Humility

I write these entries at home and then post them on one date....so these are a little out dated but still pertinent.

August 17, 2007

To think that I was even a tiny bit prepared for what Honduras had in store would be a huge exaggeration…to say the least. I have now spent five days in Talanga and words struggle to explain what I have seen, what I have experienced, and what I have felt. I have left all that was familiar and comfortable to me and now I have regressed to the communication skills of a two year old into a home that is not home yet in a land that is nothing like that of anything I am used to. Scary, yes. Exhilarating, yes. But mainly humbling.
I am humbled by my surroundings—by the dusty, unpaved, pothole filled roads that take me from one place to another and are the home to countless stray dogs and a handful of oxen, by the lush greenery and majestic mountains that tower over every landscape and take my breath away every time, by the rustic beauty of the aldeas where one house with four rooms is home to an already large and growing family, and by the sounds of roosters and dogs and trucks that wake me at night.
I am humbled by the people—by the patience of Isabelle to repeat word for word the simplest sentence in hopes that I might understand and then wait patiently for my jumbled response, by the joy of the children with teethless smiles and hearts that immediately welcome and spirits that have not been contaminated by any prejudice, materialism, or insecurity, by the genuine love of the people in hugs from elderly, perfectly wrinkled old women and in tears of appreciation for the present volunteers, and by the gentleness of two old ladies who walked through the streets of Talanga delivering the Eucharist in kind, warming silence with me.
I am humbled by the culture—by the ‘buen provecho’ uttered as anyone starts to eat a meal—or even just an ice cream cone and the sincerity with which it is said, by the constant visits from friends of all ages at all times and in return the open doors of all we pass, by the importance of giving and receiving and the constant reminder that what is given to me is a gift from above, by the excitement of riding in the back of a pick up truck with twenty three new friends over a river and many a bumps, and by the pride of being a Catracho, of being from Honduras.
I am humbled by my religion—by the beauty of being Catholic in a country where I do not speak the same language but I share the same ritual, tradition, and faith, by the simplicity of a one room church perched on a mountain side with a small altar, a wooden cross, and six wooden benches on each side filled with eager and curious faces and deep brown eyes that savor each word spoken, by the reverence of the Eucharist in the hora sante where even the coolest teenagers in town will kneel in respect and humility, by the living and constant presence of God that accompanies me on my journey to the internet cafes or to far away aldeas, and by the vigor and life that comes through in the music of a school bus full of parishioners traveling to a neighboring town to celebrate mass in the streets with firecrackers and song after song after song after mass that only end because of a rain shower.
And I am humbled by my emotions—by the incredible happiness I feel when I play with the street children that visit our house once a day to play the Dora game or play with Oso, by the admiration I feel for the old volunteers in seeing their tearful goodbyes and in seeing the ways they have touched the people we have met, by the frustration I feel when even the most basic Spanish seems to escape me and leave me with nothing but a smile or a shrug as an answer, by the pangs of sadness when I think about my family and loved ones and by the joy of the memories I share with them, by the anxiety I feel when wondering if I will make a difference or if I will learn the language, and by the peace that cannot come from anywhere but above that has cradled me and reminded me that this is where I am supposed to be.