Beachy bliss

It has been brought to my attention by my loving mother that my blog needs to be updated. I just want to take a moment to apologize to all of my faithful readers who dutifully check each morning to see if I've posted something inspiring and insightful to go along with their Wheaties. No, really. I have wanted to blog but haven't had the time or energy. On Sunday I returned from a relaxing vacation on Roatan. It was my second time on the island.

Beautiful is an inadequate word to describe this place. There is ugliness too. I suppose life is a dichotomy of beauty and filth. It's like trash caught in the seaweed along the beach; God's perfect creation littered and ruined by man's pathetic inventions. I walked the beach, collected coral and shells, watched the sun set, and gazed into the starry heavens, yet all of this was tainted by the presence of man.

I was still able to get a taste of heaven. Now I'm back at the Hogar, five months down and four to go. Sometimes I don't know how to keep going, and others I'm not sure how I would be going without this. These kids are taking a part of me, but I don't want it back. I suppose a part of me will always be in Honduras.

Growing up so fast

My baby boy is graduating Kindergarten tomorrow.

OK, so Elias isn't a baby and he's not technically mine, but does the fact that he calls me Mom count for anything?

It's kind of cool to only be 22 years old and have 10 boys without ever having sported a baby bump or changed a dirty diaper. Sometimes I want to hang them by their ears, but they're growing on me. . . and growing up.

Each night when I tuck the boys in, I go around and pray with each one. It's nice to be able to talk to God together and it also gives me a chance to learn more about them. I get to ask them how their day was, hear them tell me about a goal they made or the bump on their leg that won't go away. Of course they're typical boys. I often shove my nose into my sweatshirt when the farts start to fly. I mean, give them a break, they eat beans at almost every meal and they're boys. Some of them like hugs, some don't. Some give me a kiss on the cheek and some give me two.

Manuel wets the bed and Roberto's afraid of the dark. Javier and Enrique roll from side to side before they fall asleep [They're brothers]. Anael likes to have his feet tickled. Nahum doesn't like to pray. Marvin prays his dad will stop drinking and find Jesus.

Sometimes I pray, sometimes they do. Sometimes we pray in English and sometimes in Spanish. Sometimes their prayers are short, but there are times they surprise me. Friday was Nahum's 14th birthday. He has never prayed, but he promised me he would pray on his birthday. I told him he'd better make it good, make it 10 minutes long or something, but all joking aside, I wasn't ready for the beautiful prayer that left his lips. He prayed for wisdom and kindness. He prayed for me. He thanked God for another year of life and asked for His safety and guidance. When he finished, I felt so blessed.

Friday night I also had the blessing of spending some time looking at photographs of the kids when they were younger. I walked with Tania, Laurel and a few of the girls to the home of Txus to drop them off. She has five of the girls living with her in her cottage at the bottom of the hill by the school. She invited us in and it was so refreshing to be in a home again. I felt safe and happy. We laughed at chubby cheeks and fat bellies and had fun picking out who we recognized in the box of photos.

They're growing up so fast. . . they're still crazy boys who fart on each other and have to be reminded to hang up their towels, but I hope one day they'll grow up to be strong, smart young men who will make the world a better place. But it's one step at a time, and for now we'll settle for a Kindergarten graduation.

Chillian' like a villain

It’s cold. I’m cold. I have a cold. Is it wrong that 65 degrees now seems like sweater weather?

I slop two globs of soupy beans on each plate, followed by eggs, bread and aguacate. “Let me try the milk,” cry all four boys, thrusting their colored plastic cups in my direction. I drip a few drops in each cup, waiting for the verdict. “It’s really good,” Enrique says. I proceed to fill all four cups, and then try it myself. Gross. If I were to describe its flavor for a food magazine, this is what I would say; the Hogar’s warm soy milk has a sweetly rich undertone, and is often, as on days such as this, followed by an overpowering burnt flavor that sears the palette and mutilates the taste buds. There, a brief yet adequate description as to why I did not help myself to more.

I pry my stale roll apart and begin to make a sandwich. I smear on the avocado, beans and eggs and take a bite, conscious that as I bring the thing closer to my mouth and nose, I become more aware of the smell. I am instantly glad for my cold, wishing both of my nostrils were stuffed. I close my eyes, desperately trying to imagine I’m eating something else; raspberry flavored Yoplait yogurt and granola, Tropicana orange juice, pancakes and peanut butter and applesauce, waffles, anything to take my mind off of the disgusting sandwich in my hand. I stare across the table at Manuel. He’s happily slobbering all over his plate and asking for seconds.
There’s a week until Thanksgiving. This will be the first time in 22 years that I have not been with my family. I’m here with a bigger family. A family that drives me crazy, makes me angry, makes me cry, makes me laugh. . .

And as I sat here writing this, I found out that one of my fellow SMs was murdered on the island of Yap. Kristen Wolcott. And here I am writing about burnt milk and sloppy beans.

She went away this year with the same purpose as I did, to serve God. I feel unworthy. I feel guilty. I feel depressed. It’s times like these when I wonder what my purpose is. When does it begin, when does it end? Had hers ended? I don't like to ask questions, but it's definitely hard not to.

The post was supposed to be about being thankful. I have so much to be thankful for, despite my momentary lapses while eating sloppy bean breakfast sandwiches. . . and yet, now I feel the greatest gift I'm given is another day of life. Why her and not me? I don't know. I suppose this is a reminder and an incentive to work harder and be a better missionary.

Bus ride

I sit on the brown bus seat and glance around. A small girl of about 7 or 8 years in a red shirt immediately catches my eye. She stares, I stare. The bus driver starts the engine and maneuvers us onto the street and on our way. The girl moves two seats in front of me, in front of a middle-aged couple with their arms draped around each other. My eyes move from the graffiti-plastered seat to the back of his gray-flecked hair and her bushy ponytail. He occasionally plants a tender kiss on her forehead or cheek and they seem content munching cookies with pink icing and sprinkles. For a split second the little girl smiles at me and arranges her arm on the windowsill and looks out. I look out too. The wind ruffles her chocolate brown hair and tugs at her brilliant blue and black-edged ponytail holder. The now familiar side streets of Santa Barbara fill my view. Are we seeing the same things, I wonder. We pass the market. A plump lady wearing an apron sits in her booth, surrounded by plantains, onions, potatoes and fruit. We pass a pulperia*, two, three, I lose count. We pass wizened old men with salt and pepper beards. We pass wooden electrical poles with pictures of people running for office. A certain Thelma for mayor grins at me from her plastic poster. I wonder if she would be smiling so widely if she knew her makeup looked like an overly frosted birthday cake. Salsa music flows around me like an ocean tide, pulling me under with each beat. Majestic mountain grandeur rises above the pathetic buildings, clouds and mountain tops meld together until there seems to be no separation between earth and sky. My eyes fall back to the filthy streets littered with empty plastic water bags and shiny candy wrappers that glint in the afternoon sun. Laundry hangs on makeshift lines in dirty yards. Mothers hold babies on their hips and an almost toothless old man smokes a cigarette. How long before all of this seems normal to me? How long before my life in the States seems like a forgotten dream? The bus slowly empties as we near our destination. The little girl gets off. I savor the air as we turn onto the main road and increase our speed. I’m conscious again, conscious of life whizzing by. But it was the little things that made the ride interesting; the overturned cardboard box and the diaper-clad baby, the old man in a straw hat with a bag slung over his back and a rusty machete clutched in his right hand. Who am I? Where am I going? Am I just an unsympathetic bystander, watching from my comfortable bus seat as the world suffers, struggles, groans, begs, dances, sleeps, eats, cries, laughs outside my window?

Be the change you want to see in the world.
-Mahatma Gandhi

*A pulperia is a tiny convenience store, usually connected to a person's home.

Temper Tantrums in E major

I gaze at the goldenrod curtain and burnished pink walls on the platform and take in the off-tune singing and sea of plaid shirts. The plaid shirts are the result of kind and thoughtful donations by people who apparently don’t realize how painful a mass collection of plaid shirts can be on the eyes. I desperately hope the sparse arrangement of fans will chase away the sleepiness that threatens to drag me under. A violent tug of war between my English thoughts and the Spanish sermon ensues, and then another tugging begins. His little arms surge upward and before I have time to arrange myself in a ladylike manner, he’s on my lap.

Elias, 7, is my youngest boy. He’s almost permanently attached to my hip. . . leg. . . arm. . . neck. For some reason I have become a huge part of his life. He calls me Mami and is constantly begging for hugs and kisses. The problem is he’s also very, very, very disobedient. I have tried so many disciplinary tactics with him, but nothing seems to work. There are the early morning battles to wake up and shower, struggles to eat vegetables and finish what’s on his plate, and church. Oh, church.

It often starts out quite peacefully. He settles himself on my lap to draw and rearrange my hair, but then the long service begins and I dread the scene I know will unfold at any time. We make it through song service and prayer, but his impatience grows and he rattles the green plastic chairs. I shoot our neighbors embarrassed glances, the kind mothers give annoyed customers in the check-out line as their children whine for candy. I sternly tell him if he continues, I will take him outside. He gets angry and crawls under some chairs and throws papers on the floors. I’m stuck. If I talk to him again, I’m enforcing his negative behavior and he’s only doing it because he knows it will get my attention. He comes back to the row in front of me and pushes a little girl and another chair. I see that action must be taken and I swoop in like a hawk descending on its prey and swiftly walk outside. I’ve done this before and I’m quite prepared to do it again. I vaguely remember similar scenarios involving my father and I. There’s only one problem. *Patrick. He’s sitting in the back on one of the detestable green chairs watching me drag Elias out. Great, he’s going to come meddle. I inwardly grown. He’s quite good at it. In fact, he often meddles with my disciplinary tactics, and I struggle to remain silent while he butts in, assuming I’m not handling the situation well. I decide to take Elias right outside the doors, hoping that if Patrick can see him and me, he won’t feel the need to come investigate. I plop down and stare into Elias’ eyes. You know why I brought you out Elias? He looks down at his hands. Elias, you know that’s not how we behave in church. I begin to pray with him, despite his efforts to shrug me off. I tell him we’ll sit here until he’s ready to go back in. I give him five minutes. I tell him I’m ready and proceed to bring him along. He shakes his head. Elias, I’m going to count to five. If you’re not ready on five, I’m going to spank you. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro. . . cuatro y media. . . cinco. I spank him twice and wait for the soft crying to ensue. It’s like clockwork. I take him on my lap and begin to comfort him. It would probably have taken about one more minute for him to calm down and be ready to go back in. . .

And then, the sun ceases to shine. Patrick’s familiar shadow looms above us and I glance up angrily. He doesn’t want to go back into church? I explain the situation briefly and before I have a chance to finish my spiel, he drags him off my lap and leads him away. I fume. Meddler, I want to scream. I sit there and a few angry tears squeeze their way out. I walk back into church knowing there’s no way I’ll glean anything from the sermon now. Anger boils in my veins. It’s easy for him to discipline him, he only deals with him once a week. Try getting him up in the morning or making him brush his teeth. Try having him bang on your door while you’re trying to take a nap. Try making him do his chores or finishing his food. Try LIVING with him. I want to say all this while waving my freckled fist. Church ends and I’m about to sulk out, but before I can escape, Patrick is back with Elias. He sits down and tells Elias to apologize, coddling and coaxing him. Minutes tick by and I arrange my face in a pensive pout. People are leaving and the church is almost empty. I start to get up and tell Patrick Elias can apologize before lunch. Wait, he’s almost ready, he pleads. I sit down, glaring. Two more minutes pass and Elias looks around with no intention of apologizing. Honestly, I want an apology from Patrick, not from Elias. I grow impatient. Finally, Elias tumbles out an apology and Patrick shoots me a triumphant grimace. Yeah, great work. You got a kid to apologize after an hour, do you want a cookie? Did you make the atomic bomb too or invent the Internet? I charge out to the bus and get on.

I know I sound incredibly rude. I sound like a person you wouldn’t want working as a student missionary. In fact, I don’t even sound like a Christian. Over the course of writing this blog I hoped some magical lesson would unveil itself, yet none has. I’ve had a rough week. I had a difficult and embarrassing talk with one of the staff, which resulted in me crying in front of her and some of the kids. I got food poisoning and spent Thursday afternoon and night throwing up. And at church, where I thought I might find myself close to God again, I had another human moment. Oh, the joy of human moments. I bask in them daily here.

I am afraid I have a long way to go in my growth as a Christian. Sometimes I’m like Elias. I desire to be so close to God, to give him hugs and kisses and bang on His door until He answers, but when He doesn’t answer or He scolds me, I’m tempted to throw chairs around and make a raucous. I decided to reread one of my favorite Bible verses.

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.Psalm 73:26

This year I’m being tested. My flesh and my heart have failed me, and I need to learn to lean on my Father’s strength and not my own. My own cries out, my own gossips and is easily angered, but His, His is perfect. I wanted to give Patrick a piece of my mind, and probably would have if I’d had a chance. I want to yell at the kids and stomp my feet when the staff just don’t get it, it being my point of view. I want to jump on a plane and fly home. I want an easy button.

The journey continues. . .

*Name changed for privacy

Dad

I am blessed. Not everyone can say they have two amazing fathers. I can.

Tomorrow my earthly dad is turning 57. At least I think that's the right age. My dad does a lot of things. He can change the oil in my car, make a bookshelf, build a house, preach a sermon [without notes] and play baseball. My dad likes peanut butter and onion sandwiches, hiking mountains, chopping wood, building things and mowing the lawn.

Dad, thank you so much for all of the love you've given me. I feel so blessed to have you as my father. I hope you have a wonderful birthday! And I promise to make you an apple pie when I come home :)

Book It

Pebbles squeal in protest beneath my green flip flops as I stride heartily toward the Hogar. I thrust my legs forward like a sumo wrestler entering the ring, clenching my fists tighter and arranging my face in a calculated frown. It’s my Friday walk back from the high school; a two-mile trek that takes about a half hour. Cars and trucks fly by, horns blaring. I wish I had brought something more than the llama purse slung around my neck. Inside I have a few whiteboard markers and Burt’s Bees chapstick, which I know won’t be much good against an attacker. Maybe attacker sounds a little dramatic, but after passing a group of guys a few minutes back who hollered in English and Spanish, attacker is a plausible term. The morning haze evaporates into the azure sky. I gaze around me, taking in the green mountains and I am comforted. The bus stop is in sight, and from there the Hogar is even closer. I continue to pray and my steps are quick, but I am no longer afraid.

As the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the LORD surrounds his people both now and forevermore.
Psalm 125:2

Not only do I arrive unharmed, I cut five minutes off my time thanks to my agitated gait.

Snickers, Stickers and Kickers

My eyes comb the room like an eagle stalking its prey. It’s 8:20 a.m., early enough that the heat hasn’t yet devoured my energy. Heads bow low over desks. A cacophony of sounds filters through the classroom, pens tap on desks, students shriek and laugh outside, birds and insects chirp and sing. I glance out the door at the gray concrete of another classroom and instead direct my gaze back inside. It’s amusing to think that just four and a half years ago, I was probably sitting at a desk taking a similar language exam, except in Spanish.

To think that learning Spanish would turn out to be so helpful. I wish I could convey that to my English students. Language can take a person so many places. I’m completely immersed in Spanish, sometimes so much so that I feel like I am drowning.

There are three things that help me maintain my sanity: Snickers, stickers and kickers.

Snickers. On a diet of oily rice, beans and bread, I am frequently craving sweets. Days off usually include a trip into town. There I reward myself with a Snickers bar. It does not matter to me that the chocolate is melted to the wrapper. I savor the richness with each bite and avoid looking at the calorie count on the label.

Stickers. I used to store stickers in a secret box in my room. When it was time to write a letter to a pen pal, I would slowly pull out the box and dig through piles of Lisa Frank’s blinding creations. I still have a special place in my heart for stickers. A sticker on a letter says, You’re special, You’re worth extra. My students love stickers too. They plaster their notebooks and desks with them. I’m not exactly sure how it began or how it begins, but it has become a trend. A student will approach me, reach up and slap a sticker on my shirt. A mass migration quickly begins to the front of the classroom. Students are prying stickers off of books and papers and proudly rushing to display them on me. It becomes a contest. Who will bring the biggest sticker or the most? I leave classes looking like a walking sheet of stickers. This also happens with other trinkets. I am often given cookies or treats from their lunch boxes, pictures, flowers, and any other thing they can scrounge up. It almost makes up for the screaming in class.

Kickers. I’m all about soccer. It’s refreshing to be in a country where the people take the sport seriously. It’s impossible to go anywhere without seeing at least 10 people sporting the national team jersey. While I haven’t played nearly enough since I’ve been here, it’s still fun to support “la H” [the national team] along with the 100 por ciento Catrachos [Hondurans]. I’ve even purchased a jersey to wear, which was met with mixed reactions. But when it comes down to it, I’m still 100 percent for my team, England. I could never bring myself to support some of the other famous teams like Argentina ;)

Go Green, Green-go, Gringo

I have a shirt that says Go Green. The Hogar kids immediately decided it said gringo. . . For those of you who are as lost as I was, I have provided the following sequential explanation. . . Go Green, Green-go, Gringo.

I am tired of being a gringa. Let me provide you with a local definition: Someone to be stared, whistled, growled, howled and looked at. . . on the bus, on the street, in a store or restaurant. . . when the sun is shining, when it’s raining. . .

I and two of my enterprising volunteer friends were tired of being attacked from behind on our bus rides into town. When I say attacked, I mean massive invasions of personal space.

Let’s look at a real life example. One day we were riding back from town and I was sitting next to Ingrid, a German volunteer who was visiting the Hogar for a month. I felt something or someone touch my hair. Incredulous, I asked her if the guy behind me was really touching my ponytail. Really? She nodded. I leaned forward immediately, trying to put as much space between me and the dirty sketch ball. On his way out, he even put his hand on my shoulder, and it wasn’t the shoulder closest to him.

On another occasion, Laurel decided to joke with Amanda and play with her hair, reenacting the above scenario. Probably five seconds later, I glanced back to notice a large, dirty, fat, creepy hand moving toward the back of her head. I asked her, “Laurel, has anyone ever done that to you?” “Um, no,” she said. “Well, they’re about to,” I said with a suppressed laugh.

So, back to our ingenious idea. We now sit on the back of the bus, and I mean literally. We sit in the very last seats. One would think this has reduced or even eliminated the unwanted attention, but no. We are still subjected to the glazy, perverted glances.

Well, today I became a creeper.

It has been exactly 96 days since I have seen a cute guy. It has also been 96 days since I left the States and touched down on Honduran soil. We have every other Sunday off. Today we went into town to get our fill of junk food and a few supplies we needed. Our usual favorite restaurant was closed so we headed to the snazzier one down another street. Upon entering, we saw a kid eating a plate of french fries. I’d already eaten an ice cream and a smoothie, but french fries with KETCHUP? It was too much to resist. We sat down in the crowded restaurant and waited to order. There were a lot of buff, fit looking guys inside who all seemed to know each other. I told Laurel and Amanda they looked like a soccer team. The tables near us started to disperse as the guys headed to another part of the restaurant. “I wanna ask if they’re on a team,” I told the girls. “Do it,” Laurel said, as she jabbed her head at each one that passed. No one seemed to be going slow enough or looking in our direction and I was getting worried I wouldn’t have anyone to ask. I’m sure I looked like a Grade A creeper as I stared each one down. Finally the last guy made his way past our table . . . and lo and behold, he looked at us. I took the opportunity and ran with it. “So, are you guys on a soccer team,” I asked in Spanish. “Yeah,” he said, “Soccer,” as if to show off his extensive English vocabulary. It turns out they were from Real Juventud, the team from Santa Barbara.

I would just like to thank Mr. Real Juventud, because I did not have a chance to ask his name, for providing me with my first glimpse of a cute guy in 96 days. It didn’t hurt that he played soccer either.

Persevering to be endearing

Being a missionary is easy, easily the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I mentally prepared myself as best as I could before I came to Honduras. I thought of as many difficult scenarios and situations as I could and imagined how I would magically solve them. I pictured what my room would look like and how I would introduce myself to my classes on my first day of teaching. Unfortunately the imagination falls short of reality or maybe it's the other way around. . .

Hours after arriving in Honduras, I had already helped move a family from their small, dirty dwelling. Their possessions fit into a few boxes and their furniture on the roof of Nelson’s car. Talk about contrast. The days and weeks that followed were filled with adjustments. I learned to check my bread for ants and to smell my beans in the morning before thrusting a hearty spoonful into my mouth. Gringa became my new middle name or first name on some occasions. I discovered that a minor in Spanish and hours of study and writing papers did not mean I could freely converse with anyone I wanted. As words fail me and my heart longs for home, I am learning to let God speak for me and to fill the emptiness with His peace and love. Oh how hard that is at times. The past two weeks I have struggled with my frustration. I have struggled with my temper. I have struggled with gossiping. I have struggled with my purpose.

Last Sabbath I volunteered to prepare the lesson. Of course I elected to wait until Sabbath morning to do it. On my way out the door I grabbed my Bible and Max Lucado’s "Everyday Deserves a Chance", an encouraging devotional-like book my friend Michelle indefinitely loaned me. As song service began, I frantically flipped through the book looking for some life-changing idea to share. I decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask for God’s guidance and He definitely delivered. In the next 15 minutes, I discovered a Bible verse that gave me my topic in the chapter Calling for Purposeless Days. Other verses followed as I was impressed to look up the word perseverance in the back of my Bible. Here is what I came up with:

TOPIC
Purpose + Perseverance

1.1 Corinthians 3:5-10 “. . . the Lord has assigned to each his task. I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God made it grow. So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow. The man who plants and the man who waters have one purpose, and each will be rewarded according to his own labor. For we are God’s fellow workers; you are God’s field, God’s building. By the grace God has given me, I laid a foundation as an expert builder, and someone else is building on it. But each one should be careful how he builds. For no one can lay any foundation other than the one already laid, which is Jesus Christ.”

--> This year I am realizing that I cannot compare workloads or talents. Working with the kids is not a popularity contest. God has sent each of the volunteers here for a purpose. He is going to use each one of us in different ways. Some of us may be building on the work of another volunteer. Some of us may be clearing the ground for a future volunteer. Some of us may never see the fruits of our labor. The important thing to remember is that we all have our own, specific purpose but that ultimately God is the only one who can bless our efforts.

2. Esther – The story of Esther has always been one of my favorites, ever since I was small. In fact, when I was younger I wished my name was Esther. My favorite part of her story is found in Esther 4:12-14. At first, Esther didn’t know God’s purpose for her, but in time He revealed it and because she accepted the challenge, He was able to work through her to save the Jews.

3. James 1:3, 12 “Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Blessed is the man who perseveres under trail, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him.”

--> Every time I am tempted to give up when I’m having a bad day at school or the kids are angry with me, I will remind myself of these verses. Not only has God given me a purpose here, but He also promises me that I will be rewarded and that the tests I’m going through now will develop perseverance.

4. Revelation 2:3 “You have persevered and have endured hardships for my name, and have not grown weary.”

--> I don’t think God means we won’t literally be tired, but more along the lines of we won’t give up.

5. Romans 5:2-5 “And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.”

--> I have found so much encouragement in these verses. There are days when I’m so emotionally spent. I am definitely not suffering, but I am struggling. Each struggle presents me with a decision, to press forward, to persevere, or to give up. I knew coming here was going to build my character, but I’m not sure I knew how difficult the process would be. What I love is that it says character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint. To me this verse paints a picture of a dark tunnel, but at the end of the tunnel is a brilliant light.

6. Hebrews 12:1-2, 12 “Therefore, strengthen your feeble arms and weak knees. Make level paths for your feet, so that the lame may not be disabled, but rather healed.”

--> I have already posted Hebrews 12:1-2 in a previous blog, but as I was rereading it, I stumbled on verse 12. I think this is one of my new favorite verses. It’s really simple yet powerful. The kids here at the Hogar have been through so much. They have so much pain and heartache; they have been abandoned and discarded; they are heartsick and in need of healing. Some days it’s very difficult to maintain my temper and attitude. However, this verse reminds me that I must be strong in Christ, so that my example will be uplifting and healing rather than harmful.

Max Lucado writes, “While none of us is called to carry the sin of the world (Jesus did that), all of us can carry a burden for the world.”

I have a burden for Honduras, for this Hogar, for these children. I just pray I will be constantly reminded of my purpose and ask for God’s perseverance.

Javier

Individualism is rather like innocence: There must be something unconscious about it.

-Louis Kronenberger

*Photos taken by Miguel

Cheering for a better attitude

A tornado of maroon and white uniforms whirls toward me. Tiny legs scurry to the black iron fence that separates the Kindergarten class and playground from the path to the Hogar. This flurry of excitement has become a part of my day. Happy voices clamor “Viene la teacher, viene la teacher,” and the cry of “Give me five” spreads along the fence like a piece of juicy gossip. Hands are thrust at me and a few brave souls clamber over, seemingly unaware that the fence is there to keep them inside. I feel like I’ve just finished the world’s longest marathon or discovered a cure for cancer. Some days the gate is left open and the children gush out to meet me, enveloping my frame in a moving hug of childish exuberance.

It’s moments like this that keep me going. This week I needed an attitude adjustment. There were a few days where I let my frustration and bitterness simmer inside of me until the ugly concoction began seeping into my actions and attitude. I felt frustrated with the staff, with the kids, with my surroundings, with my work, with myself. A wise person [my dad] once told me that being happy is a choice and that while we’d like to blame others for our shortcomings or poor attitude, we are the ones who are ultimately responsible.

One day after lunch this week I was helping Marta scrub pots in the kitchen. There had been a pan sitting under the sink for two days. I picked it up and watched as the amber colored water swirled around a few burnt plantains. It kind of looked like my attitude. I grabbed a scrubber and got to work. And thanks to some prayer and a conscious decision on my part, I started to scrub my attitude clean too. Of course that won’t be the last time I have to scrub a pot, or my attitude.
Changing my attitude was only difficult because I made it difficult. I indulged in my bitter thoughts and frustration for a few days, kind of like letting the burnt plantains sit in the dirty pan.
While I am sure the next six months hold plenty of challenges, I am determined to run the race Paul talks about in Hebrews 12:1-2.


“. . . Let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him, endured the cross. . .”

And not only do I have a few Kindergartners cheering for me, but the entire universe and my heavenly Father.

My life be like Ooh Ahh. . .

The monotonous beeping of my alarm drones next to my ear. I rub my eyes, trying to erase yesterday’s troubled dreams and ready myself for another long day.

I melt beneath a fiery sun as I stand outside a classroom at the high school, giving an English reading quiz to a girl who stumbles over the unfamiliar words like a blind man on a rocky path.

“I’m going to count to 10,” I scream. “If you’re not out of the pool on 10, you’re not swimming tomorrow.” Kids start plowing through water like Michael Phelps on his way to a gold medal.

Tears trickle down his face as I carefully apply the baking soda paste to the welts on Enrique’s body. Enrique’s got chicken pox, but unfortunately for him, he´s 13, a lot older than most kids with pox.

Bertha drags the comb through my unruly hair. “I found one,” she exclaims. That makes four. I’m resigning myself to the fact that I will probably have lice on and off for the next six months.

An orange flies across the floor and a defiant Manuel glares at me from across the table. He´s angry because I punished him with only bread and water for breakfast.

I glance down at my legs. My feet are still dirty from playing soccer in the mud a few days ago and they´re covered in bug bites in various stages of healing. I`ve forgotten what a good hair day is like and what I look like with makeup on.

They´re simply out of control. It`s my first grade English class and I`m screaming at these hooligans at the top of my lungs. I drag three to the office.


“Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”

2 Corinthians 4:16-18

Some days are more difficult than others. Sometimes I wonder what I´m doing here.
This verse gives me strength and encouragement.

Too cool [cold] for school

The kids here are too cool for school, but it’s definitely not a snow day.

I peer down at the foaming water beneath the bridge. Sunlight sparkles through tiny breaks in the thick foliage. My ears fill with the sound of water; water under attack as delighted children fling themselves from vines into its cool depths. Expectant faces turn upward, waiting, watching, wondering. I have cliff jumped before, but this seems much higher. I’m nervous, determined and slightly worried, worried about falling on the rocks at the base of the small waterfall. Laurel and Pablo [one of the teachers from the high school who often hangs out with the kids from the Hogar] join me, as well as two Honduran guys. They’ve parked their blue truck right behind us on the bridge, but insist that there’s enough room to jump. As if to prove their point, they count to three and leap, clearing the rocks below and bobbing to the surface as the current begins to drag them toward the river. A few minutes pass and Pablo jumps. I can’t think about it anymore. Before my mind has a chance to catch up, I send my body over the edge. Seconds feel like minutes; the air binds me in a protective cocoon, but gravity’s greedy fingers wrench me free and my body hits the water with a definitive bang. I wriggle to the surface and wipe water droplets from my eyes, reaching for the rocks on the shore. I am satisfied.

Honduras doesn’t have snow days, they have political days. School is cancelled when a toque de queda [curfew] is issued. We didn’t have classes for two days because Zelaya made a stealthy return into Tegucigalpa on Monday and because of unrest there, a nationwide curfew was issued. In other news, the pool turned a slimy green and had to be drained, which meant that when the kids were stuck at the Hogar with nothing to do, we had to find somewhere to cool off. The river was the next best thing.

Why did the river suddenly become better than the pool? The answer is simple. The pool had gone a few days without chlorine. The heavy rains had washed in dirt and leaves and grimy children had forgotten to wash their feet before jumping in. The filters in the pool had become clogged. Algae began to grow, slowly at first, but then faster and faster. The pool was no longer refreshing, it had become stagnant and ugly. I think our minds are like the pool. If we don't constantly add new ideas and thoughts [chlorine], they become slimy and stagnant. If our filters stop working and we let leaves and bugs [bad thoughts, words, images, sounds] clog our pipes, the water [our life] will no longer be precious. The river's constant motion and influx of new water [ideas] keeps the water clean and pure. I want my life to be a river, not a stagnant, slimy pool.

And I'm definitely too cool for school. I'm counting down the weeks until vacation.

Loco for Coco

Coconuts falling, children calling, the sights and sounds are quite appalling.

It’s coconut season. Children migrate to the coconut palm-lined driveway with machetes and kitchen knives. Coconut husks fly as skilled hands hack away the useless skin. The afternoon sun’s lazy rays filter through the trees, cloning shadows of the lofty palms on the stark gray of the driveway. Heads tip back, allowing sweet juice to quench parched throats. Eager hands pry apart tough skin, revealing tasty meat that satisfies hunger.

The kids here are like coconuts. Many of them have a tough outer skin and sometimes getting them to open up takes a lot of work. I like to think that my time and patience act as a knife. I hack away at their tough exterior for awhile until they let me see who they really are. Life's rains and storms have hardened their skin and soured their flavor, but inside there is a heart waiting to be reached, waiting to be told it has value.

I've become close friends with one of the older girls. She's 15 years old and has lived at the Hogar for almost a year. Sometimes we joke around. Sometimes we sit and look at the stars. Sometimes we talk about boys. Sometimes she tells me what's on her heart. Today she came to my room to talk. She told me she wanted to leave the Hogar, that she wasn't happy here. I told her how special she is and that she can't let her painful past stop her from fighting for a bright future. I told her over and over that God has amazing plans for her and reminded her how special and unique she is. By the time I was done talking to her, she'd begun to cry.I asked her if she wanted to pray with me and she didn't answer. I sent up a silent plea that God would help me say something right. When I opened my eyes, tears were sliding down her cheeks and pooling in her lap. I felt my own eyes beginning to water as I put my arms around her. My knife had done it's work well. She had shed her tough outer skin and let me see her heart. I realized something though. God can use us to reach others, but sometimes we have to let him do the rest. My knife can peel away the exterior, but it takes the Master Carver to carefully extract the meat that's inside and make it edible again.

Precious Lucy Kuntz

I was 3 years old when we brought her home. There was an ad in the paper for free kittens and my parents took my brothers and me to choose one. Precious and her sister Sunshine both needed a home, but we could only take one. I can’t remember why, but the decision was easy and during the next 19 years, I never regretted choosing her. Precious Lucy Kuntz immediately settled into her place in our family. She was so energetic that she would tear around our two-story house at night until the early hours of the morning. What she enjoyed most was touring her vast estate, our 80-acre West Virginia property. Her chief responsibility was to catch mice, but that was just to keep my dad off her back. She spent most of her time catching mice outdoors rather than indoors and sleeping. She was so loyal. After she was spayed, we brought her home feeble and groggy and put her at the bottom of the stairs in a basket. In the morning we found she had dragged herself all the way up the stairs to sleep in my room with me.

I found in her a friend and playmate; a companion to keep away the scary dreams and shadows in my room at night and someone to talk to when no one else seemed to understand. I dressed her up in scarves and hats and carried her around in baskets, but she never complained, other than an occasional scratch. During the next few years we moved a few times and had a few dogs die, but Precious kept going strong. One time she disappeared for a few days and we thought she had been killed by a wild animal on one of her hunting sprees. Tears were shed and prayers were said but I’d given up hope. On the fourth day, she came back. A neighbor told us they’d seen her get hit by a semi-truck, but somehow she’d survived and after recovering enough to walk, had come home.

We grew older together. She played less and ate more. My mom spoiled her with every kind of special cat food available. . . So much for catching mice. She loved to sit in windows and watch what was going on outside. She adored sleeping in baskets and on warm beds and fresh laundry. The years seemed to fly by. When I was 7, my best friend and I threw our pets birthday parties. For Precious’ birthday, we invited our friends and planned games and activities. While we were all outside playing, Precious snuck onto the table and devoured her birthday cake [a whole can of cat food]. Through the years she was given many nicknames: Preshie, Poohbears, Stinkerpoo, Roo Poo, Presh Poo, Stinkerbums [my personal favorite].

I supposed we all knew it was coming. She was 19 after all, which is pretty old for a cat. She was having trouble with her kidneys and had an infection in her teeth, but the vet seemed to think she still had some pep left. I mean, cats have nine lives right? Unfortunately her aging body wasn’t able to sustain her fiery spirit any longer. When I called my parents today, my dad broke the news.

No one truly understands the loss of a loved one except those who loved.
I don’t like cats, but I loved Precious.

Lemon[s ][from] Heaven

A tiny drop of blood formed on my right index finger as I let the branch snap back into place. What does blood have to do with lemons? I’m a journalist. If it bleeds, it leads.

The kids have vacation this week. Vacation might generally imply a time of rest, relaxation, fun and excitement, but the Hogar kids began theirs with a punishment. They had to clear a huge portion of field between the Hogar and the school, with machetes, by hand.

On Monday, Laurel [the latest volunteer at the Hogar and friend from Southern] and I decided to make lemonade to take to the kids working outside. Unfortunately one does not simply open a cupboard and take out a mix here. Due to the unlucky circumstance that there were no lemons in the kitchen, we were forced to walk down to the school to see if there were any on the trees there. Let me clarify that the lemons on these trees are large and in charge. Not only are they obnoxiously big, the branches are thorny. Of course all of the ripe lemons were near the top of the tree. Laurel was able to knock a few down with rocks and I picked a few by hand, which is how I cut myself. By the time we decided we’d gotten all we could, we were sweaty, tired and defeated. We gathered our meager harvest into a box and began trudging back up the hill to the Hogar. I lamented to Laurel that I was afraid we wouldn’t have enough lemons. Half-jokingly I told her it would be awesome if we had a loaves and fishes experience. I kid you not, but two second later, Nelson, who was standing in front of Txus’ [one of the staff who lives between the school and the Hogar], house talking with someone, stopped us. He looked at our box and then reached down and picked up two bags full of small lemons. I told him we were going to make lemonade for the kids, but he just nodded and kept on talking like he'd known all along.

I know it wasn’t a coincidence. I know God had those lemons waiting for us. We were able to make more than enough lemonade. We squeezed the juice by hand and I mixed it with water, sugar and orange juice. It tasted really good and the kids were so happy for a treat later that afternoon.

And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work.
2 Corinthians 9:8

Sweaty Betty

Monster balls of sweat coagulate on my nose and neck. The merciless Honduran sun pierces my eyes and ravages my skin. It’s been 20 minutes and I’ve only cleared a small section of grass. Sweat is pooling in my thick, over sized rubber boots. I desperately grasp the slippery handle of my machete and take another swing. Voices float above the tall grass, tangling with each hearty blade. I wipe my eyes on my shirt and they begin to sting. My nose, inspired by my sweat glands, is running Olympic-style down my face. I feel the sun’s sinister fingers reaching for my delicate skin. Secretly I am glad that soon I must leave to open the pool. I methodically launch the blade of my machete into the insubordinate grass. This grass isn’t the innocent, velvety golf course variety; this is juvenile detention center material, the don’t-mess-with-me-or-I’ll-pop-you-one kind. I grit my teeth with each swing, grabbing the handle now with both hands. My pitiful contribution is laughable, but no one says anything. The kids have been out here all morning, all week, all month. They’ve probably cleared more grass by hand than I’ve mowed on my dad’s riding mower. They come to me for Band-Aids, to cover their blisters and calluses, their hands worn raw from hours of hard labor. Even Elias, who is 7 years old, helps clear land every afternoon. Not only is this machete business hard work, it’s dangerous.

Today a scary thing happened. Cindy, one of the girls at the Hogar, was clearing brush with her machete and cut her knee. I didn’t see it happen or see the initial cut. When I walked out of my room for lunch I was shocked at the crowd gathered around a few seated figures. Nelson, the man who started the Hogar in 1996, was bent over Cindy. I didn’t hear her cry or scream, even though he’d just injected a strong dose of pain killers and was stitching the cut closed with a needle and thread. After lunch she was back in the kitchen washing dishes. Please show me an American girl who would be back at work less than an hour after her leg was sliced open. This afternoon I gingerly peeled away her bloody bandages to put on fresh gauze. Course, black thread zigzagged across her knee like the trail of a runaway horse. No tears, just a face scrunched in pain and discomfort. I wanted so badly to make her feel better, but there was not much I could do.

While her accident frightened a few, they had no choice but to continue to clear the field after lunch, and that’s when I joined them for a measly 20 minutes. I returned to my room plastered in sweat and sporting an ugly sunburn. I hated every second of it, but I am determined to do it again soon.

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.
-Matthew 11:28

J-o-y

Joy is not in things; it is in us.
-Richard Wagner

Sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, but sometimes your smile can be the source of your joy.
-Thich Nhat Hanh

Malformed Thoughts

- Written Monday 9/7/09 -

His eyes dart back and forth, searching for a place to rest his anxious gaze. Tiny, malformed legs dangle beneath the table like discarded Twizzlers and a pair of greedy hands scours the plate for food. I firmly nudge them back onto his lap and scoop another mouthful of rice and beans into his mouth. Con cuchara, I tell him. Just then, from across the table, another pair of hands has lost hold of a cup, and dark red juice is splattering everywhere. I drop the spoon and run for a towel, but it’s too late. Christian is wetter than a soggy muffin and meanwhile Luis is eagerly devouring the remainder of his food with his grubby hands. Two seats down, Elias is reaching for the pitcher of juice and Javier is asking for more bread, while Enrique proceeds to touch every piece of watermelon on the table. Kids are filtering out of the comedor on their way to school and dishes are clattering in the kitchen and my mind is desperately rejecting the sights and sounds around me. Why do I get stuck with them? I selfishly ask myself.

They’d been here all weekend, three brothers who showed up at the Hogar with nothing more than a pile of clothes. When I walked into the boys’ room on Friday afternoon to help finish cleaning, I was surprised to find it full of strange faces. I was told that Oswaldo, Luis and Christian were to stay with us all weekend. I already have my hands full with 10 boys, and now there were three more. That wasn’t all, two of them couldn’t walk properly and all of them seemed slightly slow. So, for the rest of the weekend, we all took turns carrying them, feeding them, washing them and putting them to bed. I had Sunday off and even though I fed them a few times on Sabbath and this morning, I hadn’t done much else. Yet I was still bothered. I was still afraid their family had left them here for good and wouldn’t be returning for them. I still feigned busyness when I saw kids coming my way with them.

Luis’ sneeze brings my attention back to the table. He wipes a glob of green mucous away from his nose with the back of his hand and stares at me intently, awaiting help. I sigh and go back to the kitchen again for another cloth. After the table is finally cleared, I head into the kitchen to help Andrea before I have to teach. It’s Green Bean Monday, and I glance occasionally at the clock on the wall to make sure I won't be late for class. The sound of wailing grates on my ears and before I can escape or decline, Luis is back in the kitchen on the floor. Andrea is talking cheerily to him, and all I can do is glare. Where are his parents? I secretly gripe. Why aren't they coming? I glance down at his ugly legs, my mind churning with exasperation.

Once again I'd failed to love as I should. My thoughts were more useless and ugly than his malformed legs.

Lord, give me strength to love.

"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames,but have not love, I gain nothing."

[1 Cor 13:1-3]

Unsalted Rice

My throat is a sore loser. That's right, I'm sick again. I've been trying to think of an interesting blog all week, but unfortunately my thoughts aren't flowing as well as the mucous in my nose. I suppose I will just list a few of the most recent developments at the Hogar.

#1 Two volunteers arrived on Wednesday from PUC. We are expecting at least one more volunteer in the next week or so.
#2 I have moved back into my old room. Goodbye dark and sweltering cave, hello fresh air and windows.
#3 I have passed the 7th week mark.
#4 I have figured out how to take a hot shower.

Today is Sabbath. Even though I am very grateful for Sabbath, it's not the same here. I don't actually get to rest. I still have to wake up the kids, help with meals, do an afternoon ministry, and put the kids to bed. The church service is as bland as a bowl of unsalted rice, and this Sabbath I'm sick, which makes everything slightly less enjoyable. Unsalted rice. . .

"You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt has become tasteless, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled under foot by men."
-Matthew 5:13

Today I feel like I've lost my flavor, but it's not just today. This week there were so many times when I felt inadequate and flavorless. I see the need around me and I tremble with shame at my minuscule contribution. Life is like a giant pot of rice. Hundreds of tiny grains represent people, blending together as their troubles burn beneath them. We have been called to flavor the pot, but I think we have forgotten to let the Cook measure the salt. Christ's love is the salt that brings the flavor. I myself am not capable of bringing flavor or taste to those around me, but if I allow Christ to fill me with His love, then I regain my flavor. Right now I'm tasteless and can't help these kids or people on my own. The lesson I'm learning this year is to let Christ/the Cook handle my shortcomings and turn my small contribution into something flavorful and useful.

I'm going to take a nap now and hope I wake up cured. . . Dream on, and I will.

Hey cucaracha, I´m comin´for ya

I committed a murder last night, and it was premeditated.

As I stumbled into the bathroom and flicked on the light,a brown object scurried across my sink. If the boys hadn´t been sleeping, I might have screamed, but I swallowed my disgust like a spoonful of overcooked broccoli, and assessed the situation. I was unarmed. The cockroach was big and when I approached it, raced behind the sink where I could not smash it. Brilliant. I looked around for a weapon, but didn´t see anything. . . Until I noticed the half-empty bottle of purple, scented bathroom cleaner. I grabbed the bottle and began to pour its contents behind the sink onto the unsuspecting creature. I grabbed the empty bottle and knocked the cockroach onto the floor. Grimacing, I finished the job. Crunch The sound of its untimely death was akin to taking a bite of cereal. I would say the deed was done in under two minutes, but I can´t really be sure. I was so disturbed and shocked that I temporarily lost track of time. This marks my first solo kill. I had assisted in a cockroach kill within my first week here, but never alone and unarmed. I have survived to tell the tale and am ready to defend my room at a moment´s notice.

Drumroll please

The rhythmic pounding continues to drone outside the windows, each beat thundering into the classroom and bouncing off the walls and into my ears. I hear my voice cracking, but I refuse to surrender my vocal chords to the enemy. I’m in the Lord’s army, yes sir. I’m in the Lord’s army. . . I find myself screaming the words, and with the drums in the background, it really does seem like we are in the middle of a battlefield.

It’s my fourth class of the day, second grade, and it’s almost over. I can taste the delicious patties and sauce we’ll be having for lunch, but first I have to get through this song. The kids have been rowdy. I have tried everything to keep my students on task, but sometimes it seems pointless because there are drums outside and screaming children inside. Before second grade, I had first. Today one of the boys called me the P word in Spanish, the worst one. A FIRST grader! I had to send another one to the office on probably his 20th offense of the day. Even on their good days, they’re bad, but today was one of their bad days, which meant they were out of control.
12:15. I finish class with a prayer and it’s over, until tomorrow. November can’t come soon enough. Why? November is when their summer vacation starts and I will have three months of peace, well, not quite. When I finish school a different sort of chaos ensues. There is food to be served, plates to be washed, chores to be supervised, a pool to be cleaned. . . I've been here six weeks now. One minute I want to box my boys by the ears [I actually still do not completely understand this expression, but it sounds violent so I'm going to use it] and the next I've resigned myself to hugging them.

We're getting two more volunteers next Wednesday. . . and maybe one more soon after that. God is good. I will survive, even if my vocal chords take a beating and my hair falls out [I rip it out].

Thoughts from the bottom of the oatmeal pan

The indiscernible words tangle with a familiar melody, the sounds floating through the sticky kitchen as I impatiently clean green beans. Leti is singing again. It’s Monday morning, the start to another predictable week at the Hogar. Everything about my life here has become predictable. I wake up at 5:15 every morning, and get out of bed at 5:30, just in time to drag the world’s sleepiest boys out of bed. After showers and devotions, we eat breakfast. I could probably survive here without a calendar or clock. I can tell you what day of the week it is based on what we’re eating. After breakfast, sometimes I stay in the kitchen to help Andrea, the cook, until I teach. Monday is one such day. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m still full of slightly burnt oatmeal or because it’s barely 7:30 and already sweltering, but I feel crabby. And Leti is singing. She sings every morning while she wipes the tables. When she’s not singing, she’s asking me questions from halfway across the dining hall in her warbled voice. Most of the time I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I have discovered a trend in topics, even if the transitions are random. One minute she’s telling me about Christmas, and then BAM, we’re talking about babies and how they like to soil their diapers. I stick to safe responses, usually ‘yes’ works quite well. I say yes because if she’s just asked me a question and I didn’t understand it, she’ll think I did and move on anyway. If she just made a statement, and I agreed with her, she’ll be happy. It’s a win-win situation.

I continue to clean the beans, wishing I could drown out Leti’s voice. I’m not sure what is worse, her singing or her incessant chatter. I guess I should clarify something first. Leti is mentally handicapped in some way. Unfortunately everyone here just says she’s crazy, but that’s a very shallow diagnosis. She just turned 27 years old, but this would not be obvious to the casual observer. She has to be directed in everything she does. She drives Andrea nuts every day because she always runs off before she’s done. She also has a mean streak. She’s been known to get in fights with the other girls. Just two weeks ago she and another girl got into a fight at the sink. It wasn’t like they just started to scream at each other, no, they were pulling hair and clawing each other’s faces and arms. Leti also once gave an unsolicited buzz cut to a girl while she was sleeping.

My desire to escape makes me work faster. I’m ashamed of my thoughts; even though they don’t leave my lips, they leave a bad taste in my mouth. My attitude and thoughts are kind of like the bottom of the oatmeal pan, burnt and ugly. They may be hidden from sight, but all it takes is a little stir of the spoon and their bitter essence pollutes the rest of the pot or my day.

We’ve been studying about love in our Sabbath School quarterly. I find it fairly easy to talk about loving people when I’m sitting in the shade on Sabbath morning, but it’s a different story when Monday morning rolls around and I’m faced with putting those words into actions. This is the ultimate challenge for me this year, loving. I want my love to fill those around me like a good bowl of oatmeal, but the challenge is making sure I don’t let my thoughts burn on the bottom. I’m going to start with Leti.

Sounds of the night

I just made two of my boys sleep out on the porch by themselves. First time I´ve had to do it, or maybe I should say it is the first time I went through with it. There´s only so much accomplished with talking and counting. I mean business kiddos. I guess they should have noticed my SWAT shirt or the way I was brandishing my flashlight. In all seriousness though, I don´t like being serious, but it has to be done. They are all in need of a good lesson.

This blog is now concluded.

Mud Brick Mansion

I could feel the sun’s smoldering breath on my neck as we trudged along the uneven dirt street. For some reason I had agreed to walk home from church with Cindy and Damaris, two of the young girls from the Hogar, even though I was tired. We passed dirt houses with crooked wooden fences and half starved dogs in the shade. I tried not to stare, but brightly colored laundry caught my eye, poverty's meager flags of surrender. I clutched my Bible tightly, my other hand caught in Damaris' sweaty grasp. We had taken this back way so we could stop by Cindy's house. Even though both of her parents are alive and live within five minutes of the Hogar, they are not able to take good care of her.

It was only coincidence that my eyes fell on the neatly printed sign on one of the houses. It read, "Jesús es mi Pastor. Con Él, nada me faltará," which translates to, "Jesus is my Shepherd, with Him I will lack nothing." There were no fancy cars in the driveway, in fact they didn't even have a drive way. This wasn't Better Homes and Gardens material. Faded flowery curtains hung limply in the window of the mud brick structure. I sighed. By most standards, maybe by American standards, this family was definitely lacking. In fact, I was quite certain they lacked running water and electricity, not to mention the house consisted of no more than two rooms. They even lacked grass in their tiny yard. Images of over-sized houses and yards came to mind as I pictured homes I'd seen in the States. I can imagine conversations floating out of airy windows, conversations about needing to pick up more mayonnaise from the store or buying a bigger washer [because the one they already have can't hold all the clothes the family goes through in one day]. I can imagine kids complaining at the supper table because they don't like the food and mothers scraping uneaten platefuls into large trashcans overflowing with waste.
With Him I will lack nothing. My mind flashed back to reality. Who is really lacking? Is it the family who goes to sleep at night on empty stomachs or the one that can't sleep because they've eaten too much? Is it the one who can count their possessions on two hands or the one who needs more hands to carry the contents of their overflowing garage to storage?

Are you lacking?

One Fine Day

Day off. Sunday. Soccer game. Muddy field.

This old man,he played FOUR; He played knick-knack on my door.

I can't believe it's been FOUR weeks since I've been at the Hogar. In a sense, I feel like I've lived here forever, but if this is forever, then I guess I'm pretty old. I feel like I'm caught in a spider web, clinging to delicate threads of sanity, while the world around me spins in unpredictable chaos. I find my sanity in the simple things, like my morning walk to school.

The air is still cool, untainted by the searing heat of mid-day. I clutch my folder tightly, glancing occasionally at the narrow, rocky path beneath me. The path kind of reminds me of the one Ellen White dreamed about. Instead of worrying about falling into an abyss, I watch out for centipedes and snakes. I inhale the strong odor of burning paper from the trash pile on my left, and my ears take in the steady singing of an insect choir. Cars and trucks purr and rumble in the distance, and the sound of children's voices grows louder as I near the school. I am surrounded by green; vegetation's last stand with civilization. I glance at the sky, an intense blue that mocks Crayola's feeble attempts to capture nature in a box. Fluffy clouds dance above the coconut palms and towering green jungle. Here I escape; here I forget that in a few minutes I will be standing before a room of loud children; here I forget that I'm hundreds of miles away from the ones I love dearly; here I forget yesterday's shortcomings; but it is here that I also remember. I remember to cast my cares upon Jesus and acquire peace.

The bell rings and children tumble out of classrooms like water cascading over a precipice. My reverie is broken, but I will retain this quiet peace throughout my day.

determined to deal

If life is a game of cards, then I'm determined to deal. Some days we get a great hand, and we think life's quite grand, but all too soon we stumble, and we're left feeling humble. Today was one of those days.

I'm not a big fan of change. Once I get accustomed to a situation, I don't like having to start over somewhere else. I liked my room. I enjoyed the cool breeze that blew in through the windows in the evening. I liked the colors on the wall; my books were neatly stowed on my shelves, my clothes folded in smart stacks. I even had Internet, when it was on, at my fingertips. Today everything came crashing down around me like a house of cards in a hurricane [I think this line is from a movie or song so I totally can't take credit], and I had to deal. Two of the other volunteers went back to Germany, which meant Amanda and I were to assume their duties. For me that meant I had to take care of the boys, supervise chores, clean/supervise the pool, in addition to teaching. Oh yeah, and move from my old room to a dark, hot and loud room connected to the boys'. I knew I couldn't put it off anymore, so after I finished teaching, I lugged all of my things to my new room. It was a struggle, an internal struggle. I wanted to protest, to whine, to yell, to feel sorry for myself. I admit it probably sounds ridiculous, but it was a rough day. Each day presents similar challenges as well. Some of the kids are a handful. They test my patience on a regular basis. I have to bite my tongue, or on other occasions, use it frequently to make sure things get done. I don't like telling people what to do, but that's one of my responsibilities now.

When suppertime comes, I breathe a sigh of relief. That means the day is almost at an end. After cleanup and devotions, it's time to put the boys to bed. I made a chart today with their names on it and have promised them that if they behave well, shower and do their chores, they will get a star. If they earn enough stars, they will get a prize. They all seemed pretty motivated. It's amazing what an incentive will do. So despite the fact that I had to move, that my room is hot and has no windows, that Manuel brushed my hair with a dirty comb that probably had lice on it, that I got scolded for reading the kids a bedtime story, that Marta called me a bad name in Spanish and constantly disrespects me. . . despite those things, I will deal. But, I don't want to just deal, I want to learn to play my hand well. . . or as the Bible puts it, "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest." [Ecclesiastes 9:10]. So, I'll deal, play my hand well [do everything I can, however small, to help], and I won't settle for a loss. Let me define what I mean by that. I don't mean everything will always go my way, or that I'll do everything right, get rewarded all the time, or feel like a winner. . . I'm talking about a long term win :)

rainforest ramble

Thick vegetation carpets the slippery jungle slope, each green plant laden with droplets of water. The trail steepens and I find myself doubling over, traversing my way through nature's greatest obstacle course. My lungs cry out for more of the cool, fresh mountain air. I am forced to stop and catch my breath a few times but finally I reach the top. I join the others on the roof of an abandoned house and we take in the view.

I love Sabbath here. Today after lunch a group of us drove part way up one of the mountains, where we parked and then hiked the rest of the way. Thankfully it had rained and cooled things off. At times the trail was really steep and slippery, but we had some good laughs on the way up and down. A few of the kids took off their shoes and flip flops for better traction. I am definitely out of shape, but the hike was worth it. When we got to the top the view was amazing. We could see the rain clouds in the distance, and as we hiked back down, it began to pour. It felt amazing though. We all piled into the back of the truck, and lightening flashed in the distance as darkness began to fall. The girls started singing, and soon the boys joined in. At that moment I tried to think if there was somewhere else I would rather be, but I knew in my heart there wasn't. Here I was, thousands of miles from home, yet surrounded by a small family, brought together by pain and heartache, but fortified and strengthened by one Father. Their voices rose, a sweet harmony of happiness drowning out their past sorrows. It was truly beautiful and a moment I will cherish.

Now I am very tired. I'm wearing a sweatshirt, something I never thought would happen while I was in Honduras :)

TGIF

Duña and Rosita, two adorable sisters at the Ihnfa.
Juan Angel and Oscar.
A double rainbow we had last week at the Hogar.

Will try to take more pictures and post soon.

Peanut Butter Bliss

Hanging out with some of the kids at the Ihnfa. L to R: Oscar, Juan Angel and Toño. Toño and Oscar are brothers and two of my favorites.

Cindy and I on our way down the the Escuela for a celebration a week ago. She's one of the girls from the Hogar and in my 3rd grade class.

With Suyapa and Licha, two girls at the Ihnfa.

My little troublemakers. . .


I'm up entirely WAY later than I should be; however, while I miraculously have Internet in my room. . . and mind-bogglingly fast Internet. . . I just wanted to share what a wonderful day I've had. I've had a rough week. I have been sick since Monday, which made me feel pretty crummy. My day had all sorts of little things to make it special, and because lists are another thing I enjoy, I'm going to list them.

#1 I treated myself to a mora smoothie/slushie after finishing at the Ihnfa. Mora is a fruit that's similar to a blackberry and there happens to be a small bakery in St. Barbara that sells the most delicious mora smoothies EVER.

#2 I bought myself two jars of peanut butter. . . of the crunchy variety, which happens to be my favorite. Supper was sparse so I grabbed two rolls of bread, which was fresh out of the oven and did NOT taste of soap or have any ants on it, and headed to my room to slather it with peanut butter. Such a treat.

#3 It rained this afternoon and left things so cool, at least 10 degrees cooler, maybe more. This evening I sat outside and talked with some of the kids in the delicious evening air.

#4 I was able to purchase double the minutes for my phone today for the regular price, a special they do every now and then.

#5 I had so much fun helping to put the boys to bed tonight. I read to Elias, the youngest who is such a cutie and full of energy, from The Cat in the Hat [Spanish]. I used different voices for each character, and he loved it. I call him my little Rana, frog in Spanish, because he's always jumping all over the place and trying to get a piggyback ride.

#5 I haven't had Internet in my room for a few days, so after asking to use the really slow Internet in the library, I came back to my room to find I had Internet here. . . and it was FAST! Faster than it has been since I've been here. So fast I was finally able to upload a few pictures. . . and

#6 I was able to chat with a few friends tonight, which was such an unexpected and pleasant surprise.

#7 Tomorrow is Friday.

#8 My cold is gone. . . as of this afternoon.

#9 I feel like no matter how rough this week was at times, God kept giving me small reminders of how much He cares about me. . . and today was just full of them.

Will write more later. . . but tomorrow I will be very sorry for my late night. . . or maybe that will be my students :)

-Hannah

hope for soap-less food

It's Monday, July 27, 2009 and the start to another week. I'm hungry and sick. Breakfast consisted of a roll with avocado and some watermelon. I can't wait for lunch but first I have to teach two more classes.

Mood: Sick [Cold]
Craving: PEANUT BUTTER!
Liking: Helping the older kids learn guitar and talking with them about soccer/life/school.
Hating: Soapy-tasting bread/food.
Hoping: Not to get lice.
Wishing: More staff were coming.
Thankful for: The cooler weather.

ant farm

It all begins with a stinging sensation, an intense searing burn that quickly turns into an itchy welt. Ant bites. I first experienced these while hanging out laundry and have endured many more attacks since then. These aren't fire ants, in fact, they're small, black and quite harmless looking, until they bite. They're everywhere. If there's a piece of food on the floor, an army will quickly form, legions of ants devouring every crumb. They also happen to like the bread rolls they serve here. Every meal we get a bowl of bread and before eating a piece, it's wise, and actually necessary to brush off the ants. Most of the kids bang the bread on the table to shake them off. I'm not a huge fan of the bread to begin with. It's often hard or stale and tastes kind of soapy. If I do eat it, I usually put beans on it to dull the taste.

I'm very glad today is Friday. Yesterday the kids had a field trip so I didn't have to teach classes. I stayed at the Hogar to care for the younger ones who weren't able to go and watched them swim at the pool. I even put some of the smaller ones on my shoulders and threw them off, which they loved. I am now quite red from these adventures.

Things around Santa Barbara seem quite calm; however, Erika and Christy, two girls who volunteered here awhile ago and visit every year, just returned from Utila. On the way they encountered various police blocks, especially in San Pedro. They also had a very scary experience on the way back when their bus was stopped by police. The men were thrown off the bus at gunpoint, and even though the Honduran women were allowed to stay on the bus, Erika and Christy were thrown off with the men. Erika said they were very frightened, especially because they saw a policeman reload his gun without putting the safety on. Thank God they arrived back here safely and unharmed. It's hard to tell exactly how dangerous the situation is because the Hogar is located in the mountains, and seems relatively sheltered. The reality is that the country is in desperate need for peace.

This reminds me of a quote I like by Sam Adams, "It does not require a majority to prevail, but rather an irate, tireless minority keen to set brush fires in people's minds." Just like it only takes one ant to cause me extreme discomfort, so it only takes a few people to stir up strife and discord in a country. Pray for peace.

three blind lice

I have a phobia of lice. I've never had them before in my life, it's just never been a priority on my to-do/to-get list. At least until I came to Honduras. Yesterday when I was working at the Infa I had an up close and personal encounter. It was time for devotional so all the kids gathered round on the floor to listen. I sat next to two girls, and one of them couldn't sit still. She kept scratching herself and wiggling everywhere. Finally I took a good look at her and noticed the poor thing was infested with lice. I mean, there were lice crawling on her head and lice eggs as well. It was gross. It was all I could do to hold in a scream and jump 20 feet in the opposite direction. I sat there for the following 15 minutes with great difficulty. I felt itchy and I was certain the lice were about to switch lanes and hitch a ride with me. I think I said a few prayers. Now, most of you are probably thinking I'm ridiculous. And you're right. The longer I sat there, the more I realized how silly I was being. This poor little girl was miserable. Not only did she have lice, she had patches of skin on her legs that had been rubbed raw from scratching. She was malnourished. She probably never got enough to eat. Her teeth were decaying. And here I sat, worried about contracting lice. And you know, I wouldn't be surprised if I have or will, but that's not the point. I'm here to share love and I have to remind myself that. Jesus often spent time with people who were considered unclean and dirty, even lepers. Of course I'm paranoid about lice, but I've got months to go. Let's face it, lice should be the least of my worries. What's more important, lice or a person's soul?

I'm still lice-a-phobic, but I'm hoping I can push past that for awhile.

Profe Ana

I'm just about to go teach my first classes at the Escuela. I'm kind of nervous, but I think once I'm up there and have 30 loud children in front of me, my instincts will take over. It's a beautiful sunny and cool Monday and let's hope it's a good start to a better week.

My God is so great, so strong and so mighty there's nothing my God cannot do. . . for YOU!

Welcome to Honduras

July 15: I have arrived safely. I feel like I am in another world. When I got here last night I was so exhausted that my brain felt like a glazed donut. I didn’t sleep the night before and after getting to the airport and waiting for my bags and struggling to make my way out, I probably could have slept a day; however, sleep was not the first item on the agenda. After I was met at the airport by some people from the Hogar, we went to eat and then moved a family, which took the entire afternoon. The poverty has not surprised me, but the contrast is so stark from what I have just left, that it awes me. The family we moved fit all of their belongings in a few boxes, and their bed and table on the roof of the truck. The bed frame was made of wood and hay twine that had been tied together and stretched from one end to the other. While we waited to leave, stray dogs and a few chickens meandered in the street and children came to watch. The roads to this house, which was located a few minute’s drive from the main streets of San Pedro, were like riding rocky swells. One minute we were high and the next we were plunging into a giant hole and bouncing out again. We all packed into the truck, all eight of us, and headed to Santa Barbara, where the Hogar is and where we were moving the family to. I had to struggle to keep my eyes open on the two hour ride. When we arrived and I got out of the car, I was apprehensive. Kids lay sprawled on the steps and others sat on the porch. I felt like I was the new kid at school. A few of them immediately ran to hug me and help me bring in my bags. The rest was a blur. Names and ages and faces all fused together and before I knew it, I had a girl clinging to me. After a hasty tour by Amanda, we went to evening devotion. I met quite a few of the kids, but there are still many who I do not know. Finally after unpacking and chatting for a while with Amanda, I was able to take a shower. Showers here are cold, but it was so refreshing I wouldn’t have settled for hot. I think I am paranoid, but I already felt like I might have contracted lice, and so I practically saturated my hair with tea tree oil and some kind of repellent that my mom sent with me. It made for a greasy mess this morning, but I’d rather look like I have poor hygiene than have bugs crawling around in my hair.
When I finally lay down to sleep, I couldn’t. The fan sounded like chattering teeth, which of course is a ridiculous sound in this heat, but it kept me awake for awhile. Lizards chirped outside and eventually after some tossing and turning, I finally slept. This morning I woke up at 5:30, which gave me just enough time to wash up and get ready before devotions at 6. After singing and a story, we made our way to breakfast. Breakfast consisted of sweet and milky oatmeal, watermelon and rolls with jam. After that I played my guitar for awhile and then decided to take a short nap because it was still early and I was tired. The kids head off to school at 6:45. The other helpers are all or mostly gone during the morning teaching, but so far I have not been given any clear responsibilities. I am going to the Infa, a daycare downtown, soon to see what it’s like and learn how to take the buses. It is going to be quite an experience. The kids here need so much love and attention. There are some that love to hug and be close to you, but there are others who are distant and come from emotionally or physically abusive backgrounds.

July 19 [Today]: The weekend has been a welcome break. We get to sleep in, which means getting up at 7 instead of 5:30. Today we washed clothes, supervised chores and had some time to relax. I'm still working on learning everyone's name. Tomorrow I teach my first classes. I'm going to be teaching 1st through 3rd grade as well as Kindergarten. I need to make my lesson plans. I'll try to write more soon but I need to get some stuff done before bed.