Every Sunday morning, we awake early and walk up to the Church to catch the end of the 7am mass. After the majority of parishioners have emptied out of the Church, a trail of little, old ladies with small white bags tied around their necks filtered out from the altar and pick up one of us to accompany them on their way. These are the ministers of the Eucharist who bring communion to those unable or incapable of going to Church. Last week, I walked with a lady named Nohemia and went to three houses. Hands down, this was one of the harder things I have had to do in Honduras.
Nohemia and I walked together along the streets and stopped by the first house home to Dona Reina, an elderly lady who was unable to get to Church for the Eucharist. Could she have made it to the Church? Maybe…probably. But the next house was a different matter. Well, it wasn’t truly a house. We continued walking down the main street and came to what looked like a pretty well off house. Once we had walked through the front gates, I realized that this wasn’t a house, but a courtyard with multiple rooms surrounding it. I am still not sure whether it was a nursing home or a hospice. Nevertheless, we entered into the first room on the right to the room of Dona Christina. And this is where I could feel myself mentally starting to crumble. In a good sized room were two beds and in one twin bed lay a tiny, miniature lady. Curled as tightly into the fetal position as possible, the bed looked enormous in comparison to her small body. She looked fragile and uncomfortable. I cannot even think of something to compare to her to describe how tiny she appeared. Once we had entered her room, her aide scooped her up like a small child and placed her in a padded wheel chair. To unfold her ninety two year old brittle bones, her aide pulled forcefully at her legs so that they were only slightly tucked up to her body and shoved a pillow behind her bed. As I introduced myself, I was told that she couldn’t speak, but her eyes warily eyed me as a stranger in her world. Nohemia proceeded to say the abbreviated version of mass as this little lady sat fragile, scared, and seemingly completely unaware of every thing. And that’s where I began to crumble, this old lady was alive, but was she really? She wore adult diapers and could not do anything for herself. Even when the Eucharist was given to her, a tiny piece of the host was given and even this large crumb had to be put in her mouth and then her aide had to use her fingers to help Dona Christina swallow it. Her days are probably spent curled tightly in the fetal position hoping for what? Looking forward to what? This tiny old lady was smaller than Nanny and in my head and in my heart, I said a prayer of thanksgiving that Nanny died before getting to this stage. Selfish…probably. But, I don’t know whether I can say that I would rather be alive in the state of Dona Christina than dead. This all sounds so harsh, but it was the sadness and emptiness of this lady that made me physically feel ill and made me mentally have no idea what to think or what to hope for for her life.
As if this visit was not enough to label the morning hard, we then continued on to one last house. Earlier in the week, the sister of Matt’s host mom had passed away and Matt and Tyler had gone to the appropriate rituals and such surrounding the death. On this Sunday morning, the death of this thirty year old lady was far from my mind and my heart could still not get over the previous visit. We arrived with Matt and his minister and Nohemia and I at a house that was near to where the wake had been. When we entered the house, two ladies met us and went to get there mother. From behind a curtain emerged a small, elderly lady of about seventy or eighty wearing a scarf over her head and wrapped up in an oversized cardigan. As soon as one of the ministers went over to greet her, cries of pain and grief filled the room. She was the mother of the deceased lady and the two ladies who had greeted us were the sisters. The sadness and despair that surrounded this room was so poignant. I did not know the connection between these women until after the visit, but without a doubt, I could feel the pain and sorrow like a sharp knife at my heart. The elderly lady struggled to sit down and as the abbreviated mass started, tears streamed down her face. She mopped at the tears with the corners of her scarf. I don’t think there is anything sadder than seeing an elderly person cry. Something about the whole picture is just so painful and I keep using the word ‘pain’ because I cannot think of any other way to explain it. At the sign of peace, a usually joyful time, every woman in the house had tears in her eyes and the grief of losing someone way too early in life was sharply felt by all.
A hard morning.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Water
Before living here, I have never ever given water two seconds of my time. It was a given and always has been in my life. Running water has always been present and I would even venture to say that 95% of houses in both Charlotte and Marietta have running water or more. Being here has made me realize what a life giving source water truly is and how water days can be the highlights of my week and how toilets that work are wonderful.
Last week made me aware of all of this and so I’ll fill you in on our week of water wackiness. However, some foundation needs to be set here. Water arrives at our house on Mondays and Fridays. When I say it arrives, I mean we actually have water that comes out of the taps and sometimes the shower heads from about 8 in the morning to 2 in the afternoon. Sundays and Thursdays are what we call bonus days. Yes, on the bonus days, after the whole town has taken what they needed, any left over water surprises us and gives us something to be extra thankful about. On the days when water does not come, we got to the pilla or the big bathtub of water in the back yard and fill up buckets to shower with and wash dishes. So that is our water situation.
Two weeks, we chose not to fill up the pilla on Monday because we needed to clean it. Cleaning the pilla is an adventure in itself you have to empty it, get in it and scrub with a big brush, and then rinse, and then fill it up again. Well, when Friday arrived, our pilla was very very low on water…and we waited and waited and waited for water to arrive and well it never did. So with little water, we knew we would just have to wait till Monday for some more. At this point, the pilla that is about 4ft deep had probably less than a foot of water and for me to scoop water out of it, I literally had to rest my stomach on the edge and lean in so far that my tippy toes would not even touch the ground. Needless to say, we were all very ready for water to arrive. On Monday, water did not arrive until 10:30 or so and we were finally able to clean the pilla and fill it to about 2ft.
Monday also happened to be the days that both toilets decided not to work. A. This is not good at all….ever. B. This is especially not good in a country where the most common illness for foreigners is diarrhea and C. This is especially not good when flushing the toilet literally means pouring a bowl or two of water until it all trickles down. And so the toilets wouldn’t flush…both of them. We couldn’t figure out if there was a tank that was full or what was going on. Plumbing over here is quite confusing. Thank goodness for Fatima, a lady on our formation team who knows everything and anything, who told us that pouring a large amount of bleach would unclog the toilet. And it did…yay!
I am happy to say that today we have a pilla full of water because it has rained at least twice a day and most of the night for the past three days and that we have toilets that are fully functioning and flushing delightfully. Of course, two minutes after I wrote that, Tyler came in to tell us that in road construction they hit a large pipe and that we probably wont be getting water till next week….if that… I guess its one of those things that you don’t realize how lucky you are until you come close to running out of water and the toilet doesn’t work.
Last week made me aware of all of this and so I’ll fill you in on our week of water wackiness. However, some foundation needs to be set here. Water arrives at our house on Mondays and Fridays. When I say it arrives, I mean we actually have water that comes out of the taps and sometimes the shower heads from about 8 in the morning to 2 in the afternoon. Sundays and Thursdays are what we call bonus days. Yes, on the bonus days, after the whole town has taken what they needed, any left over water surprises us and gives us something to be extra thankful about. On the days when water does not come, we got to the pilla or the big bathtub of water in the back yard and fill up buckets to shower with and wash dishes. So that is our water situation.
Two weeks, we chose not to fill up the pilla on Monday because we needed to clean it. Cleaning the pilla is an adventure in itself you have to empty it, get in it and scrub with a big brush, and then rinse, and then fill it up again. Well, when Friday arrived, our pilla was very very low on water…and we waited and waited and waited for water to arrive and well it never did. So with little water, we knew we would just have to wait till Monday for some more. At this point, the pilla that is about 4ft deep had probably less than a foot of water and for me to scoop water out of it, I literally had to rest my stomach on the edge and lean in so far that my tippy toes would not even touch the ground. Needless to say, we were all very ready for water to arrive. On Monday, water did not arrive until 10:30 or so and we were finally able to clean the pilla and fill it to about 2ft.
Monday also happened to be the days that both toilets decided not to work. A. This is not good at all….ever. B. This is especially not good in a country where the most common illness for foreigners is diarrhea and C. This is especially not good when flushing the toilet literally means pouring a bowl or two of water until it all trickles down. And so the toilets wouldn’t flush…both of them. We couldn’t figure out if there was a tank that was full or what was going on. Plumbing over here is quite confusing. Thank goodness for Fatima, a lady on our formation team who knows everything and anything, who told us that pouring a large amount of bleach would unclog the toilet. And it did…yay!
I am happy to say that today we have a pilla full of water because it has rained at least twice a day and most of the night for the past three days and that we have toilets that are fully functioning and flushing delightfully. Of course, two minutes after I wrote that, Tyler came in to tell us that in road construction they hit a large pipe and that we probably wont be getting water till next week….if that… I guess its one of those things that you don’t realize how lucky you are until you come close to running out of water and the toilet doesn’t work.
What makes a life valid?
And this is the question that I am struggling with and that I pose to you. Is one life more valid than another? And if so, how do you measure the validity of a life? This question came to my mind in a conversation I was having with Matt on the drive to Tegucigalpa for a day in the first world here in Honduras. As I started thinking out loud about what I will do when I return to the United States, I started to realize that I have no clue what I want to do. I want to chose something and do something that will make my life valuable and used and valid. But how do I measure that? Is it by what I have done—the actions, the amount of people I have impacted, or the sincerity with which I have impacted them, or none of this?
I look at the life of a man named Chico here. He owns a pulperia around the corner and he is married with a son and a daughter. He works at the Church and is in charge of hooking up all the speakers and electronics for mass. He also has a television show once a week that broadcasts local going ons, a kids’ story, and some other odd bits and pieces. He has probably never left Honduras and probably has no plans of the sort. And I have always looked at my life and hoped that I would leave this life having impacted as many people as I could and having helped as many people as I could, but then I look at the life of Chico and many others in Talanga and I know they will never leave here. They might never know what its like to live in Marietta or go to school in Charlotte nor have their eyes opened to many different things. But, Chico is a good man. He has welcomed us with open arms and is a well respected and well known man in Talanga. And I can’t say his life isn’t valid.
So how do I live a valid life if I can’t say that Chico’s life isn’t valid? And how on Earth do I define a valid life? I don’t want to say that it’s based on how many people you impact because that makes it sound as if it’s a competition. But so what is a valid life? Maybe it is a life lived following one’s passions—but do there need to be any clarifications on what those passions are? So, is someone who is passionate about bird boxes and follows that whole heartedly living a life as validly as one who is passionate about fighting world hunger? I don’t know the answer to this question. Or is a life valid when one feels as though they are living with a purpose and with joy? I also wonder if validity corresponds to selflessness in a life.
And since I cannot answer these questions, I move to how I can’t define a valid life. A life cannot be deemed valid based on the number of people impacted because this number could either be merely superficial impact and is unfair because people live lives in which they do not have the opportunity to be near a lot of people. A lady like Dona Maria Antonia who has never left the vicinity of her aldea of Terrero Colorado cannot be labeled as having a valueless life. A life cannot be deemed valid based on one’s position, social status or religion or race. Validity in life has to stretch through all cultures, religions, and races, but is established by that one person living the life.
I ask all these questions because if I look at Chico’s life and cannot say that his life is not valuable, then maybe I have to conclude that his life is valid. And then I have to realize that the validity of one’s life is maybe not based on goals, the amount of people one impacts, or even the great number of places one might have visited. In all this babbling, I think I am coming to the conclusion that a valid life is one lived with purpose and with joy.
What’s your opinion? Insight?
I look at the life of a man named Chico here. He owns a pulperia around the corner and he is married with a son and a daughter. He works at the Church and is in charge of hooking up all the speakers and electronics for mass. He also has a television show once a week that broadcasts local going ons, a kids’ story, and some other odd bits and pieces. He has probably never left Honduras and probably has no plans of the sort. And I have always looked at my life and hoped that I would leave this life having impacted as many people as I could and having helped as many people as I could, but then I look at the life of Chico and many others in Talanga and I know they will never leave here. They might never know what its like to live in Marietta or go to school in Charlotte nor have their eyes opened to many different things. But, Chico is a good man. He has welcomed us with open arms and is a well respected and well known man in Talanga. And I can’t say his life isn’t valid.
So how do I live a valid life if I can’t say that Chico’s life isn’t valid? And how on Earth do I define a valid life? I don’t want to say that it’s based on how many people you impact because that makes it sound as if it’s a competition. But so what is a valid life? Maybe it is a life lived following one’s passions—but do there need to be any clarifications on what those passions are? So, is someone who is passionate about bird boxes and follows that whole heartedly living a life as validly as one who is passionate about fighting world hunger? I don’t know the answer to this question. Or is a life valid when one feels as though they are living with a purpose and with joy? I also wonder if validity corresponds to selflessness in a life.
And since I cannot answer these questions, I move to how I can’t define a valid life. A life cannot be deemed valid based on the number of people impacted because this number could either be merely superficial impact and is unfair because people live lives in which they do not have the opportunity to be near a lot of people. A lady like Dona Maria Antonia who has never left the vicinity of her aldea of Terrero Colorado cannot be labeled as having a valueless life. A life cannot be deemed valid based on one’s position, social status or religion or race. Validity in life has to stretch through all cultures, religions, and races, but is established by that one person living the life.
I ask all these questions because if I look at Chico’s life and cannot say that his life is not valuable, then maybe I have to conclude that his life is valid. And then I have to realize that the validity of one’s life is maybe not based on goals, the amount of people one impacts, or even the great number of places one might have visited. In all this babbling, I think I am coming to the conclusion that a valid life is one lived with purpose and with joy.
What’s your opinion? Insight?
Friday, September 14, 2007
Hora Santa
September 13, 2007
Usually, hora santa or holy hour is far from holy. In the meditation of Spanish song and prayer, my mind wanders to what I want to snack on when we get home or when I am going to do laundry or how to say ‘I don’t understand anything’ in Spanish. In the hour, I may spend about ten minutes in prayer or actually focusing and the other forty minutes I am in la la land. Maybe it’s the language, maybe its late, and maybe its always warm…but I have not yet mastered the ability to take something from hora santa.
But, tonight was an exception. After what should have been a helpful and comforting meeting with Padre Daniel, I left feeling as in competent and hollow as I have felt here. Though he offered help and guidance, I felt awful and completely empty when we walked into the Church for hora santa. As I thought about how I felt and my feelings, I was extremely aware of how alone I felt. It was as though I had come to a low and recognized that all the people that usually comfort me were nowhere near me. The painfulness of being alone became even more apparent when the theme of hora santa was announced as immigrants and migrants. Surprisingly to me, a large number of people from Talanga leave and go work in Spain or in the United States. I guess I had never put two and two together that the immigration issue that is so controversial in the States may actually be fueled by the people I am living with. As we were given time to pray and meditate about immigrants and such, my thoughts drifted to my family at home, to my friends in Charlotte, and back to everything and everyone I love. It was heartbreaking and I honestly had to do everything in my power not to sob. I was just so aware of how empty and alone I felt.
At exactly that moment in the hora, Fatima held a basket of roses and invited everyone who had a family member outside of the country to go to the altar and place a rose in recognition of them. The center aisle of the Church filled. Person after person—young, old, male and female—picked a rose and then stood in line. And I realized that I wasn’t alone. I realized that I wasn’t the only person who missed someone so badly that tears were in their eyes and I realized that I wasn’t the only person who had to be without their family. And I thought about how my family would be doing the same thing in the United States for me. Women stood in line with tears running down their faces and as I felt my homesickness combine with their sadness, I literally sobbed. And when it was my turn to go to the altar to place a simple white rose, pictures of everyone I love flashed through my mind and my cheeks felt raw from dried tears. I needed to know that I wasn’t alone and I now know that.
I might be away from my family for a year, but these people never know when their loved ones will return. And so yes, I got something from hora santa. I found comfort in knowing that I am not the only one missing someone and that there are other people who can understand
Usually, hora santa or holy hour is far from holy. In the meditation of Spanish song and prayer, my mind wanders to what I want to snack on when we get home or when I am going to do laundry or how to say ‘I don’t understand anything’ in Spanish. In the hour, I may spend about ten minutes in prayer or actually focusing and the other forty minutes I am in la la land. Maybe it’s the language, maybe its late, and maybe its always warm…but I have not yet mastered the ability to take something from hora santa.
But, tonight was an exception. After what should have been a helpful and comforting meeting with Padre Daniel, I left feeling as in competent and hollow as I have felt here. Though he offered help and guidance, I felt awful and completely empty when we walked into the Church for hora santa. As I thought about how I felt and my feelings, I was extremely aware of how alone I felt. It was as though I had come to a low and recognized that all the people that usually comfort me were nowhere near me. The painfulness of being alone became even more apparent when the theme of hora santa was announced as immigrants and migrants. Surprisingly to me, a large number of people from Talanga leave and go work in Spain or in the United States. I guess I had never put two and two together that the immigration issue that is so controversial in the States may actually be fueled by the people I am living with. As we were given time to pray and meditate about immigrants and such, my thoughts drifted to my family at home, to my friends in Charlotte, and back to everything and everyone I love. It was heartbreaking and I honestly had to do everything in my power not to sob. I was just so aware of how empty and alone I felt.
At exactly that moment in the hora, Fatima held a basket of roses and invited everyone who had a family member outside of the country to go to the altar and place a rose in recognition of them. The center aisle of the Church filled. Person after person—young, old, male and female—picked a rose and then stood in line. And I realized that I wasn’t alone. I realized that I wasn’t the only person who missed someone so badly that tears were in their eyes and I realized that I wasn’t the only person who had to be without their family. And I thought about how my family would be doing the same thing in the United States for me. Women stood in line with tears running down their faces and as I felt my homesickness combine with their sadness, I literally sobbed. And when it was my turn to go to the altar to place a simple white rose, pictures of everyone I love flashed through my mind and my cheeks felt raw from dried tears. I needed to know that I wasn’t alone and I now know that.
I might be away from my family for a year, but these people never know when their loved ones will return. And so yes, I got something from hora santa. I found comfort in knowing that I am not the only one missing someone and that there are other people who can understand
Realizations
Realizations (Sorry this is so old)
August 27, 2007
It is so easy, maybe even human, to focus on the little worries and anxieties in an overwhelming situation and use those to lessen the realization of both the gravity and depth of the situation. I think I might have been doing that. No, I know I have been doing that. Over the past week or so, I have let health issues hang over my head and distract me from everything. Instead of thinking about being in Honduras and using all of my senses to soak up all I can, I have spent hours and hours distracted and worrying over things that cannot be fixed by more and more worrying and shouldn’t be worried about in the first place. What if I had to go to a doctor? What if I couldn’t communicate with the doctor? What if I would have to leave? What if I wasn’t healthy? What if all would not go to plan? All the ‘what ifs ‘….and where did that take me? No where.
My health issues are resolved and I feel fine. And did I worry completely unnecessarily? Yes. What was I suffering from? Nothing…I wasn’t suffering. At all and that’s what I am realizing. It was so easy for my mind to take this little issue and blow it completely out of proportion. In a manner, maybe this was my way of dealing with this overwhelming and huge change in my life. I am no longer the capable, independent, strong woman that I pride myself on being. Instead, my capabilities and my strengths have gone out of the window. I love people and I love spending time with them. I love talking and enjoying the company of new friends and old friends. But here, my strength and my love for being and talking with people went down the toilet day one. I no longer have the tools at my fingertips to chat for endless hours with the people I meet. My independence has disappeared as I have become a member of a group and have yet to learn how to drive stick. The independence and freedom I enjoyed in college is a far place from here. I live day to day with 30,000 sets of eyes watching my every move and with the weight of being a representative of the Church on my shoulders. Instead of feeling strong, I feel weak on a day to day basis. I feel unequipped in almost every situation. Whether it be my shyness with Spanish or the reminder of how awkward I felt as a young teenager, inadequacy is a constant word in my mind.
I am experiencing huge change in my life. Those little things that I have mentioned before like the lack of running water and frequent power outages are not hard to get used. What is hard is to get used or to really understand is that I am here for a year and that the people I love the most are the furthest away from me and that in almost every situation, I will be starting from the very beginning, the very very beginning. Nothing will be easy. Even simple, beginner level conversations might take hours of work and much frustration. Friendships will not happen overnight and trust takes time to establish. Projects will call me to be vulnerable to failure and push me further and further out of my comfort zone. Homesickness will become unbearable and I may never know success as I define it in this year. I am realizing this all. I am realizing and finally understanding that I will struggle. But that is why I am here. I am not here to be comfortable; I can do that at home. I am not here to excel; I can do that at home. I am here to learn what it is to struggle, to fall on my face, and then get back up again and fall again. If I am here to serve those who struggle, I must first understand what it means to struggle, what it means to be uncomfortable, to not have everything I desire, and to not feel competent in many areas of life. Does this scare me? Heck, yes. But at least now I’m not distracted any more.
August 27, 2007
It is so easy, maybe even human, to focus on the little worries and anxieties in an overwhelming situation and use those to lessen the realization of both the gravity and depth of the situation. I think I might have been doing that. No, I know I have been doing that. Over the past week or so, I have let health issues hang over my head and distract me from everything. Instead of thinking about being in Honduras and using all of my senses to soak up all I can, I have spent hours and hours distracted and worrying over things that cannot be fixed by more and more worrying and shouldn’t be worried about in the first place. What if I had to go to a doctor? What if I couldn’t communicate with the doctor? What if I would have to leave? What if I wasn’t healthy? What if all would not go to plan? All the ‘what ifs ‘….and where did that take me? No where.
My health issues are resolved and I feel fine. And did I worry completely unnecessarily? Yes. What was I suffering from? Nothing…I wasn’t suffering. At all and that’s what I am realizing. It was so easy for my mind to take this little issue and blow it completely out of proportion. In a manner, maybe this was my way of dealing with this overwhelming and huge change in my life. I am no longer the capable, independent, strong woman that I pride myself on being. Instead, my capabilities and my strengths have gone out of the window. I love people and I love spending time with them. I love talking and enjoying the company of new friends and old friends. But here, my strength and my love for being and talking with people went down the toilet day one. I no longer have the tools at my fingertips to chat for endless hours with the people I meet. My independence has disappeared as I have become a member of a group and have yet to learn how to drive stick. The independence and freedom I enjoyed in college is a far place from here. I live day to day with 30,000 sets of eyes watching my every move and with the weight of being a representative of the Church on my shoulders. Instead of feeling strong, I feel weak on a day to day basis. I feel unequipped in almost every situation. Whether it be my shyness with Spanish or the reminder of how awkward I felt as a young teenager, inadequacy is a constant word in my mind.
I am experiencing huge change in my life. Those little things that I have mentioned before like the lack of running water and frequent power outages are not hard to get used. What is hard is to get used or to really understand is that I am here for a year and that the people I love the most are the furthest away from me and that in almost every situation, I will be starting from the very beginning, the very very beginning. Nothing will be easy. Even simple, beginner level conversations might take hours of work and much frustration. Friendships will not happen overnight and trust takes time to establish. Projects will call me to be vulnerable to failure and push me further and further out of my comfort zone. Homesickness will become unbearable and I may never know success as I define it in this year. I am realizing this all. I am realizing and finally understanding that I will struggle. But that is why I am here. I am not here to be comfortable; I can do that at home. I am not here to excel; I can do that at home. I am here to learn what it is to struggle, to fall on my face, and then get back up again and fall again. If I am here to serve those who struggle, I must first understand what it means to struggle, what it means to be uncomfortable, to not have everything I desire, and to not feel competent in many areas of life. Does this scare me? Heck, yes. But at least now I’m not distracted any more.
Amelia
Outside of the Church lives a little old lady. She is shorter than me and I literally have to bend over to kiss her on the cheek. And every time we see her, she beckons us over to tell us something or show us something or just to give us a hug. She wears a white dress with an apron and always has a baseball cap covering her thin grey hair. She has one tooth and the biggest smile. And she loves to dance at every possible moment—she dances in a circle with her arms holding an invisible partner all while chuckling to herself. Her name is Amelia.
Amelia used to be in charge of cleaning the Church, but as the years began to take their toll, she is no longer capable of this job. But this doesn’t stop her. Last weekend, Amy and I made our way to the Church for a catechism meeting and as we were sitting in the rectory, Amelia came in with arms outstretched to give us both a hug. After our greeting, she strummed the guitar laying on the couch beside us and then went to greet and dance with countless statues or figures in the room. She greeted the statue of Mary, a camel sitting on Padre Daniel’s desk, and then went over to say hello and give a little dance for a Saint statue. And then she was off cleaning—emptying the trash into a trash can bigger than her and all while smiling and muttering some little songs or sayings in Spanish.
Now at this point, you are probably wondering as I did, if Amelia is completely together up there and yes I had my questions about this. She really is very old and I still don’t know where she lives or if she has any family here. But, then despite her kookiness, something about her won me over. Most of you know that I have a huge weakness for small, old ladies. My Nanny was a small, old lady who was my best friend growing up and is still one of my biggest role models for my life. And so because of Nanny, every time I see a small, wrinkled old lady I think about her and feel a responsibility to take care of them. Needless to say, Amelia is no different and I plan on spending a lot more time with her.
Well, going back to the questions of the kookiness, I was proved wrong last week. Tyler and I ventured up to the Church to hang a poster that we had made to present our group to the parishioners, but the Church was locked. We tried every door and no luck. And then Amelia popped out from somewhere—she has this amazing ability to turn up out of nowhere. Since she has one tooth and is very old and I don’t speak Spanish, it is very hard to understand what she says and so usually I just smile and nod. Well, it was obvious this day that that wasn’t going to work. I tried asking her if one of the Padres was there or if she had keys but she kept pointing past the Church and neither Tyler nor I could understand. After many apologies by me, she took me by the arm and Tyler and I nervously obliged. Arm in arm we walked down the street and as we arrived at the corner of the street, she knocked on the door and disappeared. Yes, literally disappeared leaving Tyler and I standing in front of a random house. In moments, a young child answered the door and I was relieved to find that she knew exactly what I was talking about when I asked for the keys. So our venture was successful and Amelia may act kooky, but is actually far from it.
Amelia used to be in charge of cleaning the Church, but as the years began to take their toll, she is no longer capable of this job. But this doesn’t stop her. Last weekend, Amy and I made our way to the Church for a catechism meeting and as we were sitting in the rectory, Amelia came in with arms outstretched to give us both a hug. After our greeting, she strummed the guitar laying on the couch beside us and then went to greet and dance with countless statues or figures in the room. She greeted the statue of Mary, a camel sitting on Padre Daniel’s desk, and then went over to say hello and give a little dance for a Saint statue. And then she was off cleaning—emptying the trash into a trash can bigger than her and all while smiling and muttering some little songs or sayings in Spanish.
Now at this point, you are probably wondering as I did, if Amelia is completely together up there and yes I had my questions about this. She really is very old and I still don’t know where she lives or if she has any family here. But, then despite her kookiness, something about her won me over. Most of you know that I have a huge weakness for small, old ladies. My Nanny was a small, old lady who was my best friend growing up and is still one of my biggest role models for my life. And so because of Nanny, every time I see a small, wrinkled old lady I think about her and feel a responsibility to take care of them. Needless to say, Amelia is no different and I plan on spending a lot more time with her.
Well, going back to the questions of the kookiness, I was proved wrong last week. Tyler and I ventured up to the Church to hang a poster that we had made to present our group to the parishioners, but the Church was locked. We tried every door and no luck. And then Amelia popped out from somewhere—she has this amazing ability to turn up out of nowhere. Since she has one tooth and is very old and I don’t speak Spanish, it is very hard to understand what she says and so usually I just smile and nod. Well, it was obvious this day that that wasn’t going to work. I tried asking her if one of the Padres was there or if she had keys but she kept pointing past the Church and neither Tyler nor I could understand. After many apologies by me, she took me by the arm and Tyler and I nervously obliged. Arm in arm we walked down the street and as we arrived at the corner of the street, she knocked on the door and disappeared. Yes, literally disappeared leaving Tyler and I standing in front of a random house. In moments, a young child answered the door and I was relieved to find that she knew exactly what I was talking about when I asked for the keys. So our venture was successful and Amelia may act kooky, but is actually far from it.
My Mass
I have so many things to write about and it just seems as if I have no time to sit down and to register, feel, and think about everything that I am experiencing. So I apologize for the long absence but I want to write these entries with thought and feeling so that you can understand and journey with me to Honduras. These entries refer to things over the past two weeks or so and are sorta of not in order at all.
The town of Talanga is centered around the Catholic Church of San Diego. It is a relatively large building—simplistically white on the outside with a large castle like door and three steps that lead to the entrance. The Church looks out onto the park as in most cities in Central America. Inside the Church, simple wooden pews stretch to the altar where a decorative crucifix flanked by life size robed angels stands. One large fluorescent bulb lights sanctuary and the tile floors are dusted with a light layer of the dirt from outside. It is always warm in the Church. The kneelers are simply a plank of wood. And this is my new Spiritual home.
I have struggled with this. In the United States, I gain strength and sustenance from mass. After I leave mass, I leave with something new to think about or something new to focus on for the week. But mass here has been very different. Not only do I not know any of the prayers or the songs, but I have absolutely no clue what the sermon or homily is about. Yes, I can pick up the occasional Jesus or Holy Spirit, but trying to understand the lesson is a lot harder. In the past couple of weeks, I have found myself drifting off into a land of day dreams during masses or just becoming so frustrated with my lack of understanding that I literally just turned off.
Well, about two weeks ago, after a long and tiresome and frustrating day, we found ourselves at 7 o’clock Sunday mass. To say that I was feeling empty would probably be accurate. I was lost as to why I was here and lost as to where I was supposed to find spiritual nourishment. Mass went on as it normally does, but as we stood to go receive communion, we had barely stepped into the main aisle when the power went out. Darkness fell on the Church and I could barely see Amy in front of me. Immediately, I waited for the shrieks or the giggles or the announcement that the lights would be turned on in a minute or so, but nothing. The mass continued in complete darkness with only one candle lit on the altar. The choir continued as if nothing had changed. And there it was...the beauty and purity of genuine reverence for the Eucharist and for a celebration of God. It did not matter that the sanctuary was not lit. I cannot explain how moving this was to me. Up until this point, I had really not cried, but after I received communion, I returned to my seat, kneeled, and felt tears stream down my face as I felt the presence of God in our mass. Its hard to describe—but in the stillness of the dark with the voices of the choir singing and the shuffling of feet to and from the altar, I was reminded once again that language is not always necessary. I did not need someone there to tell me at that point that I was in the presence of a beautiful and genuine moment; I did not need someone to tell me that this was special; I just knew. It was beautiful and even writing this two or three weeks later, I can vividly remember how I felt when the lights went out and I was safe in the darkness to cry and be humbled and awed by the closeness of my faith.
As mass ended, Padre Daniel stepped to the front to ask people to help those who have poor eye sight and then people began on their way home just like that. Nothing unusual had happened. And maybe for Talanga this is not unusual. The power goes out frequently and people just adapt. But nothing stood in their way or hindered their reverence and respect for the mass and maybe that it was I learned from this day. Yes, I cannot understand everything that is said, but since when does God only speak Spanish? Reverence and respect for the beauty of a celebration of faith is not about language—itis about feeling that safety to cry and be humbled in the presence of something much greater than you.
The town of Talanga is centered around the Catholic Church of San Diego. It is a relatively large building—simplistically white on the outside with a large castle like door and three steps that lead to the entrance. The Church looks out onto the park as in most cities in Central America. Inside the Church, simple wooden pews stretch to the altar where a decorative crucifix flanked by life size robed angels stands. One large fluorescent bulb lights sanctuary and the tile floors are dusted with a light layer of the dirt from outside. It is always warm in the Church. The kneelers are simply a plank of wood. And this is my new Spiritual home.
I have struggled with this. In the United States, I gain strength and sustenance from mass. After I leave mass, I leave with something new to think about or something new to focus on for the week. But mass here has been very different. Not only do I not know any of the prayers or the songs, but I have absolutely no clue what the sermon or homily is about. Yes, I can pick up the occasional Jesus or Holy Spirit, but trying to understand the lesson is a lot harder. In the past couple of weeks, I have found myself drifting off into a land of day dreams during masses or just becoming so frustrated with my lack of understanding that I literally just turned off.
Well, about two weeks ago, after a long and tiresome and frustrating day, we found ourselves at 7 o’clock Sunday mass. To say that I was feeling empty would probably be accurate. I was lost as to why I was here and lost as to where I was supposed to find spiritual nourishment. Mass went on as it normally does, but as we stood to go receive communion, we had barely stepped into the main aisle when the power went out. Darkness fell on the Church and I could barely see Amy in front of me. Immediately, I waited for the shrieks or the giggles or the announcement that the lights would be turned on in a minute or so, but nothing. The mass continued in complete darkness with only one candle lit on the altar. The choir continued as if nothing had changed. And there it was...the beauty and purity of genuine reverence for the Eucharist and for a celebration of God. It did not matter that the sanctuary was not lit. I cannot explain how moving this was to me. Up until this point, I had really not cried, but after I received communion, I returned to my seat, kneeled, and felt tears stream down my face as I felt the presence of God in our mass. Its hard to describe—but in the stillness of the dark with the voices of the choir singing and the shuffling of feet to and from the altar, I was reminded once again that language is not always necessary. I did not need someone there to tell me at that point that I was in the presence of a beautiful and genuine moment; I did not need someone to tell me that this was special; I just knew. It was beautiful and even writing this two or three weeks later, I can vividly remember how I felt when the lights went out and I was safe in the darkness to cry and be humbled and awed by the closeness of my faith.
As mass ended, Padre Daniel stepped to the front to ask people to help those who have poor eye sight and then people began on their way home just like that. Nothing unusual had happened. And maybe for Talanga this is not unusual. The power goes out frequently and people just adapt. But nothing stood in their way or hindered their reverence and respect for the mass and maybe that it was I learned from this day. Yes, I cannot understand everything that is said, but since when does God only speak Spanish? Reverence and respect for the beauty of a celebration of faith is not about language—itis about feeling that safety to cry and be humbled in the presence of something much greater than you.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
An Explanation for the Photos below...
I couldn’t figure out how exactly I could write and put pictures at the same time. And so I am going to try and explain the photos in the previous entry here.
1. Man on Bike: A snapshot taken the morning of the grand pilgrimage. In the back ground, are the many, many people in the first legs of the walk. And then in the foreground, the man on the bike rode along with us for the entire walk. In the box on the end of his bike is some kind of sherbet ice cream stuff that he sold to us as we walked.
2. Pilgrimage: An action shot of us walking and the multitudes of people. Note the umbrellas that the people are carrying umbrellas and the hill we are climbing. This is the point where we dropped off rocks that we were carrying to spell out the name of the pilgrimage which was The Way of Christ.
3. Triumph: Amy and I were the fearsome females who completed the whole walk and this is our victory photo. Yes, we are dirty, sweaty and very gross and tired…but we did it. And it was awesome.
4. Girl with Pigeons: Outside the cathedral in Tegucigalpa.
5. The Team: We went to the Talgua caves on a Church excursion and this is my beloved team. Tyler, Matt and Amy with big smiles on their faces.
6. Roads of Talanga: After some light rains and with more on the way, the streets of Talanga look pretty smooth.
7. Smiles: The beautiful smiles of six girls at a birthday party for an 8 year old. They had just enjoyed enchiladas and played jump rope in the street.
8. Wires: No wonder electricity goes out pretty often here. These are the wires in Tegucigalpa. What a mess and apparently a lot of them don’t work and they just leave them up!! Ha!
9. Mum: This is for you Mum. This is a Montessori classroom at the orphanage we went to. They have classes from preschool to second grade as well as catechism classes.
10. Hands of God: One of my favorite photos. This is part of a mural at the orphanage at the stadium style designed Church that holds 600 kids on Sundays. I just love it.
11. Boys and Sticks: On our way to Valle de Angeles, I was able to snap this photo along the side of the road. This is very common and very normal, but beautiful in a very strange way.
12. Cross: On our adventure to meet the Cardinal, we spent about an hour in the gardens waiting for him. This is one of the crosses from atop the Stations of the Cross that encircle the garden.
13. Contrast: Another picture I somehow took as we driving. This is just a sneak peek of the beauty of the country of Honduras…the mountains are jaw dropping beautiful, but then poverty like this house scars the landscape.
14. Three Amigos: These three men live right now the street from us…maybe three houses from us. People stop to chat all the time and this picture to me is what Honduran life is like.
15. Home Sweet Home: This is our home! We will be moving in November, but for now this is where we cook, sleep, and everything else! Our truck is in the corner of the picture too.
16. Our life source: This is our pilla. I don’t even know what the word is in English. This is where we get water on Mondays and Fridays…sometimes. And it is here that we go to fill up the buckets for the showers and for the kitchen and it is here on the end, that we scrub clothes and then hang them to dry in the yard.
There is a sneak peek into my life in pictures. Now that I have figured out the trick, Ill try to post pictures once or twice a month to give you guys a better visual of what I am experiencing.
1. Man on Bike: A snapshot taken the morning of the grand pilgrimage. In the back ground, are the many, many people in the first legs of the walk. And then in the foreground, the man on the bike rode along with us for the entire walk. In the box on the end of his bike is some kind of sherbet ice cream stuff that he sold to us as we walked.
2. Pilgrimage: An action shot of us walking and the multitudes of people. Note the umbrellas that the people are carrying umbrellas and the hill we are climbing. This is the point where we dropped off rocks that we were carrying to spell out the name of the pilgrimage which was The Way of Christ.
3. Triumph: Amy and I were the fearsome females who completed the whole walk and this is our victory photo. Yes, we are dirty, sweaty and very gross and tired…but we did it. And it was awesome.
4. Girl with Pigeons: Outside the cathedral in Tegucigalpa.
5. The Team: We went to the Talgua caves on a Church excursion and this is my beloved team. Tyler, Matt and Amy with big smiles on their faces.
6. Roads of Talanga: After some light rains and with more on the way, the streets of Talanga look pretty smooth.
7. Smiles: The beautiful smiles of six girls at a birthday party for an 8 year old. They had just enjoyed enchiladas and played jump rope in the street.
8. Wires: No wonder electricity goes out pretty often here. These are the wires in Tegucigalpa. What a mess and apparently a lot of them don’t work and they just leave them up!! Ha!
9. Mum: This is for you Mum. This is a Montessori classroom at the orphanage we went to. They have classes from preschool to second grade as well as catechism classes.
10. Hands of God: One of my favorite photos. This is part of a mural at the orphanage at the stadium style designed Church that holds 600 kids on Sundays. I just love it.
11. Boys and Sticks: On our way to Valle de Angeles, I was able to snap this photo along the side of the road. This is very common and very normal, but beautiful in a very strange way.
12. Cross: On our adventure to meet the Cardinal, we spent about an hour in the gardens waiting for him. This is one of the crosses from atop the Stations of the Cross that encircle the garden.
13. Contrast: Another picture I somehow took as we driving. This is just a sneak peek of the beauty of the country of Honduras…the mountains are jaw dropping beautiful, but then poverty like this house scars the landscape.
14. Three Amigos: These three men live right now the street from us…maybe three houses from us. People stop to chat all the time and this picture to me is what Honduran life is like.
15. Home Sweet Home: This is our home! We will be moving in November, but for now this is where we cook, sleep, and everything else! Our truck is in the corner of the picture too.
16. Our life source: This is our pilla. I don’t even know what the word is in English. This is where we get water on Mondays and Fridays…sometimes. And it is here that we go to fill up the buckets for the showers and for the kitchen and it is here on the end, that we scrub clothes and then hang them to dry in the yard.
There is a sneak peek into my life in pictures. Now that I have figured out the trick, Ill try to post pictures once or twice a month to give you guys a better visual of what I am experiencing.
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