Saturday, December 29, 2007
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Christmas in Honduras
When I first applied for this program, one of the things I most feared was being away from my family—especially for Christmas. Like most families, Christmas is a joyful celebration of food, presents, Christmas decorations, and the love we share. The magic and excitement of Christmas gifts and visits from Santa as a child has now grown into a deep sense of gratitude for a day that seems magically reserved for everyone and everything I love. There is just something in the air in my house for Christmas—we all become beautifully aware of how blessed we are and it is a day that we all look forward to sharing together. It is a day full of delicious food, excitement, sincere giving, love, and Christmas touches that are O’Toole unique. And so in anticipation for this year, I expected that Christmas would be hard—and it has been. Throughout the day, my mind traveled back home to sit at the end of the table for dinner or sit on a couch to open presents and each time when I found myself back here, my heart sank a little. Thinking about my dog wearing or eating his antlers or who got to put baby Jesus in the manager or looking at the picture of Grace and I in Santa hats from last year reminded me just one more time how painfully I missed home.
I do not write all this to sound like the Grinch but to share with you the struggle that Christmas brought me. When I thought about this email, I had hoped that it would be similar to the optimistic Thanksgiving reflection that I wrote. But as I write this, I find it becoming less optimistic and maybe slightly more bittersweet.
As Christmas time approaches, there are normally little signs that signify the day is near and that the Christmas spirit is around. For me, I think about coming back home from college and putting up our Christmas tree and our decorations. Christmas candy starts appearing in the stores and the temperature is a little colder. All of my family makes their way home and I start buying Christmas gifts. This is when I know Christmas is near. But, here in Honduras, Christmas came a little differently. With no college to mark the beginning of Christmas break, no stores selling any different candy, and the temperatures still pretty high during the day, it was hard to tell that Christmas was coming. You could easily have thought we were in the middle of March. And so our signs for the arrival of Christmas were slightly different. With three major Christmas projects, we immersed ourselves in a month of heavy work that kept us both busy and distracted. Firstly, we were donated six huge bags of beans—so we bagged them and partnered them with bags of rice to give to one of the poorest neighborhoods in Talanga. We handed out over 300 bags of rice and beans. Secondly, with the money we raised from the big expoventa sale, we started a three tier toy project to give toys to Camalotal (a nearby aldea), Telerevista (a local TV program), and then to a handful of poor areas of Talanga. In total, we handed out 350 toys—and they were all wrapped. And then lastly, we worked with the children of Terrero Colorado and Louis, the choir director, to put together a Nativity play. And so for me, the signs of Christmas coming were the coming dates of these projects. Talk of making elaborate Nativity scenes in homes and baking catamales became common among the people as we started learning the Christmas traditions here and the days started ticking down.
And then Christmas Eve arrived. In Honduras, Christmas is Christmas Eve and all the big celebrations are on the eve as opposed to the day. This Eve put the sweet in my somewhat bittersweet Christmas time. It could not have been better and as I was experiencing it all, I could not stop thinking how lucky I was to be in Talanga and Honduras for this night. Our night started with the performance of the Nativity play in Terrero Colorado at 6 o’clock. However, it had slipped our mind that Terrero does not have electricity and thus no lights. And so by the light of one gas lantern hanging from the ceiling of the little Church perched on the side of a hill, the children performed the Christmas story. It was beautiful—and it was one of my signs that Christmas was here. The Church was packed and when the carols came up in the play, the whole Church sang along. And that’s when I knew my Christmas was here. I got chills and realized that maybe above everything this was what Christmas truly was. Sitting in that simple ten wooden bench Church with the decorations of crepe paper and a tiny tree, I thought about where I was and how I was celebrating Christmas and my heart gleamed with joy. A prayer was said by the leader of the group and as we all held hands, prayers of strength were asked for us and protection for our families far from us.
With some quick goodbyes and catamales in hand, we headed back to Talanga for the 8 o’clock mass. New clothes are a Christmas tradition here and Hondurans love to dress up. Matt had pants made and the rest of scrounged through our suitcases to find something a little dressier than normal. And so we made our way to Church to find out that the power transformer for that neighborhood had gone out. Without light or microphones, the mass was lit by little candles down the aisle and candles on the altar. A simple celebration of a simple birth.
After the mass, the streets of Talanga came alive with families and friends visiting house to house in excitement for midnight. We made our way to Isabel’s, my host mum’s, and ate dinner with her family. Laughter was our music at this house as we played with fireworks, new toys, and cameras. We dined on chicken and rice and potatoes and tortillas and lounged on couches joking and playing. Our celebrations then moved to the streets where we all became children playing with sparklers and watching the ‘tricky tracks’ go off and the ‘mariposas’ flying high. With some photos taken, we headed off to Prof. Daniel’s house. Prof. Daniel is the wise owl of Talanga and knows someone in every office and seems to own half of Talanga too. At his house, the festivities were well underway. With good food and drinks, everybody was having fun. Fatima, a member of our formation team, and her boyfriend and half of her family were there and the good cheer of the night continued with some very interesting Mexican dancing. When midnight arrived, everyone jumped up to give hugs and Feliz Navidads to each other. And the second meal of the night. Another tradition in Honduras is to eat at midnight on Christmas. And so we dined on our second meal of chicken and rice. As an hour or so passed by, we headed to Tyler’s host mom’s house. She lives right near the Church and they were still without power and so we arrived in the house to find them eating and talking by the light of the moon. Our Christmas Eve continued by moonlight to conversations about family and a proud mom retelling stories about her son. By the light of candle, Tyler and Angel tried to put together a puzzle. As another hour passed by, we headed home to a wrapping paper roll fight and then finally to bed at 3:45am.A night of laughter, joy, and friendship that warms the heart and made the night one of the best so far in Honduras.
Christmas day was harder. Since the 25th really isn’t a celebration here, the day passed more or less like a normal day and it was hard to feel the Christmas spirit. I have already mentioned that Christmas was difficult and so I won’t bore you with countless details—but it was tough.
And so my bittersweet Christmas came and went with the beauty of celebrating the Christmas story by the light of a lantern and in the innocence of children, the simplicity of a candlelit mass, the warmth of laughter and joy shared with friends, and the deep gratitude for having a family and memories to miss incredibly so.
Merry Christmas to all and hope it was a beautiful, simple, warm, and thankful day.
I do not write all this to sound like the Grinch but to share with you the struggle that Christmas brought me. When I thought about this email, I had hoped that it would be similar to the optimistic Thanksgiving reflection that I wrote. But as I write this, I find it becoming less optimistic and maybe slightly more bittersweet.
As Christmas time approaches, there are normally little signs that signify the day is near and that the Christmas spirit is around. For me, I think about coming back home from college and putting up our Christmas tree and our decorations. Christmas candy starts appearing in the stores and the temperature is a little colder. All of my family makes their way home and I start buying Christmas gifts. This is when I know Christmas is near. But, here in Honduras, Christmas came a little differently. With no college to mark the beginning of Christmas break, no stores selling any different candy, and the temperatures still pretty high during the day, it was hard to tell that Christmas was coming. You could easily have thought we were in the middle of March. And so our signs for the arrival of Christmas were slightly different. With three major Christmas projects, we immersed ourselves in a month of heavy work that kept us both busy and distracted. Firstly, we were donated six huge bags of beans—so we bagged them and partnered them with bags of rice to give to one of the poorest neighborhoods in Talanga. We handed out over 300 bags of rice and beans. Secondly, with the money we raised from the big expoventa sale, we started a three tier toy project to give toys to Camalotal (a nearby aldea), Telerevista (a local TV program), and then to a handful of poor areas of Talanga. In total, we handed out 350 toys—and they were all wrapped. And then lastly, we worked with the children of Terrero Colorado and Louis, the choir director, to put together a Nativity play. And so for me, the signs of Christmas coming were the coming dates of these projects. Talk of making elaborate Nativity scenes in homes and baking catamales became common among the people as we started learning the Christmas traditions here and the days started ticking down.
And then Christmas Eve arrived. In Honduras, Christmas is Christmas Eve and all the big celebrations are on the eve as opposed to the day. This Eve put the sweet in my somewhat bittersweet Christmas time. It could not have been better and as I was experiencing it all, I could not stop thinking how lucky I was to be in Talanga and Honduras for this night. Our night started with the performance of the Nativity play in Terrero Colorado at 6 o’clock. However, it had slipped our mind that Terrero does not have electricity and thus no lights. And so by the light of one gas lantern hanging from the ceiling of the little Church perched on the side of a hill, the children performed the Christmas story. It was beautiful—and it was one of my signs that Christmas was here. The Church was packed and when the carols came up in the play, the whole Church sang along. And that’s when I knew my Christmas was here. I got chills and realized that maybe above everything this was what Christmas truly was. Sitting in that simple ten wooden bench Church with the decorations of crepe paper and a tiny tree, I thought about where I was and how I was celebrating Christmas and my heart gleamed with joy. A prayer was said by the leader of the group and as we all held hands, prayers of strength were asked for us and protection for our families far from us.
With some quick goodbyes and catamales in hand, we headed back to Talanga for the 8 o’clock mass. New clothes are a Christmas tradition here and Hondurans love to dress up. Matt had pants made and the rest of scrounged through our suitcases to find something a little dressier than normal. And so we made our way to Church to find out that the power transformer for that neighborhood had gone out. Without light or microphones, the mass was lit by little candles down the aisle and candles on the altar. A simple celebration of a simple birth.
After the mass, the streets of Talanga came alive with families and friends visiting house to house in excitement for midnight. We made our way to Isabel’s, my host mum’s, and ate dinner with her family. Laughter was our music at this house as we played with fireworks, new toys, and cameras. We dined on chicken and rice and potatoes and tortillas and lounged on couches joking and playing. Our celebrations then moved to the streets where we all became children playing with sparklers and watching the ‘tricky tracks’ go off and the ‘mariposas’ flying high. With some photos taken, we headed off to Prof. Daniel’s house. Prof. Daniel is the wise owl of Talanga and knows someone in every office and seems to own half of Talanga too. At his house, the festivities were well underway. With good food and drinks, everybody was having fun. Fatima, a member of our formation team, and her boyfriend and half of her family were there and the good cheer of the night continued with some very interesting Mexican dancing. When midnight arrived, everyone jumped up to give hugs and Feliz Navidads to each other. And the second meal of the night. Another tradition in Honduras is to eat at midnight on Christmas. And so we dined on our second meal of chicken and rice. As an hour or so passed by, we headed to Tyler’s host mom’s house. She lives right near the Church and they were still without power and so we arrived in the house to find them eating and talking by the light of the moon. Our Christmas Eve continued by moonlight to conversations about family and a proud mom retelling stories about her son. By the light of candle, Tyler and Angel tried to put together a puzzle. As another hour passed by, we headed home to a wrapping paper roll fight and then finally to bed at 3:45am.A night of laughter, joy, and friendship that warms the heart and made the night one of the best so far in Honduras.
Christmas day was harder. Since the 25th really isn’t a celebration here, the day passed more or less like a normal day and it was hard to feel the Christmas spirit. I have already mentioned that Christmas was difficult and so I won’t bore you with countless details—but it was tough.
And so my bittersweet Christmas came and went with the beauty of celebrating the Christmas story by the light of a lantern and in the innocence of children, the simplicity of a candlelit mass, the warmth of laughter and joy shared with friends, and the deep gratitude for having a family and memories to miss incredibly so.
Merry Christmas to all and hope it was a beautiful, simple, warm, and thankful day.
Monday, December 24, 2007
A Small Ball and Ten Men
Futbolito literally means small football or soccer ball—and that is exactly what it is. Starting in November, the basketball court in the middle of the park in front of the Catholic Church became the home for futbolito every night. Hundreds of Talangans filtered into the three step ‘stadium’ seating that surrounds the court to cheer on their team or boo for their rivals. Just like at high school football games, most of the girls came dressed to the nines and the guys came to see them. Some nights the crowds came dressed for the cold with scarves and hats and other nights, the cool summer nights were perfect t-shirt weather. Each night, three games were played until the last couple of weeks of the tournament that would decide the winners.
Any team could enter futbolito—and so in total, there were about 30 teams of varying ages and physiques. For example, the Mayor’s team was comprised of slightly older men and the local youth group at the Church, the Emproistas, had a team of twenty year olds or so. Some players had lots of experience and others not so much. And depending on the level of experience of the players, different games turned out closer than others. This also happened to be the funnier part of futbolito. The ball is tiny and some of these men were a little bigger and didn’t seem to have played much football—and so the combination provides a very funny visual..
In addition to the games, local food vendors set up stations around the park. You could find a sample of some of the most common dishes here including puposas, carne asada, licuadas, and especially greasy French fries. One of my personal favorites was the yucca stand. I have never eaten yucca before Honduras—but it’s delicious. It tastes very similar to potato but with a slightly different consistency. Another part of futbolito that seems almost as important as the game was the oranges. Every morning, the park would be scattered with orange outsides and some games at night were even paused for orange fights. Oranges are eaten differently here. Instead of peeling them, they cut the peel off the edge kinda of in a spiral and then cut them in half. It is then your job to suck as much orangey goodness out of the halves. Hondurans also enjoy eating oranges with salt and pepper. It’s an acquired taste that I have yet to acquire. But the oranges that Glenda, one of our friends, sold were delicious—like little pieces of yumminess that I will now always associate with futbolito.
One night, three of us went to futbolito with Naza, Isaac, Sadie, and Gloria (four kids/friends). It started raining as the Emproistas game started but we were pretty well bundled up so we stayed to cheer them on. Sitting on the front step, you have to be ready to dodge flying balls and slide over if one of the players wants to do a free throw. As the rain started to get a little heavier, second half started and then out of nowhere, the power went out. It was pitch dark and being in the park in the middle of Talanga with hundreds of people was not where we wanted to be. It was crazy—I don’t think I’ve ever been in the middle of a town in complete darkness. We took the kids home and then made our way back to our house where the power returned about 10 minutes later.
Futbolito: A small ball and ten men.
Any team could enter futbolito—and so in total, there were about 30 teams of varying ages and physiques. For example, the Mayor’s team was comprised of slightly older men and the local youth group at the Church, the Emproistas, had a team of twenty year olds or so. Some players had lots of experience and others not so much. And depending on the level of experience of the players, different games turned out closer than others. This also happened to be the funnier part of futbolito. The ball is tiny and some of these men were a little bigger and didn’t seem to have played much football—and so the combination provides a very funny visual..
In addition to the games, local food vendors set up stations around the park. You could find a sample of some of the most common dishes here including puposas, carne asada, licuadas, and especially greasy French fries. One of my personal favorites was the yucca stand. I have never eaten yucca before Honduras—but it’s delicious. It tastes very similar to potato but with a slightly different consistency. Another part of futbolito that seems almost as important as the game was the oranges. Every morning, the park would be scattered with orange outsides and some games at night were even paused for orange fights. Oranges are eaten differently here. Instead of peeling them, they cut the peel off the edge kinda of in a spiral and then cut them in half. It is then your job to suck as much orangey goodness out of the halves. Hondurans also enjoy eating oranges with salt and pepper. It’s an acquired taste that I have yet to acquire. But the oranges that Glenda, one of our friends, sold were delicious—like little pieces of yumminess that I will now always associate with futbolito.
One night, three of us went to futbolito with Naza, Isaac, Sadie, and Gloria (four kids/friends). It started raining as the Emproistas game started but we were pretty well bundled up so we stayed to cheer them on. Sitting on the front step, you have to be ready to dodge flying balls and slide over if one of the players wants to do a free throw. As the rain started to get a little heavier, second half started and then out of nowhere, the power went out. It was pitch dark and being in the park in the middle of Talanga with hundreds of people was not where we wanted to be. It was crazy—I don’t think I’ve ever been in the middle of a town in complete darkness. We took the kids home and then made our way back to our house where the power returned about 10 minutes later.
Futbolito: A small ball and ten men.
Death
Death is neat, tidy, and hidden in America. Corpses are not seen until they are cleaned up and painted for wakes and as soon as a person is declared dead, their body is covered with a cloth or blanket. Instead of saying that people die, many say they pass away. Children are not exposed to death and death is neither gruesome nor publicly bloody—but here, death is a grisly public affair.
Open any Honduran newspaper and flip through the first ten pages and you will see a photo of a car accident victim or a murder victim. These photos are not for those with weak stomachs. Just recently, a seminarian was killed in a car accident. Driving at high speeds, he lost control of his car three days before his ordination. As if the story itself wasn’t tragic enough, the press captured every personal and unnecessary moment in photos. One photo showed the destroyed car—pretty typical for all journalism. Another photo showed the girl who was the passenger in the car lying on a stretcher obviously cut and suffering from lesions to her body struggling barely to hold on to her life. And then the last photo was of a lady pulling a bloody cloth of the face of the lifeless seminarian who was on a morgue table splattered with blood. These photos are not even the worst of what we have seen in the newspaper—and this is a daily affair. Death is not covered up and the gruesomeness of death seems to make it a better news story.
In a similar manner, in day to day life, death is not covered or hidden. In fact, I saw my first real dead body in Honduras. As we traveled to San Pedro Sula about a month ago, we were driving through Tegucigalpa when traffic came to a slow. As we passed by the obstruction, we saw a bicycle strewn across the road, a car, and a body lying on the road. He was bleeding from his stomach and the police were standing beside his body. We were driving in the heart of rush hour traffic and nothing was being done to cover this man’s body. Gasps from our car were quickly followed by the heavy silence of minds in prayer.
Such a sight was shocking for us—a group of four twenty some things, but for Honduran children, this is not out of the normal. They are used to death in a strangely comfortable way. In the first couple of months we were here in Talanga, a man was killed—someone tried to cut his head off and failed leaving a couple of arteries still attaching his head to his neck. Gruesome and bloody yes I know. But who did we get this news from? We were told about the murder from two little girls (8 and 9) who sell us banana pancakes most afternoons. It had happened in their neighborhood and they had seen the body with the head.
And so that is death in Honduras—grisly and horrible—but then there is also a very different side that came out on Day of the Dead. Whole families go to the cemetery to decorate grave stones with beautiful flower arrangements and bring crowns to place on the grave stones. They bring food and drinks to enjoy the day and it is a joyous celebration of the lives of those who have died. It is a beautiful day and the markets fill with flower vendors. Children bring games to the cemeteries and help their parents with decorating.
Two very different sides of death.
Open any Honduran newspaper and flip through the first ten pages and you will see a photo of a car accident victim or a murder victim. These photos are not for those with weak stomachs. Just recently, a seminarian was killed in a car accident. Driving at high speeds, he lost control of his car three days before his ordination. As if the story itself wasn’t tragic enough, the press captured every personal and unnecessary moment in photos. One photo showed the destroyed car—pretty typical for all journalism. Another photo showed the girl who was the passenger in the car lying on a stretcher obviously cut and suffering from lesions to her body struggling barely to hold on to her life. And then the last photo was of a lady pulling a bloody cloth of the face of the lifeless seminarian who was on a morgue table splattered with blood. These photos are not even the worst of what we have seen in the newspaper—and this is a daily affair. Death is not covered up and the gruesomeness of death seems to make it a better news story.
In a similar manner, in day to day life, death is not covered or hidden. In fact, I saw my first real dead body in Honduras. As we traveled to San Pedro Sula about a month ago, we were driving through Tegucigalpa when traffic came to a slow. As we passed by the obstruction, we saw a bicycle strewn across the road, a car, and a body lying on the road. He was bleeding from his stomach and the police were standing beside his body. We were driving in the heart of rush hour traffic and nothing was being done to cover this man’s body. Gasps from our car were quickly followed by the heavy silence of minds in prayer.
Such a sight was shocking for us—a group of four twenty some things, but for Honduran children, this is not out of the normal. They are used to death in a strangely comfortable way. In the first couple of months we were here in Talanga, a man was killed—someone tried to cut his head off and failed leaving a couple of arteries still attaching his head to his neck. Gruesome and bloody yes I know. But who did we get this news from? We were told about the murder from two little girls (8 and 9) who sell us banana pancakes most afternoons. It had happened in their neighborhood and they had seen the body with the head.
And so that is death in Honduras—grisly and horrible—but then there is also a very different side that came out on Day of the Dead. Whole families go to the cemetery to decorate grave stones with beautiful flower arrangements and bring crowns to place on the grave stones. They bring food and drinks to enjoy the day and it is a joyous celebration of the lives of those who have died. It is a beautiful day and the markets fill with flower vendors. Children bring games to the cemeteries and help their parents with decorating.
Two very different sides of death.
A Happy Giver
I wish I could be as happy of a giver as our across-the-corner neighbor. Known as Negrita by everyone in Talanga, Virginia is a tiny little lady who has a heart big enough for the whole of Honduras. Not a day goes by when a smile isn’t permanently decorating her face and she is not running from one house to another for a prayer service or to lend a hand somewhere else. Her life is one of true service because she is delighted to be living it.
I sometimes struggle with whether I am delighted with what is supposed to be my year of service. The foundation of this struggle comes from how I am beginning to perceive service and the goodness associated with it. For me, the value and the beauty of service comes not just from the action, but the intentions and the manner in which it is done. In other words, a deed is not just good because it appears to be so. Anybody can do a ‘good’ deed—but it takes sacrifice and a dedication to being a joyous servant to actually perform true service. Thus to me, true service is an action of sacrifice done in a joyous manner internally and externally.
I say all this because countless times a month we are asked to do things that none of us want to do but do anyway. Just a couple of weeks ago, one of the guys from Grupo Emanuel in the Church came over to ask if I could drive him to go cut down palms for him to build a Nativity scene. After checking my calendar, I told Roger I could do it a week from the day—next Saturday. He cringed and said what about tomorrow and after me telling him my entire schedule, he picked 6am as our start time. After he left, I cursed up a storm and was so frustrated that I had been suckered into getting up early. Negative Nancy status took over here. The whole night before I grumpily came to terms with it and the next morning at 5:50am, Matt and I were at the car. He was late—I noticed that. And then we spent the next hour or so climbing up and down the side of this treacherous mountain cutting down ginormous palms. And the whole time I was there, I was ready to leave. I complained in my head about getting dirty, about my splinter, about my sweat pants getting muddy and everything else. As we left, Roger asked if he could pay us—and of course, we refused and said it was fine. Yes, this looks like a good deed—but was it? Not on my part. The act itself was probably service but my intentions and mindset going into it were the farthest thing from true service.
Can sacrifice come naturally to anyone? And if not, how can a person become accustomed to sacrificing in a joyful manner? The whole reason why I so begrudgingly struggled to see the brighter side was because I didn’t want to sacrifice. I didn’t want to sacrifice my freshly cleaned sweat pants, my sleep, or my time. I wanted things to be on my schedule and in my way. And that’s one thing that I am constantly being reminded of here. Service and my struggle to live a life of genuine service cannot be perfectly on my time and in my terms otherwise it lacks the ingredients that make it true service. Not only must I be ready to sacrifice as so many have for me, but I must be ready to joyously give in a manner that can be seen in my actions and also in my intentions and thoughts.
One day I hope to be a happy giver—delighted to be living a life of true service.
I sometimes struggle with whether I am delighted with what is supposed to be my year of service. The foundation of this struggle comes from how I am beginning to perceive service and the goodness associated with it. For me, the value and the beauty of service comes not just from the action, but the intentions and the manner in which it is done. In other words, a deed is not just good because it appears to be so. Anybody can do a ‘good’ deed—but it takes sacrifice and a dedication to being a joyous servant to actually perform true service. Thus to me, true service is an action of sacrifice done in a joyous manner internally and externally.
I say all this because countless times a month we are asked to do things that none of us want to do but do anyway. Just a couple of weeks ago, one of the guys from Grupo Emanuel in the Church came over to ask if I could drive him to go cut down palms for him to build a Nativity scene. After checking my calendar, I told Roger I could do it a week from the day—next Saturday. He cringed and said what about tomorrow and after me telling him my entire schedule, he picked 6am as our start time. After he left, I cursed up a storm and was so frustrated that I had been suckered into getting up early. Negative Nancy status took over here. The whole night before I grumpily came to terms with it and the next morning at 5:50am, Matt and I were at the car. He was late—I noticed that. And then we spent the next hour or so climbing up and down the side of this treacherous mountain cutting down ginormous palms. And the whole time I was there, I was ready to leave. I complained in my head about getting dirty, about my splinter, about my sweat pants getting muddy and everything else. As we left, Roger asked if he could pay us—and of course, we refused and said it was fine. Yes, this looks like a good deed—but was it? Not on my part. The act itself was probably service but my intentions and mindset going into it were the farthest thing from true service.
Can sacrifice come naturally to anyone? And if not, how can a person become accustomed to sacrificing in a joyful manner? The whole reason why I so begrudgingly struggled to see the brighter side was because I didn’t want to sacrifice. I didn’t want to sacrifice my freshly cleaned sweat pants, my sleep, or my time. I wanted things to be on my schedule and in my way. And that’s one thing that I am constantly being reminded of here. Service and my struggle to live a life of genuine service cannot be perfectly on my time and in my terms otherwise it lacks the ingredients that make it true service. Not only must I be ready to sacrifice as so many have for me, but I must be ready to joyously give in a manner that can be seen in my actions and also in my intentions and thoughts.
One day I hope to be a happy giver—delighted to be living a life of true service.
Simply a license plate....
I don’t really know what the process of replacing a license plate would be in the United States—but I can assure you that the DMV in Honduras is just as frustrating and aggravating. To give you the background of this story that takes place over a month or so, we have to go back to the year before we were here. Last year, the license plate for our old, dirty Toyota pick-up was stolen and we were given a piece of paper that said we had filed a police report and thus had permission to drive with a plate. This paper was set to expire in October and this is where our story starts.
1st Trip to Tegucigalpa: On our first expedition on car business, we spent the morning taking in the beauty of the Basilica of Suyapa (the biggest in Central America) and then after a quick lunch, we headed to the DMV—well one of the offices of the DMV. First off, the DMV doesn’t have parking—isn’t that strange? I think it’s a little strange. So as Tyler sat in the illegally parked car just in case the police came and asked him to move it, the rest of us headed up to the office with Puri, our fearless leader in the license plate voyage. Well, the office is part of a long line of offices, but there is no orderly way to get into the office. Two guards stand inside the office and let a couple of people in at one time, but there is no orderly manner to get in. A huge crowd hovers outside the door and when the door opens, they just shove and push to get in. Luckily, our fearless leader, though a little short, managed to push his way to the front and proclaim that he was on business for the Cardinal. Of course, this gave him a VIP pass to the front of the line and we were awarded with an extension for our permission. Afterwards he said that he doesn’t normally lie, but if it’s for a good cause then it can’t be too bad.
2nd Trip to Tegucigalpa: After driving in and out of many different areas of Tegus, we found our way to another office—different from the first but seemingly as incompetent as the other. With Puri’s continuing leadership, we entered into an office behind what looked like a jail and went straight to one of the attendants dismissing the waiting room full of people. Puri disappeared into an office for about 10 minutes and then reemerged with the news that there were no more license plates in Honduras. Amy and I were quite befuddled by this—how can a country just stop making license plates? Well, we were told by this office which is on one side of Tegus to go to a different one—apparently the office we had visited on the first trip. So we drove to the other side of Tegus to get another extension for our permission to drive. This time Puri waited his turn as directed and eventually made his way to the front of the line.
3rd Trip to Tegucigalpa: This trip was made by Puri alone—but magically, we actually got a license plate—well actually a paper license plate. I am still not sure exactly how we are supposed to attach a paper license plate to our car so right now it is in our glove compartment. Apparently, Honduras will not be making metal license plates until January and so until then we have this paper license plate and a note giving us permission to drive without one until January. Puri gave us the permission form and told us it was worth more than dollars and lempiras and to guard it as carefully as a girlfriend or boyfriend. Well, I got the form, folded it up and put it in my back pocket. When we got home, I was opening the gate so that Matt could drive the car in and got oil in my pants. Outraged at the possibility of staining my pants, I quickly changed and took my jeans out to wash them in the yard. Later in the afternoon, we were re-telling the news from Puri and I went to look for the form in my purse and realized that it was in my wet jeans drying on the line outside! Eeeek! Thank goodness I didn’t scrub my jeans too much because we able to salvage the piece of paper and let it dry out and so far its worked just fine. I haven’t told Puri because I think he might freak.
And so this is the story of how we finally were able to have a license plate—yes it might be a paper one, but now we do have a license plate—and the DMV of a developing country is about as advanced as the DMV in GA.
1st Trip to Tegucigalpa: On our first expedition on car business, we spent the morning taking in the beauty of the Basilica of Suyapa (the biggest in Central America) and then after a quick lunch, we headed to the DMV—well one of the offices of the DMV. First off, the DMV doesn’t have parking—isn’t that strange? I think it’s a little strange. So as Tyler sat in the illegally parked car just in case the police came and asked him to move it, the rest of us headed up to the office with Puri, our fearless leader in the license plate voyage. Well, the office is part of a long line of offices, but there is no orderly way to get into the office. Two guards stand inside the office and let a couple of people in at one time, but there is no orderly manner to get in. A huge crowd hovers outside the door and when the door opens, they just shove and push to get in. Luckily, our fearless leader, though a little short, managed to push his way to the front and proclaim that he was on business for the Cardinal. Of course, this gave him a VIP pass to the front of the line and we were awarded with an extension for our permission. Afterwards he said that he doesn’t normally lie, but if it’s for a good cause then it can’t be too bad.
2nd Trip to Tegucigalpa: After driving in and out of many different areas of Tegus, we found our way to another office—different from the first but seemingly as incompetent as the other. With Puri’s continuing leadership, we entered into an office behind what looked like a jail and went straight to one of the attendants dismissing the waiting room full of people. Puri disappeared into an office for about 10 minutes and then reemerged with the news that there were no more license plates in Honduras. Amy and I were quite befuddled by this—how can a country just stop making license plates? Well, we were told by this office which is on one side of Tegus to go to a different one—apparently the office we had visited on the first trip. So we drove to the other side of Tegus to get another extension for our permission to drive. This time Puri waited his turn as directed and eventually made his way to the front of the line.
3rd Trip to Tegucigalpa: This trip was made by Puri alone—but magically, we actually got a license plate—well actually a paper license plate. I am still not sure exactly how we are supposed to attach a paper license plate to our car so right now it is in our glove compartment. Apparently, Honduras will not be making metal license plates until January and so until then we have this paper license plate and a note giving us permission to drive without one until January. Puri gave us the permission form and told us it was worth more than dollars and lempiras and to guard it as carefully as a girlfriend or boyfriend. Well, I got the form, folded it up and put it in my back pocket. When we got home, I was opening the gate so that Matt could drive the car in and got oil in my pants. Outraged at the possibility of staining my pants, I quickly changed and took my jeans out to wash them in the yard. Later in the afternoon, we were re-telling the news from Puri and I went to look for the form in my purse and realized that it was in my wet jeans drying on the line outside! Eeeek! Thank goodness I didn’t scrub my jeans too much because we able to salvage the piece of paper and let it dry out and so far its worked just fine. I haven’t told Puri because I think he might freak.
And so this is the story of how we finally were able to have a license plate—yes it might be a paper one, but now we do have a license plate—and the DMV of a developing country is about as advanced as the DMV in GA.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Cultural Frustrations
I love experiencing new cultures. It has always been so interesting to me to see how other groups of people interact, what their traditions are, and why they live in the ways they do. Cultures have always been beautiful, different, and something almost exotic. And in many ways, I feel this about the Honduran culture. I admire the beauty of how dedicated the Hondurans are to their faith. I marvel at the traditions of floats, 4am Novenas, and morning Birthday serenades. But there are also many parts of the culture that drive me nuts. Yes, this is coming from a foreigner that doesn’t understand the culture, the tradition, courtesy or interactions between people and yes, I am probably missing a little bit of acculturation, but some parts of the culture I just do not seem to be able to adapt to.
I have never been that punctual of a person—never. But the people of Honduras put this into a new respect. We were warned of this before we came and I didn’t really think it would be a big deal. I was actually kind of excited because I’m almost always late in the States and hated feeling so rushed all the time. Well, I don’t whether I have gone to the other extreme of always wanting to be early, but time is so fluid here. Meetings that are supposed to start at 6 maybe get started at 6:30. A couple of weeks ago, we went to a meeting that was supposed to start a 5 and didn’t even move into the meeting room until 6:05. It just gets under my skin. To me, it’s a general disrespect of people’s time, but in this culture, there is just no rush. Every week, Catechism starts at 2—but I can never start class because at 2, I only have about 3 of 28 children present and so maybe we start at 2:30 on a good day. And then the professors in charge do not turn up until this time either. And this general lack of regard of time then in turn makes you late for other events. Last week, we went to go cut down palms for a lady at the Church and told her we had to be back by 1. At 1, we were at her house finishing lunch she had cooked for her. I hate making people wait and I hate feeling irresponsible, but maybe I need to realize that these people are probably not waiting but expecting me in a little bit. In my mission statement, I wrote that I want to follow the rhythm of the Honduran people and this I am struggling with.
I also have never been a person that sincerely values their privacy. But, I have had to re-evaluate that here. Our house is surrounded by a wall that has about five metal decorated windows and at least once a day, I feel like someone is looking through them or calling out to us through them. We have a front garage door looking thing and because it doesn’t go together very well, you can see our front door from it and so everybody can tell if we are home or not. And if people knock and we don’t answer and they see the door open, they will continue knocking until we answer. Kids will knock for hours until we answer. Our trash that sits outside of our house has already been rummaged through by visitors asking why we were throwing this out or if they could have this empty container. And the whole time, I just wanted to scream it’s our trash! And when people come over, they have no reservations about going through boxes or looking at anything we have laying out. And the whole time, I just want to tell them to butt out, to give us our time and our space and to let us be—but our privacy is non-existent here and time off is rare.
I have never liked asking for stuff, but here no reservations exist. When there is something that someone wants, they just come out and ask. And this is something that we as a team have been floundering in. Just the other day, we were working outside to organize something and a lady from the Church knocked on the door to ask if she could have two pieces of wood that were sitting outside our house. She had seen them through the crack in the garage door and came strolling in to ask for them. People ask us for rides left and right because we have a car and have no reservations in asking. It’s almost like it’s expected. And there is no thought that they might be taking advantage of us. And half of me feels as though these people must have no reservations about asking because they are in need and that lessens it slightly—but at the same time, I miss the culturally etiquette and sometimes even false politeness before asking for something. Maybe due to the language, but normal questions are never asked, but statements are used instead. For instance, “Drive me to Agua Blanca?” as opposed to “Can you drive me to Agua Blanca.” People are unbelievable in what they will ask you to do here without batting an eyelash.
This all sounds so negative, but one of the biggest frustrations is just not being able to understand why people act in this way or not being acculturated enough that this doesn’t bother me anymore. But, in all sincerity, I do not think that in the space of a year I will be able to shed all of my cultural norms, values, and standards of politeness and respect to completely adapt to Honduras. To a certain extent, yes, I can become more used to a more laid back, less structured fluid time schedule and actually enjoy taking my time in life as opposed to rushing through it. And maybe by being pushed to a less private life, I will form stronger relationships and gain a more deeper meaning for my trash..haha. And maybe people always asking for stuff is my perfect opportunity to give. But, only with time and patience will these cultural frustrations stop being difficulties and start being simply another way to live life.
I have never been that punctual of a person—never. But the people of Honduras put this into a new respect. We were warned of this before we came and I didn’t really think it would be a big deal. I was actually kind of excited because I’m almost always late in the States and hated feeling so rushed all the time. Well, I don’t whether I have gone to the other extreme of always wanting to be early, but time is so fluid here. Meetings that are supposed to start at 6 maybe get started at 6:30. A couple of weeks ago, we went to a meeting that was supposed to start a 5 and didn’t even move into the meeting room until 6:05. It just gets under my skin. To me, it’s a general disrespect of people’s time, but in this culture, there is just no rush. Every week, Catechism starts at 2—but I can never start class because at 2, I only have about 3 of 28 children present and so maybe we start at 2:30 on a good day. And then the professors in charge do not turn up until this time either. And this general lack of regard of time then in turn makes you late for other events. Last week, we went to go cut down palms for a lady at the Church and told her we had to be back by 1. At 1, we were at her house finishing lunch she had cooked for her. I hate making people wait and I hate feeling irresponsible, but maybe I need to realize that these people are probably not waiting but expecting me in a little bit. In my mission statement, I wrote that I want to follow the rhythm of the Honduran people and this I am struggling with.
I also have never been a person that sincerely values their privacy. But, I have had to re-evaluate that here. Our house is surrounded by a wall that has about five metal decorated windows and at least once a day, I feel like someone is looking through them or calling out to us through them. We have a front garage door looking thing and because it doesn’t go together very well, you can see our front door from it and so everybody can tell if we are home or not. And if people knock and we don’t answer and they see the door open, they will continue knocking until we answer. Kids will knock for hours until we answer. Our trash that sits outside of our house has already been rummaged through by visitors asking why we were throwing this out or if they could have this empty container. And the whole time, I just wanted to scream it’s our trash! And when people come over, they have no reservations about going through boxes or looking at anything we have laying out. And the whole time, I just want to tell them to butt out, to give us our time and our space and to let us be—but our privacy is non-existent here and time off is rare.
I have never liked asking for stuff, but here no reservations exist. When there is something that someone wants, they just come out and ask. And this is something that we as a team have been floundering in. Just the other day, we were working outside to organize something and a lady from the Church knocked on the door to ask if she could have two pieces of wood that were sitting outside our house. She had seen them through the crack in the garage door and came strolling in to ask for them. People ask us for rides left and right because we have a car and have no reservations in asking. It’s almost like it’s expected. And there is no thought that they might be taking advantage of us. And half of me feels as though these people must have no reservations about asking because they are in need and that lessens it slightly—but at the same time, I miss the culturally etiquette and sometimes even false politeness before asking for something. Maybe due to the language, but normal questions are never asked, but statements are used instead. For instance, “Drive me to Agua Blanca?” as opposed to “Can you drive me to Agua Blanca.” People are unbelievable in what they will ask you to do here without batting an eyelash.
This all sounds so negative, but one of the biggest frustrations is just not being able to understand why people act in this way or not being acculturated enough that this doesn’t bother me anymore. But, in all sincerity, I do not think that in the space of a year I will be able to shed all of my cultural norms, values, and standards of politeness and respect to completely adapt to Honduras. To a certain extent, yes, I can become more used to a more laid back, less structured fluid time schedule and actually enjoy taking my time in life as opposed to rushing through it. And maybe by being pushed to a less private life, I will form stronger relationships and gain a more deeper meaning for my trash..haha. And maybe people always asking for stuff is my perfect opportunity to give. But, only with time and patience will these cultural frustrations stop being difficulties and start being simply another way to live life.
Cutting the Power
So I’ve always thought that cutting the power was a strange saying. Especially in the South, people tend to say cut the lights and its never made sense to me. Well, let me tell you a little ditty that gives a whole new meaning to this saying.
Once a month, we get a knock on our door at an unknown time and an unknown date and an electric company worker comes to read the meter and give us an electric bill. If you are not in the house when he comes, well then you have to wait till next month. The electric bill itself looks like a receipt and gives you the total of how much you owe and then some strange address that tells the general location of your house. Our receipt says that we are close to the evangelical church.
Well, our receipt arrived on Monday—but with a busy day ahead of us, we opted to pay it on Tuesday. Paying the receipt is another adventure. Instead of just putting a check in the mail or bringing it to the electric company, you have to bring a check to the bank and wait in a line with the rest of Talanga who also received their power bills that same week. Last month, we waited for about an hour and a half in the line. Needless to say, it’s not an easy process. On Tuesday, luckily, one of our friends was already waiting in line and told us she would pay it for us.
And now about 5 o’clock in the afternoon rolls around and everyone makes their way home from Terrero and Tegucigalpa and we have no lights and a note in the door saying our power has been cut. It was cold and getting dark so we called our life line Fatima who told us to call the power company. Since the address that I mentioned earlier is sort of vague, the boys took it in turns standing on the corner outside our house looking for a passing electric company truck. After about an hour or so, the worker arrived and asked where the power had been cut. Confused, we told him we weren’t exactly sure and so he looked up to the power pole outside our house and pointed to two wires that had obviously been cut. Now I’m not using cut figuratively. Someone (apparently from a company in Tegus) had come along with a pair of scissors and cut the wires. Telling us that he needed a long ladder, he left to return later to somehow sort of tie the wires back together and restore light to our humble abode.
In conversations with many people across Talanga, countless houses lost power with us and very few seemed to understand why the power company was being quite so strict. But, now we know to pay our electric bill on the same day and why people use the saying ‘cut the power.’
Once a month, we get a knock on our door at an unknown time and an unknown date and an electric company worker comes to read the meter and give us an electric bill. If you are not in the house when he comes, well then you have to wait till next month. The electric bill itself looks like a receipt and gives you the total of how much you owe and then some strange address that tells the general location of your house. Our receipt says that we are close to the evangelical church.
Well, our receipt arrived on Monday—but with a busy day ahead of us, we opted to pay it on Tuesday. Paying the receipt is another adventure. Instead of just putting a check in the mail or bringing it to the electric company, you have to bring a check to the bank and wait in a line with the rest of Talanga who also received their power bills that same week. Last month, we waited for about an hour and a half in the line. Needless to say, it’s not an easy process. On Tuesday, luckily, one of our friends was already waiting in line and told us she would pay it for us.
And now about 5 o’clock in the afternoon rolls around and everyone makes their way home from Terrero and Tegucigalpa and we have no lights and a note in the door saying our power has been cut. It was cold and getting dark so we called our life line Fatima who told us to call the power company. Since the address that I mentioned earlier is sort of vague, the boys took it in turns standing on the corner outside our house looking for a passing electric company truck. After about an hour or so, the worker arrived and asked where the power had been cut. Confused, we told him we weren’t exactly sure and so he looked up to the power pole outside our house and pointed to two wires that had obviously been cut. Now I’m not using cut figuratively. Someone (apparently from a company in Tegus) had come along with a pair of scissors and cut the wires. Telling us that he needed a long ladder, he left to return later to somehow sort of tie the wires back together and restore light to our humble abode.
In conversations with many people across Talanga, countless houses lost power with us and very few seemed to understand why the power company was being quite so strict. But, now we know to pay our electric bill on the same day and why people use the saying ‘cut the power.’
Oh Critters....
Animals in Honduras are a little different from those in the United States—in fact, I’ve never had an experience at home that would make me scream to the high Heavens and make me wish that I never had to experience the close, proximity of animals ever again. But, in the space of two days, I had two encounters with horrendous creatures that almost brought me to tears, made me scream and shriek like a little girl, and made me realize just how important my personal bubble is when it comes to yucky creatures.
Let’s begin with a Thursday night in the park. Amy and I had decided to go watch a little futbolito (a 5 on 5 game of soccer played on a b-ball court with a small ball). Seated in the front row with Chiki, one of our friends here, we finished watching the first game and then were distracted by crowds of kids gathering in the corner beside us. Chiki explained to us that the other team about to play were the Possums and that in this corner were two starving, ugly possums. They were painted with blue and white stripes like the jerseys of their team and were on leashes like dogs. At the mere sight of them, I felt my stomach turn and shuddered. With them situated a couple of feet away, I was managing—but then the two owners decided it would be fun to literally either drag or swing them beside the crowd. Every time they pulled this stunt, Amy and I both screamed and freaked out. Noticing our fear, the two owners thought it would be especially funny to come over. They waited until the first goal and then before I knew it, this ugly, disgusting possum was being waved right in front us. I screamed and huddled as closely to Amy as I could. With my head shoved behind Amy, screaming as loud as I could, and heart beating out of control, I felt the horrendous creature on my back. It was at that point where I think I almost peed my pants. Side note: For those of you who don’t know this strange fact about me, I hate ferrets with a serious passion and the similarities between possums and ferrets are way too many. I didn’t want to swat at it and get bitten, but obviously I didn’t want it on my back. Thank God, at this point Chiki stood up to come to our defense and the awful critter left my back. Let’s just say it took a while for me to calm down. I wanted to leave but that would have meant that they would have won. And so when the next goal came quickly after, Chiki understood the severity of the matter and I huddled behind him as he stood up and told the guy to back up. Chiki is only about my height but they listened to him. After the second encounter, a little boy sitting behind me told me I could sit beside him and his dad told me they didn’t bite. Further away, I was safe from the possums and when the next goal came, an orange fight made our perfect exit.
A struggled night of sleep trying not to think about possums led to a groggy morning of school and then mopping. With an interruption from one of my Catechism students and host sister, Nohelia and I started chatting and then I realized I needed my copy of curriculum for next week. As I searched for the piece of paper, a pretty large brown spider was uncovered and I actually wasn’t too taken back. Spiders seemed like nothing compared to the possums. So I went to swat it off my bed and as I hit it, about a billion little spiders erupted from the momma spider. Billion might be a slight exaggeration, but I shouted out many choice exclamations as I saw the bottom end of my blanket scattered with miniature spiders. The big one would have been fine, but the idea of tiny spiders crawling on the blanket that I sleep with gave me the eeby jeebys. With as much force, I grabbed my blanket and went storming to the back yard cursing the country and looking for a big tub to drown all the little eight legged creatures that had any idea of making a home in my blanket. I then proceeded to spray Raid around every corner of my bed frame and pray to God that no more spiders would get near my bed.
Yuck, yuck, yuck
Let’s begin with a Thursday night in the park. Amy and I had decided to go watch a little futbolito (a 5 on 5 game of soccer played on a b-ball court with a small ball). Seated in the front row with Chiki, one of our friends here, we finished watching the first game and then were distracted by crowds of kids gathering in the corner beside us. Chiki explained to us that the other team about to play were the Possums and that in this corner were two starving, ugly possums. They were painted with blue and white stripes like the jerseys of their team and were on leashes like dogs. At the mere sight of them, I felt my stomach turn and shuddered. With them situated a couple of feet away, I was managing—but then the two owners decided it would be fun to literally either drag or swing them beside the crowd. Every time they pulled this stunt, Amy and I both screamed and freaked out. Noticing our fear, the two owners thought it would be especially funny to come over. They waited until the first goal and then before I knew it, this ugly, disgusting possum was being waved right in front us. I screamed and huddled as closely to Amy as I could. With my head shoved behind Amy, screaming as loud as I could, and heart beating out of control, I felt the horrendous creature on my back. It was at that point where I think I almost peed my pants. Side note: For those of you who don’t know this strange fact about me, I hate ferrets with a serious passion and the similarities between possums and ferrets are way too many. I didn’t want to swat at it and get bitten, but obviously I didn’t want it on my back. Thank God, at this point Chiki stood up to come to our defense and the awful critter left my back. Let’s just say it took a while for me to calm down. I wanted to leave but that would have meant that they would have won. And so when the next goal came quickly after, Chiki understood the severity of the matter and I huddled behind him as he stood up and told the guy to back up. Chiki is only about my height but they listened to him. After the second encounter, a little boy sitting behind me told me I could sit beside him and his dad told me they didn’t bite. Further away, I was safe from the possums and when the next goal came, an orange fight made our perfect exit.
A struggled night of sleep trying not to think about possums led to a groggy morning of school and then mopping. With an interruption from one of my Catechism students and host sister, Nohelia and I started chatting and then I realized I needed my copy of curriculum for next week. As I searched for the piece of paper, a pretty large brown spider was uncovered and I actually wasn’t too taken back. Spiders seemed like nothing compared to the possums. So I went to swat it off my bed and as I hit it, about a billion little spiders erupted from the momma spider. Billion might be a slight exaggeration, but I shouted out many choice exclamations as I saw the bottom end of my blanket scattered with miniature spiders. The big one would have been fine, but the idea of tiny spiders crawling on the blanket that I sleep with gave me the eeby jeebys. With as much force, I grabbed my blanket and went storming to the back yard cursing the country and looking for a big tub to drown all the little eight legged creatures that had any idea of making a home in my blanket. I then proceeded to spray Raid around every corner of my bed frame and pray to God that no more spiders would get near my bed.
Yuck, yuck, yuck
My Mission Statement
I am governed by a faith that does not allow me to merely say ‘I believe,’ but a faith that compels me to live, serve, and befriend the crucified of today. It is faith that fills me with a true sense of joy and purpose that allows me to realize that who I am is secondary to what I am doing and who I am serving.
I am supported and embraced by the loving encouragement that is my family—the best team I’ve ever belonged to. Despite countless miles between our hearts, may I be ever present to the gifts of laughter, respect, and imperfect, but perfect love that define my family and thus me.
I am driven by the hope of transformation and the beauty of loving over doing. In the intricacies of God’s plan, I am challenged and confirmed by knowing that I am a part—and that I have been given gifts to share in building of the body of Christ.
I am founded in the rich heritage and tradition of our Catholic faith—in the curiosity to learn and understand more—but also to listen—and in the importance and value of relationships.
I am dedicated to following the rhythm of the people of Honduras and allowing myself to be molded, challenged and reborn in this new land. In modeling my ability to learn on that of a child, I look to nurture a listening heart and to daily make frequent acts of love for God. In every encounter, may I seek the face of Christ and truly reverence each person as a gift in my journey. May I live in the present-never taking for granted the obstacles and joys of sacrifice and simplicity. And may I learn to be patient in my shortcomings and lifted up by the warmth of hope.
I am sustained by the undeniable presence of the Holy Spirit working in my life. With God before me, Jesus beside me, and the Holy Spirit within me, I left myself fall into the arms of God.
I am supported and embraced by the loving encouragement that is my family—the best team I’ve ever belonged to. Despite countless miles between our hearts, may I be ever present to the gifts of laughter, respect, and imperfect, but perfect love that define my family and thus me.
I am driven by the hope of transformation and the beauty of loving over doing. In the intricacies of God’s plan, I am challenged and confirmed by knowing that I am a part—and that I have been given gifts to share in building of the body of Christ.
I am founded in the rich heritage and tradition of our Catholic faith—in the curiosity to learn and understand more—but also to listen—and in the importance and value of relationships.
I am dedicated to following the rhythm of the people of Honduras and allowing myself to be molded, challenged and reborn in this new land. In modeling my ability to learn on that of a child, I look to nurture a listening heart and to daily make frequent acts of love for God. In every encounter, may I seek the face of Christ and truly reverence each person as a gift in my journey. May I live in the present-never taking for granted the obstacles and joys of sacrifice and simplicity. And may I learn to be patient in my shortcomings and lifted up by the warmth of hope.
I am sustained by the undeniable presence of the Holy Spirit working in my life. With God before me, Jesus beside me, and the Holy Spirit within me, I left myself fall into the arms of God.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
My Dreams
Since coming back from Copan and a conference full of 200 plus people who are beaming with passion about Honduras and the work they do here, my mind has been going at full speed with ideas and projects that I hope to maybe do. And so here is a little preview for what my year might be composed of.
1. Domestic Violence Support Group: Domestic violence is one of the biggest and least spoken about problems in Honduras. It is the number two killer of people after traffic accidents. And yet very little is done with the victims of these violent acts. In a culture that is dominated by machismo and in families where dads are often absent, the women many times take the full burden of caring for families and when they are abused have no way out. In Talanga, there is an office in the police station that handles cases of domestic violence. And the plan is that we will start a support group in January for female victims of violence. It will happen once a week and will be a devotional style meeting and will create a safe space for women to be with other women and share their stories. The hope is that these meetings will help the women to heal, but also to prevent them from going back to violent situations. It will be the first support group in Talanga.
2. Street Kid Youth Group: Walking down the street in Talanga, you pass by at least two or three children who have no shoes, holes in their shirts, and dirt everywhere. They might have a home, but often their parents are absent and they are being raised by an older sibling. Many are not in school and children as old as 9 still don’t know how to read. And so my hope is that I will start a group just for these kids. I want to call them the Turtles and teach them that everything they need they already have—just like turtles. I want to read with them, I want to teach them, and then I want to give them some food so that they don’t have to beg for it. This will probably be one of the hardest projects to do since they have very little discipline and seem to run wild all day. We will see how my first meeting goes this week on Thursday (11/1).
3. School Exchange: Talanga is better off than the aldeas. Just like any city compared to a rural setting, Talanga seems to have more resources, more jobs, and life seems a little easier here. The aldeas are a lot poorer. And here is my train of thought: I leave in a year and who are the future of this country? The kids. I leave this country in a year in the hands of the kids and so these are the people that need to know about what life is like in the poorer areas of Honduras. And so my idea is to have a pen pal/ switcheroo between the children of a class in Talanga and a class in an aldea. It would start with an exchange of letters and photos and then depending on how successful it could result in them each spending a day with the other in their respective schools and maybe even overnight…but that might be getting a little crazy.
4. Craft lessons to Women: Most of the women in all of the aldeas we have visited do not have jobs. Their job is to stay at home, clean, and cook. For many, they have no income of their own and no way of earning an income. At the conference, I met a lady who had taught a large group of women how to do origami and then they turned this into jewelry. And so I am in the process of teaching myself origami and then I am looking to work with a group of women in maybe one or two aldeas to teach them this craft so that they then can start making goods to sell.
At this point, these are all just dreams some further along than others. I still have to talk to a lot of people in the community and so we will just have to see whether any of these become a reality or not.
1. Domestic Violence Support Group: Domestic violence is one of the biggest and least spoken about problems in Honduras. It is the number two killer of people after traffic accidents. And yet very little is done with the victims of these violent acts. In a culture that is dominated by machismo and in families where dads are often absent, the women many times take the full burden of caring for families and when they are abused have no way out. In Talanga, there is an office in the police station that handles cases of domestic violence. And the plan is that we will start a support group in January for female victims of violence. It will happen once a week and will be a devotional style meeting and will create a safe space for women to be with other women and share their stories. The hope is that these meetings will help the women to heal, but also to prevent them from going back to violent situations. It will be the first support group in Talanga.
2. Street Kid Youth Group: Walking down the street in Talanga, you pass by at least two or three children who have no shoes, holes in their shirts, and dirt everywhere. They might have a home, but often their parents are absent and they are being raised by an older sibling. Many are not in school and children as old as 9 still don’t know how to read. And so my hope is that I will start a group just for these kids. I want to call them the Turtles and teach them that everything they need they already have—just like turtles. I want to read with them, I want to teach them, and then I want to give them some food so that they don’t have to beg for it. This will probably be one of the hardest projects to do since they have very little discipline and seem to run wild all day. We will see how my first meeting goes this week on Thursday (11/1).
3. School Exchange: Talanga is better off than the aldeas. Just like any city compared to a rural setting, Talanga seems to have more resources, more jobs, and life seems a little easier here. The aldeas are a lot poorer. And here is my train of thought: I leave in a year and who are the future of this country? The kids. I leave this country in a year in the hands of the kids and so these are the people that need to know about what life is like in the poorer areas of Honduras. And so my idea is to have a pen pal/ switcheroo between the children of a class in Talanga and a class in an aldea. It would start with an exchange of letters and photos and then depending on how successful it could result in them each spending a day with the other in their respective schools and maybe even overnight…but that might be getting a little crazy.
4. Craft lessons to Women: Most of the women in all of the aldeas we have visited do not have jobs. Their job is to stay at home, clean, and cook. For many, they have no income of their own and no way of earning an income. At the conference, I met a lady who had taught a large group of women how to do origami and then they turned this into jewelry. And so I am in the process of teaching myself origami and then I am looking to work with a group of women in maybe one or two aldeas to teach them this craft so that they then can start making goods to sell.
At this point, these are all just dreams some further along than others. I still have to talk to a lot of people in the community and so we will just have to see whether any of these become a reality or not.
Accompaniment
Our mission here is to accompany the people. Everything that the Passionist Volunteers stand for is accompaniment, but I’m not sure I really understand it. Accompaniment is spending time with the people, ‘walking with the crucified of today’ (if you want to use the Passionist jargon) and I understand this. We spend a lot of time just talking and hanging out. So much so that sometimes I wonder what we are doing. We go to the Casa and chat and tell stories with the internos. We go to meetings of representatives who have bible studies once or twice a week. We visit house after house after house just catching from week to week. And so yes, I guess we accompany—but we have been told that our program is not a project based program. And so here is my question, when does accompaniment start sharing the stage with projects?
Accompaniment by itself in our program is confusing to me. If we spend the year accompanying and develop the greatest friendships with these people and then we leave, what we have accomplished? Have we simply developed a wonderful friendship that must end with our departure? Or even if we have showed them that there is someone out there who cares, then we leave. So what does accompaniment by itself do? Now don’t get me wrong, I am a huge supported of accompaniment. I do not want to be the white Westerner who comes in and tells the people of Talanga what they need. No, that is not why I came here. But our program says that we must accompany first and then start projects from the needs that we have discovered in our relationships with people. It makes sense, but practically it’s a little different. When we go to aldeas and we say we are simply there to spend time with them or make friends with them, they look at us a little strange. Gringos only come to these lands if they are here to do something—aka build a school, go on a medical brigade and so forth. (Side note: There is nothing wrong with these things and they are desperately needed in many of these communities.) And so there we are the gringos offering friendship and understanding…or at least trying to.
And so we walk with the crucified, the poor, the sick of today. Yes, it sounds so saintly—but hardly. Will I ever be able to feel the suffering or truly walk side by side in the sufferings of someone who has AIDS? Will I ever be able to understand what it means to live in one bedroom, one kitchen home with three kids and two parents far away from civilization? Will I ever be able to feel the pain of the women who I visit on my sick visits? I wish I could say yes, but I don’t know whether in all honesty I will ever be able to. I can try—and I do, I try to put myself in their shoes but its hard when I know that though I might struggle, I will be home in a year to comfort and wealth. William Carlos Williams once said, “I try to put myself in the shoes of others. We’re completely lost in our own world—egoists! Or maybe we’re locked into ourselves, and even though we want to break out, we can’t seem to do it. It takes someone else to help us, a person who breaks in or has a way of letting us out. Or we stumble into some moment, some situation, that wakes us up, gets us enough off track to open up our eyes, our ears, our musty minds.” Maybe I am still waiting for my stumble.
And then my third question is if we are walking with the crucified of today, when do we stop and help them carry their cross? If any of my family were in the situations that half of the people we work with are in, I would drop everything to help them, to carry their cross. And so when do we do that with the people we meet? And can we carry the cross for the hundreds of people we will work with and have been working with? You can only see someone suffer for so long and become friends with them or accompanying them just makes that problem even more acute. And so this is my obstacle. I have accompanied and now I want to do. I want to stop watching and walking with the suffering, and instead work with the suffering to empower them. Have I reached the point where I understand their sufferings? I don’t think so and I don’t think I ever will, but maybe my stumble will come.
Accompaniment by itself in our program is confusing to me. If we spend the year accompanying and develop the greatest friendships with these people and then we leave, what we have accomplished? Have we simply developed a wonderful friendship that must end with our departure? Or even if we have showed them that there is someone out there who cares, then we leave. So what does accompaniment by itself do? Now don’t get me wrong, I am a huge supported of accompaniment. I do not want to be the white Westerner who comes in and tells the people of Talanga what they need. No, that is not why I came here. But our program says that we must accompany first and then start projects from the needs that we have discovered in our relationships with people. It makes sense, but practically it’s a little different. When we go to aldeas and we say we are simply there to spend time with them or make friends with them, they look at us a little strange. Gringos only come to these lands if they are here to do something—aka build a school, go on a medical brigade and so forth. (Side note: There is nothing wrong with these things and they are desperately needed in many of these communities.) And so there we are the gringos offering friendship and understanding…or at least trying to.
And so we walk with the crucified, the poor, the sick of today. Yes, it sounds so saintly—but hardly. Will I ever be able to feel the suffering or truly walk side by side in the sufferings of someone who has AIDS? Will I ever be able to understand what it means to live in one bedroom, one kitchen home with three kids and two parents far away from civilization? Will I ever be able to feel the pain of the women who I visit on my sick visits? I wish I could say yes, but I don’t know whether in all honesty I will ever be able to. I can try—and I do, I try to put myself in their shoes but its hard when I know that though I might struggle, I will be home in a year to comfort and wealth. William Carlos Williams once said, “I try to put myself in the shoes of others. We’re completely lost in our own world—egoists! Or maybe we’re locked into ourselves, and even though we want to break out, we can’t seem to do it. It takes someone else to help us, a person who breaks in or has a way of letting us out. Or we stumble into some moment, some situation, that wakes us up, gets us enough off track to open up our eyes, our ears, our musty minds.” Maybe I am still waiting for my stumble.
And then my third question is if we are walking with the crucified of today, when do we stop and help them carry their cross? If any of my family were in the situations that half of the people we work with are in, I would drop everything to help them, to carry their cross. And so when do we do that with the people we meet? And can we carry the cross for the hundreds of people we will work with and have been working with? You can only see someone suffer for so long and become friends with them or accompanying them just makes that problem even more acute. And so this is my obstacle. I have accompanied and now I want to do. I want to stop watching and walking with the suffering, and instead work with the suffering to empower them. Have I reached the point where I understand their sufferings? I don’t think so and I don’t think I ever will, but maybe my stumble will come.
One of my favorites
I want you to meet Gladys. Gladys is an interno at the Casa Pasionista and the past two weeks I have visited the Casa, she has not been there. Instead, she has been in Tegucigalpa for surgery and then recovery, but her story does not start nor end here. And in all honesty I do not know her story, but I can tell what I have shared with her and what she has shared with me so far.
Gladys is a little lady. She is shorter than me, but seems to be even smaller in the way that she carries herself. The bottom half of her face and neck are badly scarred from a fire where she tried to take her life. She is quiet and shy and will only talk if spoken to. She is gentle and for many, I think, it would be easy to forget her presence.
The first day we visited the Casa, I don’t remember talking to her—I don’t remember talking to anyone because at that point my Spanish was, well, non-existent and my confidence at zero. But, as we were leaving, she took my hand and asked me when we were coming back, I didn’t know so I said that and then Amy told me the word for soon and I realized the potentiality of what could become of our relationships with the internos. In the next handful of visits, I may have spoken to her once or twice, but the easily more extroverted and dominant characters in the Casa overshadowed her. But, then Tyler and I went to the Casa a little over a month ago. After eating with them, Tyler went to the bridge to help the guys with some repair maintenance and I went into the TV room to watch the soap operas with the ladies. Well, one lady Danylla left after about 15 minutes to go see her children and then it was me and Gladys. We chatted a little about the soap and then another one started and she made it clear she didn’t like it. (It’s called The Clone—and its as cheesy as it sounds). I didn’t know what to do—I didn’t know what to talk about and I didn’t want her to think that I didn’t care. Thank God, I had decided to bring some photos of all of you guys and so I asked if she wanted to see them. This started a 45 minute conversation. Despite language barriers and lives full of very different experiences, we became friends in the conversation. I shared with her the stories of college friends and she shared with me photos of excursions to the local restaurant. She showed me pictures of her three children (two of who live at the orphanage) and I showed her pictures of my family. In that 45 minutes, though we came from different countries and with different lives, our lives came together and a friendship was formed.
Her father was very sick and had to go to the hospital for a stomach ulcer. He needed surgery, but had to wait because he didn’t have enough money. She was worried and didn’t have a way to get to Tegus apart from if Puri took her. Her father is still very sick and her family doesn’t have the money to help him. Gladys was in the hospital for reconstructive surgery for her face and neck, but the day of the surgery she had to leave because there were no beds available. This is in the main hospital in Tegucigalpa—one of the largest in the country.
I like her. I like that she is quiet and has a slightly Eeyore-like personality. I like that when I’m at the Casa and I see her, I feel a sense of calm, of companionship. She has been there for years and years and there is something intriguing and warming about her. I like her and I think she might like me and I look forward to what friendship will hopefully blossom between us.
Gladys is a little lady. She is shorter than me, but seems to be even smaller in the way that she carries herself. The bottom half of her face and neck are badly scarred from a fire where she tried to take her life. She is quiet and shy and will only talk if spoken to. She is gentle and for many, I think, it would be easy to forget her presence.
The first day we visited the Casa, I don’t remember talking to her—I don’t remember talking to anyone because at that point my Spanish was, well, non-existent and my confidence at zero. But, as we were leaving, she took my hand and asked me when we were coming back, I didn’t know so I said that and then Amy told me the word for soon and I realized the potentiality of what could become of our relationships with the internos. In the next handful of visits, I may have spoken to her once or twice, but the easily more extroverted and dominant characters in the Casa overshadowed her. But, then Tyler and I went to the Casa a little over a month ago. After eating with them, Tyler went to the bridge to help the guys with some repair maintenance and I went into the TV room to watch the soap operas with the ladies. Well, one lady Danylla left after about 15 minutes to go see her children and then it was me and Gladys. We chatted a little about the soap and then another one started and she made it clear she didn’t like it. (It’s called The Clone—and its as cheesy as it sounds). I didn’t know what to do—I didn’t know what to talk about and I didn’t want her to think that I didn’t care. Thank God, I had decided to bring some photos of all of you guys and so I asked if she wanted to see them. This started a 45 minute conversation. Despite language barriers and lives full of very different experiences, we became friends in the conversation. I shared with her the stories of college friends and she shared with me photos of excursions to the local restaurant. She showed me pictures of her three children (two of who live at the orphanage) and I showed her pictures of my family. In that 45 minutes, though we came from different countries and with different lives, our lives came together and a friendship was formed.
Her father was very sick and had to go to the hospital for a stomach ulcer. He needed surgery, but had to wait because he didn’t have enough money. She was worried and didn’t have a way to get to Tegus apart from if Puri took her. Her father is still very sick and her family doesn’t have the money to help him. Gladys was in the hospital for reconstructive surgery for her face and neck, but the day of the surgery she had to leave because there were no beds available. This is in the main hospital in Tegucigalpa—one of the largest in the country.
I like her. I like that she is quiet and has a slightly Eeyore-like personality. I like that when I’m at the Casa and I see her, I feel a sense of calm, of companionship. She has been there for years and years and there is something intriguing and warming about her. I like her and I think she might like me and I look forward to what friendship will hopefully blossom between us.
Photo Details
Okay this has taken a lot longer than expected, but I’m sure you are used to that by now from me! These are some of my favorite photos from the last month and though the pictures are nice in themselves, the stories behind them are better.
1. Munchkin in a Tree: Meet Fernando. He’s one of my favorites. He lives in Terrero Colorado and he’s seven years old. When we went to Terrero a couple of weeks ago, we spent about an hour at his house mainly because he’s ridiculously funny. Beside his house is this tree and it’s full of these very sour oranges. Here, he is climbing to pick fruit for us.
2. A Little Help from a Tall Gringo: Once Fernando figured out that getting the fruit from the top of the tree was a little too far for his short arms, Matt stepped in to help out. If you can, zoom in on Fernando’s face or just take a close look. He has the biggest smile on his face and I can’t help but smile when I see it.
3. A Forest Adventure: On one of our free days, we ventured to La Tigra, the first national park in Honduras. We trekked through mile after mile of what seemed like uncharted territory and here is the team disappearing into more of the forest.
4. Our Reward: And this was our destination for an hour and half trek. We had climbed up walls, jumped over roots bigger than hippopotamuses, and walked past leaves bigger than my head. And it was all worth it.
5. The Quinze: For the big Independence Day, the kids dressed up in dancers costume to parade through the streets. This is one of the girls who goes to our nightly community meeting. I love this photo.
6. Through a Fence: Back at la Tigra, one of the many beautiful views but through a wire fence.
7. Beautiful Eyes: And these following photos are all from the Independence Day celebrations. Many of the children dress up in Indigenous clothes like this little boy.
8. Indigenous Girl
9. Little, little Red Riding Hood
10. Mi hermanita: Bessie is my little sister in my Honduran family. She is quirky and lovable. And for the most part, she makes me laugh. She is seven years old and is so quick. She is part of the radio show I do every Saturday morning and she is in charge of the agenda and being the MC.
11. Indigenous girl
12. Little Soldiers
13. Love of my life: This is the little boy, Fernando, from Terrero Colorado.
14. A Quick Nap: Ha-ha! Matt and I were leaving Tegucigalpa and in the middle of rush hour traffic, we saw this man taking a nap in the bed of a pick up truck. The air around him is surrounded with pollution and dust. But, I think he was in a different world of dreams.
15. Happy Spectators: For the day of the children, festivities of piñatas, candy, soda, and professors who are MCs for the day ensued. This is Rubi and her little sister. They are watching Prof. Carlos play a game called Chicharon (pork rinds) where you have to answer every question with Chicharon. It’s very funny.
16. Love of my life Part Two: And more Fernando. The Mayor’s office came to Terrero Colorado the day after day of the children and brought with them three piñatas. Here is Fernando with the remnants of the first piñata on his head!
17. Los Hombres: Matt and Tyler pose for a stunning photo in front of the basilica of Suyapa, the biggest basilica in Central America. We spent a day with Alex and Puri from the Casa showing us the sights of their city.
18. Me: I decided these looked like the perfect place for a reenactment of singing in the rain. It made me smile
19. Rain Friends: Nasa and I decided to venture out in the rain to go get icecream with Amy. It was pouring….like crazy so I have my rain boots on and Nasa has my fleece. It was the most fun ice cream adventure so far.
20. Oso: This is our dog—he only looks this cute when you give him a bath. He has since grown quite a bit and is about to grow bigger than this bucket. We have to give him baths more often than not because he gets lots of ticks. Last week, we pulled out over 20 ticks…yuck, yuck!
21. Sight for Sore Eyes: I love this photo. We went to Yuscaran on our free day last month and it was a beautiful little cobbled street town. We found this deserted, decaying building that was home to an impromptu football game—and home to this beautiful sight.
22. Gringos in Yuscaran: My teammates in Yuscaran in front of one of the colorful trucks that transport everything across Honduras.
1. Munchkin in a Tree: Meet Fernando. He’s one of my favorites. He lives in Terrero Colorado and he’s seven years old. When we went to Terrero a couple of weeks ago, we spent about an hour at his house mainly because he’s ridiculously funny. Beside his house is this tree and it’s full of these very sour oranges. Here, he is climbing to pick fruit for us.
2. A Little Help from a Tall Gringo: Once Fernando figured out that getting the fruit from the top of the tree was a little too far for his short arms, Matt stepped in to help out. If you can, zoom in on Fernando’s face or just take a close look. He has the biggest smile on his face and I can’t help but smile when I see it.
3. A Forest Adventure: On one of our free days, we ventured to La Tigra, the first national park in Honduras. We trekked through mile after mile of what seemed like uncharted territory and here is the team disappearing into more of the forest.
4. Our Reward: And this was our destination for an hour and half trek. We had climbed up walls, jumped over roots bigger than hippopotamuses, and walked past leaves bigger than my head. And it was all worth it.
5. The Quinze: For the big Independence Day, the kids dressed up in dancers costume to parade through the streets. This is one of the girls who goes to our nightly community meeting. I love this photo.
6. Through a Fence: Back at la Tigra, one of the many beautiful views but through a wire fence.
7. Beautiful Eyes: And these following photos are all from the Independence Day celebrations. Many of the children dress up in Indigenous clothes like this little boy.
8. Indigenous Girl
9. Little, little Red Riding Hood
10. Mi hermanita: Bessie is my little sister in my Honduran family. She is quirky and lovable. And for the most part, she makes me laugh. She is seven years old and is so quick. She is part of the radio show I do every Saturday morning and she is in charge of the agenda and being the MC.
11. Indigenous girl
12. Little Soldiers
13. Love of my life: This is the little boy, Fernando, from Terrero Colorado.
14. A Quick Nap: Ha-ha! Matt and I were leaving Tegucigalpa and in the middle of rush hour traffic, we saw this man taking a nap in the bed of a pick up truck. The air around him is surrounded with pollution and dust. But, I think he was in a different world of dreams.
15. Happy Spectators: For the day of the children, festivities of piñatas, candy, soda, and professors who are MCs for the day ensued. This is Rubi and her little sister. They are watching Prof. Carlos play a game called Chicharon (pork rinds) where you have to answer every question with Chicharon. It’s very funny.
16. Love of my life Part Two: And more Fernando. The Mayor’s office came to Terrero Colorado the day after day of the children and brought with them three piñatas. Here is Fernando with the remnants of the first piñata on his head!
17. Los Hombres: Matt and Tyler pose for a stunning photo in front of the basilica of Suyapa, the biggest basilica in Central America. We spent a day with Alex and Puri from the Casa showing us the sights of their city.
18. Me: I decided these looked like the perfect place for a reenactment of singing in the rain. It made me smile
19. Rain Friends: Nasa and I decided to venture out in the rain to go get icecream with Amy. It was pouring….like crazy so I have my rain boots on and Nasa has my fleece. It was the most fun ice cream adventure so far.
20. Oso: This is our dog—he only looks this cute when you give him a bath. He has since grown quite a bit and is about to grow bigger than this bucket. We have to give him baths more often than not because he gets lots of ticks. Last week, we pulled out over 20 ticks…yuck, yuck!
21. Sight for Sore Eyes: I love this photo. We went to Yuscaran on our free day last month and it was a beautiful little cobbled street town. We found this deserted, decaying building that was home to an impromptu football game—and home to this beautiful sight.
22. Gringos in Yuscaran: My teammates in Yuscaran in front of one of the colorful trucks that transport everything across Honduras.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Quick and Short.....
I am working on a update about the photos I posted....so it will be up soon. And Im working on some entries. Life has gotten a little crazy and finding the time to sit down and write things and actually think about them before I write just seems to be impossible. But....soon...like in the next three or four days there will be an explanation of photos and hopefully some interesting things for you guys to read!!!
Thanks for the comments...they mean the world to me and they keep me going :)
Thanks for the comments...they mean the world to me and they keep me going :)
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
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