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 :)