I have almost been home for a week. And yet I still feel like an alien here. My head, my heart, and my thoughts are not here and what may make me physically comfortable seems to do nothing to ease the emotional and mental awkwardness I feel. What an unnerving feeling it is to feel as though you are the only one that feels out of place in what should be the most comfortable place for you: your home, your city, your country.
I expected some transition issues. I dont do well with change. It scares me and overwhelms me but this is unreal. Everything I feel and see and hear just doesnt seem real. It doesnt seem real that I can actually hug my mum and dad before I go to sleep. It doesnt seem real that I can take a long, long hot shower and brush my teeth with running water. It doesnt seem real that I live in a house at least quadruple the size of many I spent so much time in last year. It doesnt seem real that I have said gooddbye. It doesnt feel real that my year is done.
I seem to have resorted to denial in some ways. If I dont think about it, it doesnt hurt as much. If I dont have to talk about it, I can kind of ignore it. And so if you are reading this and you have called me or sent me a message and I havent responded t o it, it is because of this. When I have to talk about Honduras, Talanga, or any of the people that I love so dearly there, the reality sets in and it becomes a little unmanageable. Denial and numbness have to a certain extent taken over and when the pangs of recognition and emotion somehow break through, it does become real.
It is real and it is painful but if it was anything but this I would be more upset.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Noe and the note
Just a short story that makes me smile.
One of the little boys in our street kids group stopped coming about a month ago. His name was Noe and though one of the most mischievous, he was also one of the most lovable. He was fascinated by so many things and had the most brilliant personality. One day when we were coloring in the park, he walked up to me with half a moustache drawn on his face and grinned the biggest smile at me and asked if he could glue something and proceeded to dry and glue his paper to the pillar.
When Tyler and I asked where he was, one of the other boys specifically told us that he had gone to the Dipsa (the gas station at the entrance of Talanga) and was never coming back. In my head, I though that Noe might have had a fight with one of the boys and so had left saying this. Another boy added that Noe thought we didn’t like him and didn’t care that he wasn’t there. Hearing this, we wrote him a note on a yellow piece of paper telling him that we loved him, missed him, and hoped to see him soon. I also jokingly asked if he was lost.
A couple of weeks later, I was at one of our weekly community Bible study meetings. The meeting had yet to start (ten minutes after the hour and still waiting) and one of the ladies had just arrived at the house. She looked over at me and said ‘oh you are Alice aren’t you?’ Well, yes I am. She proceeded to ask me if I had written a letter to Noe. I kinda smiled and said yes and she explained to me that she teaches down in the community near the entrance of Talanga and that she had bumped into Noe down there. She said he had showed her his letter and told her to tell me that he wasn’t lost, but had moved down to a different house near the Dipsa gas station.
The next week, I was leaving my classroom at school and who did I see in the school court yard? Noe! With a big smile, he gave me a great big hug and explained to me that he had to move from his old house because the roof had started to fall in and it wasn’t safe to live there anymore. He was now living in a different house but still going to the same school. He also told me that he didn’t have permission to go so far from home for Domingos Divertidos but that if I wanted to go pick him up at the gas station I could.
Taking a taxi to a nearby town, I saw Noe at the gas station. Since we were passing through I didn’t get a chance to talk to him, but I hope that soon I can start going there to pick him up for Domingos Divertidos.
One of the little boys in our street kids group stopped coming about a month ago. His name was Noe and though one of the most mischievous, he was also one of the most lovable. He was fascinated by so many things and had the most brilliant personality. One day when we were coloring in the park, he walked up to me with half a moustache drawn on his face and grinned the biggest smile at me and asked if he could glue something and proceeded to dry and glue his paper to the pillar.
When Tyler and I asked where he was, one of the other boys specifically told us that he had gone to the Dipsa (the gas station at the entrance of Talanga) and was never coming back. In my head, I though that Noe might have had a fight with one of the boys and so had left saying this. Another boy added that Noe thought we didn’t like him and didn’t care that he wasn’t there. Hearing this, we wrote him a note on a yellow piece of paper telling him that we loved him, missed him, and hoped to see him soon. I also jokingly asked if he was lost.
A couple of weeks later, I was at one of our weekly community Bible study meetings. The meeting had yet to start (ten minutes after the hour and still waiting) and one of the ladies had just arrived at the house. She looked over at me and said ‘oh you are Alice aren’t you?’ Well, yes I am. She proceeded to ask me if I had written a letter to Noe. I kinda smiled and said yes and she explained to me that she teaches down in the community near the entrance of Talanga and that she had bumped into Noe down there. She said he had showed her his letter and told her to tell me that he wasn’t lost, but had moved down to a different house near the Dipsa gas station.
The next week, I was leaving my classroom at school and who did I see in the school court yard? Noe! With a big smile, he gave me a great big hug and explained to me that he had to move from his old house because the roof had started to fall in and it wasn’t safe to live there anymore. He was now living in a different house but still going to the same school. He also told me that he didn’t have permission to go so far from home for Domingos Divertidos but that if I wanted to go pick him up at the gas station I could.
Taking a taxi to a nearby town, I saw Noe at the gas station. Since we were passing through I didn’t get a chance to talk to him, but I hope that soon I can start going there to pick him up for Domingos Divertidos.
No words needed
A couple of Sundays ago, I was just starting my weekly sick visits with three Eucharistic ministers from the Church. We visit two houses that are mere minutes from both my house and the Church and so this morning activity is generally pretty short. I recently changed the group I went with because the previous lady made me feel as though I was delivering drive thru communion and NASCAR driving my way through the Our Father and Hail Mary wasn’t the way I wanted to start Sunday mornings. Now, I spend an hour or so visiting two houses and this certain Sunday experienced something beautifully human with no words necessary.
Our first house is just one block from the Church and is the home of Dona Evalina. She is an elderly woman with a very bad leg that prevents her from leaving her house frequently. But, she is an old crinkly lady and so of course I love her. She has beautiful soft wrinkled hands and gives some of the biggest, warmest hugs in Talanga. When we enter the house, there are always chairs set up around an altar for me, the Eucharistic ministers and Dona Evalina and then behind us on the other side of the room are two couches. After we had finished delivering communion and praying, we sat down for coffee and cake and were joined by two of the children of the house. One named David is a co-radio member with me and so jokes and playfulness started and then with David was another boy named Dennis Francisco. So imagine this if you can, I am seated in a semi circle around the altar with the three older minister ladies and Dona Evalina and David and Dennis are seated behind us on one of the couches. Well, as conversation bloomed between the older ladies, my focus switched to David and Dennis. Dennis is deaf and so instead of the loud, joking banter than usually occurs between two nine or ten year olds, a just as vivid conversation was taking place in actions. Some story about driving was reenacted with an imaginary steering wheel and the emotion filled face of Dennis depicted the urgency of needing to stop the car suddenly. And then the story continued with some punches being thrown and even maybe a kiss I think. I caught his eyes as he was reliving his story for David and he grinned at me and then pointing at David did the finger swirling beside the head to universally signify crazy. But, his face is captivating. With no words to describe feelings, his face is the canvas with which he shares his feelings. Every emotion is exaggerated and so a happy face is a smile that lights up his whole face and reaches literally from ear to ear and a sad face is a frown with a bottom lip that pokes out. He is beautifully expressive and has no need for words.
Our second house takes us to Cassie, a 13 year old girl who had meningitis, and now is unable to walk. Her brain stopped developing at a young age and now she does not speak and spends most of her time on the floor or forced into a wheel chair. She hates being in the wheel chair, but when we come to give her the Eucharist, she is always in it. The only thing that comforts her is the presence of her aunt by her side and usually holding her hand and with her arm around her. This Sunday, nothing was different except that instead of being put in a corner in her wheel chair with nowhere to go to, she was on the other side of the circle in a space in which she could move back and forth in the wheelchair. During the prayers, she wheeled back and forth being very wary as to where I was. When we go to the Our Father, she wheeled forward as I walked towards her and then we held hands and prayed. Afterwards, my hand was tightly held by her and she pulled my arms towards and laid her head against my arm. We stayed like that for a minute or maybe less, but it was probably one of the highs of my day. With no words, she gently made me feel significant. She made me feel comforting and included. She didn’t need words to make me feel that way.
And so on this one Sunday morning, two children showed me the beauty of actions that don’t need to be explained by words. So many times, we as adults or young people believe that actions speak louder than words but always feel the need to explain our actions just in case they are misinterpreted or just to make sure that people understand. But maybe these words shouldn’t be necessary if the actions are speaking clearly enough by themselves.
Our first house is just one block from the Church and is the home of Dona Evalina. She is an elderly woman with a very bad leg that prevents her from leaving her house frequently. But, she is an old crinkly lady and so of course I love her. She has beautiful soft wrinkled hands and gives some of the biggest, warmest hugs in Talanga. When we enter the house, there are always chairs set up around an altar for me, the Eucharistic ministers and Dona Evalina and then behind us on the other side of the room are two couches. After we had finished delivering communion and praying, we sat down for coffee and cake and were joined by two of the children of the house. One named David is a co-radio member with me and so jokes and playfulness started and then with David was another boy named Dennis Francisco. So imagine this if you can, I am seated in a semi circle around the altar with the three older minister ladies and Dona Evalina and David and Dennis are seated behind us on one of the couches. Well, as conversation bloomed between the older ladies, my focus switched to David and Dennis. Dennis is deaf and so instead of the loud, joking banter than usually occurs between two nine or ten year olds, a just as vivid conversation was taking place in actions. Some story about driving was reenacted with an imaginary steering wheel and the emotion filled face of Dennis depicted the urgency of needing to stop the car suddenly. And then the story continued with some punches being thrown and even maybe a kiss I think. I caught his eyes as he was reliving his story for David and he grinned at me and then pointing at David did the finger swirling beside the head to universally signify crazy. But, his face is captivating. With no words to describe feelings, his face is the canvas with which he shares his feelings. Every emotion is exaggerated and so a happy face is a smile that lights up his whole face and reaches literally from ear to ear and a sad face is a frown with a bottom lip that pokes out. He is beautifully expressive and has no need for words.
Our second house takes us to Cassie, a 13 year old girl who had meningitis, and now is unable to walk. Her brain stopped developing at a young age and now she does not speak and spends most of her time on the floor or forced into a wheel chair. She hates being in the wheel chair, but when we come to give her the Eucharist, she is always in it. The only thing that comforts her is the presence of her aunt by her side and usually holding her hand and with her arm around her. This Sunday, nothing was different except that instead of being put in a corner in her wheel chair with nowhere to go to, she was on the other side of the circle in a space in which she could move back and forth in the wheelchair. During the prayers, she wheeled back and forth being very wary as to where I was. When we go to the Our Father, she wheeled forward as I walked towards her and then we held hands and prayed. Afterwards, my hand was tightly held by her and she pulled my arms towards and laid her head against my arm. We stayed like that for a minute or maybe less, but it was probably one of the highs of my day. With no words, she gently made me feel significant. She made me feel comforting and included. She didn’t need words to make me feel that way.
And so on this one Sunday morning, two children showed me the beauty of actions that don’t need to be explained by words. So many times, we as adults or young people believe that actions speak louder than words but always feel the need to explain our actions just in case they are misinterpreted or just to make sure that people understand. But maybe these words shouldn’t be necessary if the actions are speaking clearly enough by themselves.
I will never truly understand
I will never truly understand.
As the days trickle by and I become more and more accustomed to life in Honduras, much of it has become normal. I don’t think twice about checking to see if there is enough water in the bathroom to flush and it is second nature to put the toilet paper in the trash can. I greet people with a kiss on the cheek and I know to duck my head when a truck comes plowing by throwing clouds of dust in my direction. Yes, I have adapted to the ways of life here and yes, I now know how to act, how to behave, and how to live a little like a Honduran. But, maybe this is where it ends.
Just a couple of weeks ago, we were driving to Terrero Colorado (one of the villages in which we work) and I was riding with Julio, a Honduran friend. Julio is one of the leaders of one of the youth groups in the Church. He works in construction and painting and has a beautiful family of three children. We were on the first day of what would be a two day painting project of the Church with a group from Elms College and I was driving with Julio sitting shotgun. The conversation turned to the things that I didn’t expect to find or was surprised by in Honduras. I explained to him that any expectations that had come with me to Honduras had been forgotten and replaced with the actual reality of Honduras. We moved on to other conversations but were interrupted by a little shriek from me as I slowed down to lets a couple of chickens cross the road. Julio joked that I should just run them over and take them to lunch for us. I grimaced and seeing my discomfort, he continued to joke about the horrible method of killing a chicken by holding its head and spinning it around by its neck until it dies. My grimacing grew and I think some disgusted faces were made. He then chimed in saying, “Well, when you are hungry and poor, you have to do some things that aren’t pleasant.” In an attempt to justify my faces and remarks, I quickly said, “No I understand,” but before I could finish my sentence, he quickly cut me off and said “No you don’t understand. You have never been hungry or poor enough to have to kill a chicken with your hands.” He put me in my place and he was completely right.
No matter how much I try to tell myself that I have come to live a Honduran life, there are some things that I will never truly understand. I have never really been hungry. I have never had to ride a bike miles to school and I have never had to struggle to stay in school. I have never been in a situation where money was a real problem. I have never experienced the death of a relative or a loved one from reasons or causes that could be easily cured in other parts of the world. I have never lived a life where I wake with the sun to go to work and then return home as darkness falls knowing that each day will repeat in the same way. I have never experienced poverty as my life.
And so with seven months of life here, Julio is right. I don’t understand what it is like to be so hungry and with no other options than to kill a chicken with my hands and I probably never will. And so I wonder what I do understand about the people here. I may have had my struggles in different areas in my life but can they truly compare to their struggles and do my experiences grant me any ability to relate? I don’t know.
As the days trickle by and I become more and more accustomed to life in Honduras, much of it has become normal. I don’t think twice about checking to see if there is enough water in the bathroom to flush and it is second nature to put the toilet paper in the trash can. I greet people with a kiss on the cheek and I know to duck my head when a truck comes plowing by throwing clouds of dust in my direction. Yes, I have adapted to the ways of life here and yes, I now know how to act, how to behave, and how to live a little like a Honduran. But, maybe this is where it ends.
Just a couple of weeks ago, we were driving to Terrero Colorado (one of the villages in which we work) and I was riding with Julio, a Honduran friend. Julio is one of the leaders of one of the youth groups in the Church. He works in construction and painting and has a beautiful family of three children. We were on the first day of what would be a two day painting project of the Church with a group from Elms College and I was driving with Julio sitting shotgun. The conversation turned to the things that I didn’t expect to find or was surprised by in Honduras. I explained to him that any expectations that had come with me to Honduras had been forgotten and replaced with the actual reality of Honduras. We moved on to other conversations but were interrupted by a little shriek from me as I slowed down to lets a couple of chickens cross the road. Julio joked that I should just run them over and take them to lunch for us. I grimaced and seeing my discomfort, he continued to joke about the horrible method of killing a chicken by holding its head and spinning it around by its neck until it dies. My grimacing grew and I think some disgusted faces were made. He then chimed in saying, “Well, when you are hungry and poor, you have to do some things that aren’t pleasant.” In an attempt to justify my faces and remarks, I quickly said, “No I understand,” but before I could finish my sentence, he quickly cut me off and said “No you don’t understand. You have never been hungry or poor enough to have to kill a chicken with your hands.” He put me in my place and he was completely right.
No matter how much I try to tell myself that I have come to live a Honduran life, there are some things that I will never truly understand. I have never really been hungry. I have never had to ride a bike miles to school and I have never had to struggle to stay in school. I have never been in a situation where money was a real problem. I have never experienced the death of a relative or a loved one from reasons or causes that could be easily cured in other parts of the world. I have never lived a life where I wake with the sun to go to work and then return home as darkness falls knowing that each day will repeat in the same way. I have never experienced poverty as my life.
And so with seven months of life here, Julio is right. I don’t understand what it is like to be so hungry and with no other options than to kill a chicken with my hands and I probably never will. And so I wonder what I do understand about the people here. I may have had my struggles in different areas in my life but can they truly compare to their struggles and do my experiences grant me any ability to relate? I don’t know.
I miss.....
I miss carpet.
I miss the Penguin’s Dixie Chicken sandwiches.
I miss listening to the radio in the car.
I miss sleeping in without consequences or guilt.
I miss Saturday morning cartoons.
I miss Mum’s cooking.
I miss flushing a toilet without throwing water down it.
I miss warm, soft laundry freshly from the dryer.
I miss clean feet.
I miss late night food runs.
I miss having a mess of friends mere minutes from my dorm room.
I miss my body pillow.
I miss wearing heels.
I miss warm steamy showers than can last up to 30 minutes.
I miss having a social life.
I miss spring fever.
I miss being in driving distance from home.
I miss swinging and talking on the swing bench at Queens.
I miss chocolate pretzels.
I miss the Penguin’s Dixie Chicken sandwiches.
I miss listening to the radio in the car.
I miss sleeping in without consequences or guilt.
I miss Saturday morning cartoons.
I miss Mum’s cooking.
I miss flushing a toilet without throwing water down it.
I miss warm, soft laundry freshly from the dryer.
I miss clean feet.
I miss late night food runs.
I miss having a mess of friends mere minutes from my dorm room.
I miss my body pillow.
I miss wearing heels.
I miss warm steamy showers than can last up to 30 minutes.
I miss having a social life.
I miss spring fever.
I miss being in driving distance from home.
I miss swinging and talking on the swing bench at Queens.
I miss chocolate pretzels.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
A couple of photos from February
I could only get a couple to load but I promise more photos and entries are on the way!
Friday, February 1, 2008
Camalotal
Sometimes it’s hard to explain why exactly you love someone. You become so wrapped up in the love that identifying its source seems almost impossible and way too logical for the beautiful mystery of love. I love Camalotal. Of all the places we visit, it is the one that I feel the strongest sense of responsibility to and the one for which the biggest part of my heart belongs. To pinpoint exactly why is impossible, but maybe I can paint a picture that might show you just a tiny glimpse of why the thought of having to say goodbye to this group of children brings tears to my eyes.
Camalotal is the closest aldea we visit. Located just 15 minutes from Talanga, the bumpy aldea takes you by fields of corn that now tower higher than our truck. We pass by a river where children and women are normally bathing. After a handful of curves and turns and some big bumps (and even bigger bumps if I’m driving), we come to our first stop. We pull up beside a gate that opens onto fields of corn and down the center is a pathway that leads to a handful of houses. With a honk of the horn, the running of the children begins. As they run from their houses, they pick up speed as they come around the curve and finish the last leg running to our car with smiles stretching across their faces and books in their hands. They slip the borrowed books into the passenger window and jump in the back for their ride to our meeting area.
And then we pull into the town’s corner store. There is a little area between the store and a house and we park the car here. Gustavo, a little boy with big ears and a bowl cut, is usually in charge of getting the keys to unlock the padlock and so he runs off to the house with the keys and comes back to unlock it for us. If we bring backpacks, water bottles, or balls, little hands reach up to carry them for us. My backpack looks enormous on a little five year old girl. We trek through a small grassy area to a simple one room building with small wooden benches.
Our meetings are started with an opening prayer. With a command from one of the children to close your eyes, we join hands in a circle and repeat line for line the words of the prayer leader. We thank God for the air, the sun, food, the Earth, our families, the Gringos and then food again. The most delightful, innocent and sincere prayer of my week. Every week is different. Sometimes our time is spent making snowflakes and other times playing jump rope and football. Almost every week, we read a Bible story with varied degrees of success of keeping their attention. They are not perfect. With thirty children starting at 2 years old going all the way to 15, the older ones are co-captains of our team and help us keep order. But, an hour and a half passes by each week.
Each week, I come home trying to figure out why going to Camalotal just feels so good. Even when we first arrived here, I remember thinking that Camalotal could be one thing that we could drop if we didn’t have time. And yet something about this magical place makes me look forward to it each week. Maybe it is the doubled over laughter I have shared with the older girls when I almost ran into a barb wire fence. Maybe it is the smirks that stretch from ear to ear on almost every child’s face when someone prays for the Gringos. Maybe it is the big curious eyes that watch us as we set up for a new game or activity. Maybe it is the respect that has been so deeply instilled in the older ones that is now filtering down to the younger ones. Maybe it is the jokes that are shared between us that leave us forgetting that we are of different ages, from different countries, and in different lives. Maybe it is the fact that when I go there, the presence of God is completely undeniable—I am surrounded by one of the most sincere and genuine examples of happy, pure lives—and it is breathtakingly beautiful.
Maybe I will never know exactly why I love Camalotal—but I do and I wish everyone could feel the way I feel about Camalotal about something in their lives.
Camalotal is the closest aldea we visit. Located just 15 minutes from Talanga, the bumpy aldea takes you by fields of corn that now tower higher than our truck. We pass by a river where children and women are normally bathing. After a handful of curves and turns and some big bumps (and even bigger bumps if I’m driving), we come to our first stop. We pull up beside a gate that opens onto fields of corn and down the center is a pathway that leads to a handful of houses. With a honk of the horn, the running of the children begins. As they run from their houses, they pick up speed as they come around the curve and finish the last leg running to our car with smiles stretching across their faces and books in their hands. They slip the borrowed books into the passenger window and jump in the back for their ride to our meeting area.
And then we pull into the town’s corner store. There is a little area between the store and a house and we park the car here. Gustavo, a little boy with big ears and a bowl cut, is usually in charge of getting the keys to unlock the padlock and so he runs off to the house with the keys and comes back to unlock it for us. If we bring backpacks, water bottles, or balls, little hands reach up to carry them for us. My backpack looks enormous on a little five year old girl. We trek through a small grassy area to a simple one room building with small wooden benches.
Our meetings are started with an opening prayer. With a command from one of the children to close your eyes, we join hands in a circle and repeat line for line the words of the prayer leader. We thank God for the air, the sun, food, the Earth, our families, the Gringos and then food again. The most delightful, innocent and sincere prayer of my week. Every week is different. Sometimes our time is spent making snowflakes and other times playing jump rope and football. Almost every week, we read a Bible story with varied degrees of success of keeping their attention. They are not perfect. With thirty children starting at 2 years old going all the way to 15, the older ones are co-captains of our team and help us keep order. But, an hour and a half passes by each week.
Each week, I come home trying to figure out why going to Camalotal just feels so good. Even when we first arrived here, I remember thinking that Camalotal could be one thing that we could drop if we didn’t have time. And yet something about this magical place makes me look forward to it each week. Maybe it is the doubled over laughter I have shared with the older girls when I almost ran into a barb wire fence. Maybe it is the smirks that stretch from ear to ear on almost every child’s face when someone prays for the Gringos. Maybe it is the big curious eyes that watch us as we set up for a new game or activity. Maybe it is the respect that has been so deeply instilled in the older ones that is now filtering down to the younger ones. Maybe it is the jokes that are shared between us that leave us forgetting that we are of different ages, from different countries, and in different lives. Maybe it is the fact that when I go there, the presence of God is completely undeniable—I am surrounded by one of the most sincere and genuine examples of happy, pure lives—and it is breathtakingly beautiful.
Maybe I will never know exactly why I love Camalotal—but I do and I wish everyone could feel the way I feel about Camalotal about something in their lives.
Monday, January 28, 2008
I love What I do
I know that I love what I do here but today I had an especially grateful moment. Walking home from our first meeting of ‘Domingos Divertidos’ (Fun Sundays) hand in hand with a little six year old boy named Noe, I looked around me and everything just felt right. In front of me, Tyler walked on the dusty road holding hands with Marvin and beside me, Noe and Cristian talked about how they were going to ask their Papi to make sure they were always free and ready for Sundays. And ahead, the sun was beginning to set and the clouds perfectly floated above Talanga. A perfect feeling of contentness and blessing.
Today was the culmination of over a month and half of planning for the start of our program Domingos Divertidos. When we first arrived, I wrote a blog about visitors—and I said that my favorite visitors were the afternoon visitors, our little visitors. These visitors were just a handful of the street kids that live in Talanga. They would come to our house run wild with Oso, our dog, and play ball. Like hurricanes, they whipped through our house touching and asking for everything. They were wild, chaotic, and completely in their own world.
Well, fast forward to four months later, in November, Tyler and I started planning a program for these children that have so little in their lives. Most of them don’t go to school and many spend most of their time on the streets running around bare foot. They either don’t live with their parents or their parents are busy working and so leave them with nothing to do all day. With these children in mind, we set forth to plan a program that would meet once a week to teach in an interactive and fun manner. This group would be something special—just for them—and in each meeting, we would give them a snack or some incentive to come back. Through the month of November and December and early January, we met with Prof. Daniel to write a mission, vision, goals statement, a list of goals, find a location and write a curriculum for six months.
A week before our first meeting was planned, Tyler and I went out on a search to find these kids. Tuesday morning, we found one and were later visited four or five times by different combinations of the kids we had met earlier in the year. As we explained the idea to them, they were excited but didn’t know what day it was and so had no idea how many days there were until Sunday. And so here we encountered our first problem. This is when we made the rule only one visit a day. Wednesday morning we were awoken at the crack of dawn by another visit and then we made the rule that they are only allowed to visit to switch books in the afternoon. As the days passed by, we encountered quite a few visits and we also had some combination of these mischievous ones climb our wall when we were not there to play with Oso and leave our front gate wide open. When Sunday came around, we weren’t sure if any of them would realize that it was the day for Domingos Divertidos or if they would come to our house.
And so Sunday came and at 1:30 exactly, we had three knocks on our door and the grinning faces of three of our little friends. Edwin, one of the boys, told me yesterday that he was going to change his clothes and wear shoes especially for our program. And he wasn’t the only one. Marvin and Cristian both came over cleaned and with shoes. Marvin was even wearing part of his school uniform. They went to search for Noe, Marvin and Cristian’s little brother, and then returned to the house. Because of the heat, they all decided to wash their faces with buckets of water from our pilla and were thus fresh faced and sparkling clean for our walk to the library where the program would start. As we walked, Edwin took my hand and then Noe the other. Then Marvin held Tyler’s hand and Cristian took Edwin’s hand and told Noe to hold Tyler’s so that we would be like a chain. And so there we walked all six of us hand in hand to the library.
When we arrived, our plan was to have them write their names on the board so that we could write the right spelling on their name tags. I called Cristian, the oldest, to the board to write his name and the others followed up in suit. I asked Cristian to write his name and he started and then Noe asked me what letter his name started with. It soon became clear that none of them knew how to spell their names. Cristian is 11, Edwin is 10, Marvin is 7 and Noe is 6. They do not know how to spell their names. After a quick lesson on how to spell their names, we moved on to rules and they helped us write some rules. With that done, we made name tags and they couldn’t have been more excited about markers and paper. After completing those, we watched a movie, ate a snack, prayed, and then played with stickers. A short game of soccer followed.
And then we headed home. After three hours of meeting, our first meeting was over and these wild crazy hurricanes that had swept through our house in the first months we were here had now become these relatively calm friends with whom we had shared laughter and watched a movie. There are moments from my time with them that just jump to mind and make me so grateful for what I’m doing. Noe, the youngest, was enthralled in the movie. We watched The Tigger Movie—and his eyes rarely left the screen and chuckles of laughter erupted from him every once in a while. And when we told them that Tyler and I like thank yous and pleases, the next four or five sentences from each of their mouths was covered in thank yous and pleases.
I don’t feel like anything I’ve written does justice to the feeling of contentness and joy that I received from today. Simply to have the respect and calmness of these four boys to listen, to help each other out, and to laugh and learn with us is incredible. Yes, they are mischievous and naughty and wild, but the little pieces of paper that we gave them to tell them about Domingos Divertidos came back to us today a little dirty but tightly folded and safely held in their pockets. One of the reasons why we created this program was to give these kids something of their own, something special that shared with them the love that they deserve in their lives—and today I felt like, maybe, in a small way I had achieved that.
I love what I do.
Today was the culmination of over a month and half of planning for the start of our program Domingos Divertidos. When we first arrived, I wrote a blog about visitors—and I said that my favorite visitors were the afternoon visitors, our little visitors. These visitors were just a handful of the street kids that live in Talanga. They would come to our house run wild with Oso, our dog, and play ball. Like hurricanes, they whipped through our house touching and asking for everything. They were wild, chaotic, and completely in their own world.
Well, fast forward to four months later, in November, Tyler and I started planning a program for these children that have so little in their lives. Most of them don’t go to school and many spend most of their time on the streets running around bare foot. They either don’t live with their parents or their parents are busy working and so leave them with nothing to do all day. With these children in mind, we set forth to plan a program that would meet once a week to teach in an interactive and fun manner. This group would be something special—just for them—and in each meeting, we would give them a snack or some incentive to come back. Through the month of November and December and early January, we met with Prof. Daniel to write a mission, vision, goals statement, a list of goals, find a location and write a curriculum for six months.
A week before our first meeting was planned, Tyler and I went out on a search to find these kids. Tuesday morning, we found one and were later visited four or five times by different combinations of the kids we had met earlier in the year. As we explained the idea to them, they were excited but didn’t know what day it was and so had no idea how many days there were until Sunday. And so here we encountered our first problem. This is when we made the rule only one visit a day. Wednesday morning we were awoken at the crack of dawn by another visit and then we made the rule that they are only allowed to visit to switch books in the afternoon. As the days passed by, we encountered quite a few visits and we also had some combination of these mischievous ones climb our wall when we were not there to play with Oso and leave our front gate wide open. When Sunday came around, we weren’t sure if any of them would realize that it was the day for Domingos Divertidos or if they would come to our house.
And so Sunday came and at 1:30 exactly, we had three knocks on our door and the grinning faces of three of our little friends. Edwin, one of the boys, told me yesterday that he was going to change his clothes and wear shoes especially for our program. And he wasn’t the only one. Marvin and Cristian both came over cleaned and with shoes. Marvin was even wearing part of his school uniform. They went to search for Noe, Marvin and Cristian’s little brother, and then returned to the house. Because of the heat, they all decided to wash their faces with buckets of water from our pilla and were thus fresh faced and sparkling clean for our walk to the library where the program would start. As we walked, Edwin took my hand and then Noe the other. Then Marvin held Tyler’s hand and Cristian took Edwin’s hand and told Noe to hold Tyler’s so that we would be like a chain. And so there we walked all six of us hand in hand to the library.
When we arrived, our plan was to have them write their names on the board so that we could write the right spelling on their name tags. I called Cristian, the oldest, to the board to write his name and the others followed up in suit. I asked Cristian to write his name and he started and then Noe asked me what letter his name started with. It soon became clear that none of them knew how to spell their names. Cristian is 11, Edwin is 10, Marvin is 7 and Noe is 6. They do not know how to spell their names. After a quick lesson on how to spell their names, we moved on to rules and they helped us write some rules. With that done, we made name tags and they couldn’t have been more excited about markers and paper. After completing those, we watched a movie, ate a snack, prayed, and then played with stickers. A short game of soccer followed.
And then we headed home. After three hours of meeting, our first meeting was over and these wild crazy hurricanes that had swept through our house in the first months we were here had now become these relatively calm friends with whom we had shared laughter and watched a movie. There are moments from my time with them that just jump to mind and make me so grateful for what I’m doing. Noe, the youngest, was enthralled in the movie. We watched The Tigger Movie—and his eyes rarely left the screen and chuckles of laughter erupted from him every once in a while. And when we told them that Tyler and I like thank yous and pleases, the next four or five sentences from each of their mouths was covered in thank yous and pleases.
I don’t feel like anything I’ve written does justice to the feeling of contentness and joy that I received from today. Simply to have the respect and calmness of these four boys to listen, to help each other out, and to laugh and learn with us is incredible. Yes, they are mischievous and naughty and wild, but the little pieces of paper that we gave them to tell them about Domingos Divertidos came back to us today a little dirty but tightly folded and safely held in their pockets. One of the reasons why we created this program was to give these kids something of their own, something special that shared with them the love that they deserve in their lives—and today I felt like, maybe, in a small way I had achieved that.
I love what I do.
Worn Out
Worn out
I love what I do here. I love waking up with a different day ahead of me. I love spending most of my time being a kid or being with children that fill me with laughter and smiles that stretch from ear to ear. I love knowing that I never know what a day holds me and that surprise after surprise awaits me. But, despite how much I love being here, sometimes I just feel plain worn out.
When I think about the enormity of some of the issues that Honduras face, I sometimes just want to give up. Despite differing degrees of poverty throughout the country, there are many giant issues that plague Hondurans on a day to day basis. For example, over 70,000 people suffer from HIV/AIDS in Honduras. For the ninth year, Honduras has had the highest population of HIV/AIDS sufferers in the Western hemisphere. Does that number even shock you? Do you even realize the enormity of that number? We visit the Casa Pasionista, a home for those suffering with HIV/AIDS or the sickness as they call it here and we spend time with maybe 7 internos—I think that means that we spend time with a 1/1000 of the people that suffer from the sickness in Honduras. Are we even scratching the surface?
Illiteracy is another issue that is just so huge that it easily becomes overwhelming. As a child, I was brought up being read to most nights and loving the magic of escaping into a new adventure each night. It breaks my heart that there are so many children who cannot read. We visit Corralitos, an aldea, and we have started bringing books to lend to the children. Today, when we visited one of my favorite houses where almost 11 kids live, I lent out books to 4 or 5 of the children to later find out that only the 2 oldest who were not there know how to read. We have another little boy who is 9 nine years old and cannot read. What is the point in lending books out to children that can’t read? Shouldn’t we be addressing the bigger issue of illiteracy?
And so in day to day work, it can be very discouraging to look at the big picture. When there is a desire to help, a sincere genuine desire to do something for the betterment of lives, it can sometimes seem plain pointless. Will bringing books to aldeas even begin to start addressing illiteracy? Will one year spent in a town make any difference in the lives of Talangans or mine? Will one support group for domestic violence victims do anything to alter the cultural acceptance and silence towards domestic violence? In asking all these questions, my mind suddenly went back to an Oscar Romero prayer. He says,
“It helps now and then to step back and take a long view.
The kingdom is not only beyond our efforts, it is even beyond our vision.
We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction of the magnificent enterprise that is God’s work.
Nothing we do is complete, which is a way of saying that the kingdom always lies beyond us.
No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith.
No confession brings perfection.
No pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the Church’s mission.
No set of goals and objectives includes everything.
This is what we are about:
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces far beyond our capabilities.
We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realzing that. This enables us to do something and to do it very well.
It may be incomplete but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord’s grace to enter and do the rest.
We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders;
Minsters, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future not of our own.”
My hope is that I might be able to keep this prayer in the fore front of my mind, but right now, I just feel completely worn out trying to be the worker.
I love what I do here. I love waking up with a different day ahead of me. I love spending most of my time being a kid or being with children that fill me with laughter and smiles that stretch from ear to ear. I love knowing that I never know what a day holds me and that surprise after surprise awaits me. But, despite how much I love being here, sometimes I just feel plain worn out.
When I think about the enormity of some of the issues that Honduras face, I sometimes just want to give up. Despite differing degrees of poverty throughout the country, there are many giant issues that plague Hondurans on a day to day basis. For example, over 70,000 people suffer from HIV/AIDS in Honduras. For the ninth year, Honduras has had the highest population of HIV/AIDS sufferers in the Western hemisphere. Does that number even shock you? Do you even realize the enormity of that number? We visit the Casa Pasionista, a home for those suffering with HIV/AIDS or the sickness as they call it here and we spend time with maybe 7 internos—I think that means that we spend time with a 1/1000 of the people that suffer from the sickness in Honduras. Are we even scratching the surface?
Illiteracy is another issue that is just so huge that it easily becomes overwhelming. As a child, I was brought up being read to most nights and loving the magic of escaping into a new adventure each night. It breaks my heart that there are so many children who cannot read. We visit Corralitos, an aldea, and we have started bringing books to lend to the children. Today, when we visited one of my favorite houses where almost 11 kids live, I lent out books to 4 or 5 of the children to later find out that only the 2 oldest who were not there know how to read. We have another little boy who is 9 nine years old and cannot read. What is the point in lending books out to children that can’t read? Shouldn’t we be addressing the bigger issue of illiteracy?
And so in day to day work, it can be very discouraging to look at the big picture. When there is a desire to help, a sincere genuine desire to do something for the betterment of lives, it can sometimes seem plain pointless. Will bringing books to aldeas even begin to start addressing illiteracy? Will one year spent in a town make any difference in the lives of Talangans or mine? Will one support group for domestic violence victims do anything to alter the cultural acceptance and silence towards domestic violence? In asking all these questions, my mind suddenly went back to an Oscar Romero prayer. He says,
“It helps now and then to step back and take a long view.
The kingdom is not only beyond our efforts, it is even beyond our vision.
We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction of the magnificent enterprise that is God’s work.
Nothing we do is complete, which is a way of saying that the kingdom always lies beyond us.
No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith.
No confession brings perfection.
No pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the Church’s mission.
No set of goals and objectives includes everything.
This is what we are about:
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces far beyond our capabilities.
We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realzing that. This enables us to do something and to do it very well.
It may be incomplete but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord’s grace to enter and do the rest.
We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders;
Minsters, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future not of our own.”
My hope is that I might be able to keep this prayer in the fore front of my mind, but right now, I just feel completely worn out trying to be the worker.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
New Eyes
I find myself cuddled up in blankets listening to the constant, beautiful pitter patter of afternoon rain on our large corrugated metal roof. Though we are in the midst of what is supposed to be the dry season, the coldness of winter has finally arrived and the warmth of my bed is a perfect place to hide from the cold and rain. Today marked the end of a nine-day visit from Mum and Dad and though as I write, I feel that the weather outside mirrors the sadness in my heart for being without them, I am also acutely aware of the renewed perspective and importance that their visit has given to my work. Because of a flat plane tire, Mum and Dad arrived a little later than expected in Tegucigalpa and after some quick introductions to the team, we jumped into a rental pick up truck to drive to Lake Yojoa. This was my first time driving in Tegus, but I decided to wait to share that with them since driving period is a little scary in this congested city. As darkness started to cover the countryside, we arrived at the lake to meet our friendly and very typically English innkeeper and see our home for the next three days. And then we lived the highlife with the people in Honduras who spend hours on the lake in their boats and come to the marina to fish and get away from work. We were surrounded by the most breathtaking scenery of mountains, lakes, and untouched greenery. Our days were consumed by visits to 43km tall waterfalls decorated by rainbows, early morning rowboat rides accompanied by toucans, bats, turtles, and iguana spottings, and countless hours spent catching up on the past four months over coffee and snacks. The tranquility of the still and beautiful lake seeped into our days and when Sunday arrived, we somewhat begrudgingly made our way to Talanga.
But Talanga would hold a different kind of treat—a challenge nonetheless, but one in which hospitality and giving would be redefined. After being picked up at the airport, we made our way to Talanga to check into the nicest hotel in Talanga to find out that the hot water was not working, but would be fixed. Mum and Dad being flexible as they are said no worries and we started our walk into the center of town. We stopped first at the hardware store of Isabel, my host mom, and with overly generous slices of bread pudding, we spent an hour or so together. And then planning on a quick visit to Chico, our corner store neighbor, we spent another 30 minutes sharing the jokes and laughter of families. Mass ended the night with introductions and a celebration of our faith that though different surpasses boundaries of language and culture.
The next couple of days seem to fly by in a blur—Monday, we ventured to Valle de Angeles to explore the numerous artisan stores and share a meal with the team and Tyler’s girlfriend, Maria. With Monday being New Years Eve, we made our way back to the hotel to rest and shower—but since electricity was low, the electric water pump was not working and so I got my right leg shaved before the water went out. New Years Eve was celebrated in high spirits with a lengthy mass, a dinner and fireworks at Isabel’s, visits to see nativity scenes and friends, and finally a massive explosion of fireworks and the burning of the old year. Tuesday, Mum and Dad were welcomed into the community of Terrero Colorado in two separate holiday get togethers where we offered food and companionship and where hike like walks became jokes understood in all languages and humble thank you s from both groups were shared. We feasted on candy bars and chips that night because none of the three restaurants in Talanga were open. Wednesday, Dad put on his soccer shoes to join the kids and Mum joined in the exciting Uno game in Camelotal. We visited the Montesorri classrooms at the orphanage and then spent an hour or so meeting some of the internos at the Casa. A last night feast at Old House ended our time in Talanga.
Departure date had arrived and as we drove to the airport, we received a phone call saying all flights were cancelled. At the airport, the news seemed different so with a sad good bye, we parted our ways with the promise of continuous communication. Well, about three hours later—through much detective work, I found out that the flight was canceled and that they were rescheduled for Saturday and were checking into a hotel. Matt, Amy, and I found my parents in the Mariott—and shared some cake with them and made plans for a sleep over the next night. Last night was spent sharing time with my family and enjoying some creature comforts in the Mariott. And then today, our second round of goodbyes stung as painfully as the first time and two little parts of my heart boarded the plane for Miami.
I could write for pages about what Mum and Dad and I did while they were in Honduras, what we talked about, what we saw—but when it comes down to it, that’s not what was important. What was important was the way in which the people welcomed them. They were treated as royal visitors—given precious gifts of food and even more precious words of welcome and love. They were invited to feasts and thanked for their visits. And they were truly thanked—not just haphazardly—but sincerely and humbly thanked for their visits to humble homes where their time shared was seen as the beginning of friendships. As my Mum so perfectly said, in this time where language and culture were not shared, human relationships were stripped of all excess to the heart of a simple human welcoming another human into their home. They were surrounded by children who with no insight of their lack of Spanish chatted and read fairy tales to them. And so it was in these experiences that for me, I was given a new appreciation, a new understanding of the love that these people can share with complete strangers. I swelled with warmth, with pride to see these people that I have come to care for and love welcoming my parents with such loving hearts and genuine actions.
And so, though right now, it is hard to think of anything else than my sadness of them not being here, I have been blessed with a new perspective and new appreciation for the people I live with, the people I work with, and the people I can now call friends. Seeing Honduras through new eyes has given me a new sense of purpose—not only to try and welcome and love the people as they did my parents, but also to be able to look at Honduras with the curiosity, the questions, and the appreciation that my parents brought with them.
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