilometres hiked, bugs endured. In a moment of absurd triumph, Kenny even hit a bull’s-eye with a bow and arrow.
But most moving were the stories that spilled out: sagas of survival, worries about children struggling in school. One boy, who compulsively pulled out his own hair, found his peace in fishing.
On the final morning, the Padre invited me for a walk. He spoke of the hardship of running a community on a shoestring, but mostly of awe.
“Esteven,” he said, pronouncing the v like a b, “they are healing here. You must know this land is a sanctuary. An eco-sanctuary.”
I admit to never having considered Boundless this way. But it works. Certainly, to the degree that the week ended up being among the most memorable of my career. The entire community went home united, innervated, and utterly spoiled.
Plans are already forming for the future: trips for their struggling teens, for young adults buckling under mental health burdens, for grandparents and grandchildren together, and especially for healing and counselling initiatives.
There really are no limits.
Thank you all for making this happen.
Sincerely,
Steven
