Bamboleo

Thick, persistent drops batter my windshield, leaving behind a canvas of transparent craters that rivals the moon's shiny surface. Each crater is a separate portal into the outside world, the world outside the dry comfort of my car. Fading autumn leaves and dry pine needles coat the slick driveway as I race toward home. My wipers make feeble attempts to clear the crystal craters, but the steady drizzle of chilling droplets refuses to let up. I rush from my car into my apartment. I take no pleasure in the dampness that curls up my bare legs and clutches at my hands. Once inside I warm up some leftovers and sit down to eat above the warmth of my heater. As I shove mouthfuls of artificial chicken and fried rice into my mouth, my food-frenzied cat looks on.

My eyes wander. I take in the stark contrast of the white plastic Christmas tree at my back and the orange leaves in the yard. The drab gray sky and the brown grass make me long for a sunny afternoon in my favorite tree in Honduras.

It is raining and there is no parade, but if there were, I would be dry.

Friday I will be in Honduras. Maybe I will enjoy the afternoon in my favorite tree.

Me Gusta Como Eres

Sometimes I feel like my ideas and observations [my thoughts] are similar to one of my favorite songs.

como una manzana que al morder la cabeza me confunde
como esa vela que se prende y me rescata de la oscuridad
como la calle que siempre me lleva a ese sitio al que quiero llegar
como esa patria sin bandera en la que me siento libre
...me gusta como eres

-Jarabe de Palo

* Like an apple that confuses me when eaten
Like a candle that when lit, rescues me from the darkness
Like the street that always takes me to the place I want to go
Like this home country without a flag that makes me feel free. . . I like you [I like HOW you are. . . WHO you are]

My thoughts - Sometimes they are confusing. Sometimes they make sense. Sometimes they help me arrive at a desired destination. Yet thinking is what makes me, us, free.

And that's why I like you. . . thought. You are fleeting yet permanent. You are fun yet serious. You are wild yet tame. You are. You enable me to be.

Me gusta como eres ;)

Dead End

I work on a dead end. Does that mean I have a dead end job?

Didn't I just say I was tired of cliches?

I'm tired now. Literally.

I'll write more tomorrow.

Autumn's Atonement

I step out of my car. The rich, earthy smell envelops me. I inhale slowly, savoring the musky aroma of fallen leaves and acorns. Tentatively, yet with growing boldness, the late October sun struggles to raise its sleepy head above the majestic maples and prickly pines. I seemed to have had a similar dilemma just an hour earlier.

Fall.

Leaves swish at my feet and the mild morning breeze swirls around my brown shoes. I want nothing more than to close my eyes and let the autumn wind whisk me around in a slow waltz. I wish to tip my head back and let my arms swing freely at my sides, lost in the rhythmic melody of blowing debris. I used to think Fall could be described in cups of hot chocolate and coffee, warm sweatshirts, bonfires, and pumpkin pies. I was so wrong.

Fall is much more than the cliche associations we unimaginative humans define it with. But isn't that true of so much in life? I'm tired of cliches. The word cliche is. . .well, cliche. Overused.

I would like some magic in my life. I'm not talking about pulling rabbits out of a hat. I want to discover the simple things that make each moment I live and breathe special. Why should I content myself with the cliche when I could encounter the unique and unnoticed? I won't.

Fall, let me dance a moment more in your enchanting song. As you atone for the departure of my dear Summer, I will lose myself in the splendor of your color and fragrance.

My thoughts are thousands of miles away. If only the song would never end. If only it would transport me into the arms of another continent and season. There my magic waits.

Breathe

I have to change my ticket to Honduras. $150. Two extra days off of work, which I still don't know if my bosses will approve.

They changed the date of the graduation. A day after I am scheduled to leave. It's ridiculous. I was so upset. However, I made a promise to a girl I call my little sister. I just can't let her down.

Last week I paid $617 to get my car fixed.

You know, I am so blessed. My parents are often quick to help me. My heavenly Father is even faster to help me (sorry Mom and Dad). I want to be really angry right now. I want to stomp my feet. I want to scream really loudly and wake up the neighbors.

God, it doesn't always seem fair, but that's without a little perspective. I have SO much to be thankful for. I have a job, a home, a car. . . family, friends.

Lord, great is thy faithfulness. May I continue to grow. May the positive outweigh the negative. May I learn to give thanks, even when things don't go my way.

Chlorine Clean

I've never been a talented or driven swimmer.

Just recently I started swimming twice a week. It's amazing to feel your legs kicking behind you, to stare down at the white and dark blue tiles and follow the thick line from one side of the pool to the other. It's empowering to touch the side of the pool and feel your heart pumping strongly in your chest and the blood rushing through your legs. I like to know my body is growing stronger each time I swim. To know that potential energy oozes out of my pores, my muscles yearning to be stretched and used.

I don't relish exercising, but swimming seems to be an enjoyable way to do it.

Un Dia Especial

I have a filmy plastic bag on my dresser. Inside are cards; a memory game I've never played. It was given to me by a little boy who stole my heart. He shoved it into my hands as I spent my last few minutes with him, before I hugged him tightly and watched him walk away into a sea of maroon and white uniforms.

The day I said goodbye is a vivid pang of painful recollection. The cards say on one side "Un Dia Especial." There was nothing special about that day.

What am I doing? Where am I going? I've given part of my heart away to special children in Honduras. Almost everyday I spend a few minutes looking at pictures and videos, and my heart aches for their hugs, their smiles. I realize most of my blogs seem to center around my time away, even after I've come back.

You know, the experience doesn't stop. If you allow it, it burns in your soul, a secret desire for more, to keep helping and loving. I'm not doing enough. . .

Just about six more weeks. . . I will see them again!

Wordless

Have you ever heard the expression You leave me speechless?

I heard a speech yesterday. Alina Fernandez, Fidel Castro's daughter.

I often find myself at a lack for words. . . I'm not speechless, but wordless. Speech can be so many things: rigid, boring, superfluous, flowery, long, tiresome. . .
Speech is an art form, readily molded or changed by emotion or choice of words.

It's easy to open the mouth to speak, yet to find the right words, now that is difficult.

Dark Room

I have decided I dislike dreams.

They're either better than reality or fiercely distorted projections of our worst fears.

I suppose the mind is like a dark room. Not just a dark room, but a place for developing photos. Each day our senses intake an astounding amount of data: faces, smells, conversations. . . This data becomes a memory on the rolls of film inside our brain.

Night comes. We lay down, exhausted, and as we turn out the light and close our eyes, the dark room of our mind begins to develop the day's photos. Sometimes it goes back further, to rolls of film we'd forgotten about.

Digital. Instant gratification. We take a photo, and we see it. For those of you who have never fiddled in the dark with a canister of film, trying to pry it open and place it in a container without allowing light to spoil its dark secrets, you won't completely understand. The dark room is a magical place. It's a touchy process. There are specific instructions, specific amounts of chemicals, specific methods. Patience is mandatory. But finally, the moment of truth. Tiny pictures appear on the fragile roll, gleaming as they emerge from a rigorous bath of chemicals.

Now it's time to make them into photos.

Digital photography makes it much easier to be a photographer. There is not as much skill involved. Photoshop and other picture editing software allow anyone to create a decent photo.

The dark room is a distant memory.

Our dreams, are they necessary? No.

Yes.

I hate dreaming, yet I can't help myself. It is a part of our body's coping mechanism, a chance for sorting things out, for developing thoughts and ideas. It's amazing how often our dreams are filled with things that are dear to us. Sometimes they make little sense, and others, they are clearer than day.

Dreams.

The black curtain at my window blocks the vibrant sunlight from bathing my room with yellow shadows. The night of dreaming is over. I awake to make them a reality. Pull back the curtain, and live.

Reality Check

I'm thankful that God often uses people or experiences to remind us of what's really important in life. I had a reality check today about some of my priorities. I feel relieved. Things may not be as I would like them, but I am trusting and confident in His plans for my future.

Thank you Jesus.

Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake.
-Victor Hugo

From the Inside Out

I want my way. I always do. I'm like an obstinate child. I have these ups and downs. The ups are when I'm not driving, when I've given Him the wheel and I'm letting Him lead and take control.

I am so blessed. I have so much to be thankful for, yet I'm often so unsatisfied. I want my way. I always do.

I love going to vespers. I may no longer be a student at Southern, but I've always enjoyed vespers. The praise songs, the message, the chance to breathe after a long week.

I'm sleepy. I'm eating kiwis I bought on sale last week and listening to the sound of my kitty's collar bell as she wanders around the apartment. Today was nice. I painted. I napped.

God you are so good to me. I want to surrender everything to you. My will, Yours. Not I, but You Lord. I want a certain job, a certain guy, a certain whatever, but every time I try to do things my way, I fail. I ask for you to give me patience.

Thank you for loving me when I don't deserve it.
Thank you for guiding me when I've lost my way.
Thank you for protecting me when I'm in harm's way.
Thank you for blessing me.

I'm going to bed with a song in my heart and a prayer on my lips. I will be patient. I will let YOU lead.

From the Inside Out -Hillsong-

A thousand times I've failed
Still your mercy remains
And should I stumble again
Still I'm caught in your grace

Everlasting, Your light will shine when all else fades
Never ending, Your glory goes beyond all fame

My heart and my soul, I give You control
Consume me from the inside out Lord
Let justice and praise, become my embrace
To love You from the inside out

Your will above all else, my purpose remains
The art of losing myself in bringing you praise

avocado faith

The sweat eases into the threads of my shirt as I stand in the sweltering kitchen. The stack of mismatched plastic cups and plates grows exponentially as Javier hurriedly rinses away bean and rice residue. I sigh. Once again about three people are missing from the after-lunch clean up crew. I hated having to track the kids down for their chores.

Suddenly I feel little arms wrap around me and an excited voice gushes, "Mami, venga a ver mi jardin. . . Tengo una sorpresa."

I walk into the blazing sun behind the kitchen. Water seeps out of a hose. His childish enthusiasm bubbles to the surface. He can hardly contain himself. His grimy finger proudly points toward a crudely arranged line of small avocado seeds. He has pulled away some of the grass around each one, and the seeds gleam post-artificial shower.

I slowly cut open the avocado. I'm standing in my air conditioned kitchen, thousands of miles away. My heart feels like the butchered piece of avocado on the counter. There are no tiny hands to wrap around me now. There is no tiny voice to plead for the seed for a garden that will never grow.

Elias. I miss you. I miss you more than words or tears can express. I miss being your 'Mami.' And now you're gone, wandering the streets again without food in your tiny belly or arms to hug you when it's time to say goodnight. I can't tell you a story or pray with you. I can't even see you, or hear you.

He replied, "Because you have so little faith. I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you."
-Matthew 17:20

Faith the size of a mustard seed? What about an avocado seed?


*Elias was taken by his mother from the Hogar last week. The staff are trying to bring him back, but the process is difficult as they have no legal claim for him. His mother is not in her right mind, and often leaves the children alone as she wanders the streets. Please pray.

Old Dream

I don't usually remember my dreams. Sometimes I do. Vividly.

There was a new family in town. What town, I couldn't tell you. One evening they came over to eat. I don't really remember what they looked like, because you see, I had this dream months ago while I was still in Honduras. I remember waking up and telling my roommate about it, but I never told anyone else. She was in the dream too.

Somehow it came to light that the woman of the family was a witch. She seemed polite and normal on the outside, but we found out there was a sinister battle raging within. In my dream, I found myself in a room that resembled my room at home where my parents live. There were windows on all sides without curtains. It was night time, and I was about to fall asleep when I heard noises. There were noises on the roof, at the windows. I soon realized someone was trying to get in, to penetrate the glass. All of a sudden the family appeared in front of the window next to my bed, yet they were not touching the ground. As they levitated in front of me, they began to talk to me through the glass. Now, normally if I saw something like that, I would probably run screaming in the other direction, with my blanket thrown over my head. Yet, in the dream, I sat calmly, staring into the face of the woman. And I said, I am not afraid. I am not afraid of you or your witchcraft. Jesus Christ resides here, and you cannot touch me. A peace radiated out of my heart that seemed to sear through the evil designs they had for me.

I woke up from the dream confused, but thankful. I hadn't thought much of it until I told a friend about it tonight. She said she wondered if someone had tried to hurt me through witchcraft during my time in Honduras. I won't know until I get to heaven, but I do know God protected me many times while I was there.

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.

Ephesian 6:12


God is so powerful. It's comforting to know that when our trust and loyalty resides in Him, He will protect us. Satan and his angels tremble at the name of Jesus. We have nothing to fear.

The Aftermath

My thoughts begin to unravel in the dark. When the day is done and I pull the covers around my neck, I let sleep drag me into an unconscious dance of slumber and dreams.
Tonight I cannot sleep. Tears slowly sink into my sheets. I try to squeeze the pain away, the loneliness that threatens to suffocate me. It sounds dramatic.

This is the aftermath.

Its not the aftermath of a bomb, an earthquake, or a tornado. No, this is the aftermath of separation. Miles between me and them, miles between my arms and theirs, miles. . .

People don't quite understand. They don't understand when they tell me my shirt is backwards and I don't care. . . I tell them there are more important things to worry about. They don't understand when my eyes well up during a normal conversation. They don't. . . They just don't.

Tonight I tried to bridge the distance. After some difficulty, I finally found a number I could call the kids at. When I first called they were in the evening devotional. I could hear the singing in the background. Oh how I miss devotions. I miss the sound of Manuel's loud, off-tune singing. I miss sitting by Elias with his tiny arms draped around my shoulder. I miss Mainor's hugs during prayer.

More tears. They won't stop now.

When I called back I talked to Elias. He didn't say much. I spent most of the time telling him how much I missed him. Suddenly Manuel had the phone and was asking me when I was coming to visit. . . Next it was Enrique who wanted to make sure I would bring him cleats for his graduation. Tania was supposed to get the phone next. Somehow it never made it to her. I was online. She sent me a chat. She told me not to bother calling her back because she didn't want to talk to me anymore. Things are different now she said. A few minutes passed. Karla sent me a message saying Tania wanted me to call her. I did, and just as they passed her the phone, my card ran out of minutes.

Don't they care? Don't they understand? The card company that is. Tania doesn't understand either. She doesn't believe me when I tell her how much I miss her. As I type, salty tears drench my face. She can't see me. She has no idea. I want to scream at her, to shake her, to reach through the computer and make her see how much she hurts me with her cold words.


I crawl into bed. Miserable. Sad. Lonely. I beg God to take away these feelings of separation. Thousands of miles away kids are going to bed unaware of how I feel. They do not see my tears or feel the anguish in my soul. Could this be how He feels?

Every night I climb into bed, often drifting to sleep in the middle of my prayer. He's thousands of miles away. Do I see the anguish in His soul or understand how He feels? Do I know His love? Those kids may forget me, may never understand how much I care about them, but I will never stop loving them.

He never stops loving me.

What's the aftermath? Is it the tears? Or the fact that His love covers me, soothes me?

Lord give me strength, courage, and love. Love is the greatest of these. . . and He first loved us.

Holier Than Thou

I hear her first. I think everyone hears her, even if they’re seated too far away to see her arm flail sporadically from side to side. Her loud ’Amens’ and grated clapping sear through Mark Finley’s steady sermon at what seem to be the most inopportune moments. I cringe a little. The long red sleeve of her suit coat looks like a beacon of disaster as she thrusts her arm heavenward. She’s the type who makes conservative Adventists squirm in their seats as they clutch for their Bibles, sure it is their duty to quote a verse or two to silence her irreverence. But here she is . . . near the front of the Sabbath church service at the 2010 ASI Convention. The sermon is amazing. We follow Finley through Matthew 25 and the story of the 10 virgins. He starts calmly, but as time ticks, he builds to a soul searching crescendo. I grab a donation envelope and scribble down a few notes, including a quote, There’s a difference between having the Word of God in your hand to DEFEND the truth and having it in your heart to LIVE the truth.

Powerful.

Why is it that we often find ourselves critical of others, certain it is our appointed duty to point out their flaws to them, or worse, to others? Instead of saturating our hearts and insides with Gods truth, we clothe our outsides with the appearance of truth. We are like sheep in wolves clothing. I find myself looking around with a snide smirk as the woman continues to voice her convictions. Even the camera person throws occasional mocking smiles toward his associates.

The sermon draws to a close and we kneel to pray. And then I hear her again. She’s loudly sobbing, gasping out Oh dear Lord, over and over again. I try to mentally drown her out and focus on the prayer, yet her passionate pleas coat my ears. I’m exasperated for a few more moments, and then I let it all sink in. I feel like the pompous Pharisee in Luke 18 who looks down on the tax collector and his simple prayer.

I need truth in my heart. She’s crying out for it, yearning for it, and she doesn’t care who sees or hears. May we follow her example.

el pensamiento

This is a poem, my first in Spanish, that seeks to explain what it is to miss someone.

I dedicate it to the kids in Honduras who have made such an impact on me, and continue to do so, even though they are thousands of miles away. I'm sorry it's in Spanish, but I couldn't have it any other way. This language has bewitched me, with its culture, music, and people, and I will never be the same.

No puedo sacarlo de mi mente,
aunque no está presente y, de repente, llega
el pensamiento otra vez.
Me ves, luchando a concentrar, sin una
solución de encontrar.
Es un dolor que no se escapa
La emoción no se tapa
Como puedo explicar, no quiero aterrizar
Déjame un rato a olvidar este dato
Lejos por lejos viene a mis ojos
Una sensación que aprieta, fuerte, terriblemente
Mi párpado suplica, mi corazón palpita
Me ves, luchando a concentrar, sin una
solución de encontrar.
Una sonrisa llena los sueños, los niños, los dueños
El pensamiento llega, y es que me siento, detrás de un viento
Que nunca vuelvo a lo mismo.

limitless possibilities

I have four keys. It's an empowering feeling to watch them swish back and forth in a metallic rhythm as I walk up to the door, selecting my apartment key. The air is delightfully warm and summery. I love getting out of work. There seem to be limitless possibilities. . .

grooving sharks

And if you'd 'a took to me like
A gull takes to the wind
Well, I'd 'a jumped from my tree
And I'd a danced like the king of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would 'a fared well

I'm looking in on the good life I might be doomed never to find
Without a trust or flaming fields am I too dumb to refine?
And if you'd 'a took to me like
Well I'd a danced like the queen of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would 'a fared well.

[New Slang - The Shins]

Random thoughts for the week.

-> Ellen White says some pretty amazing things :: Know and believe the love that God has to us, and you are secure; that love is a fortress impregnable to all the delusions and assaults of Satan.
-Thoughts from the Mount of Blessing

-> grooveshark.com is pretty much the only way I maintain sanity at work while I photoshop and crop what seems like half of the earth's population

-> I'm addicted to tennis

-> I hate consistently wearing long skirts

-> I'm impatient

-> I miss my boys in ]-[ONDURAS

-> My keyboard keys often don't all work, which is why Im not writing a long blog

-> I am having Spanish withdrawals. . . Que lastima

couches LOOM in my near future

I'm sitting on a green couch in Southern Village listening to the clock tick. . . not just literally, but there seems to be a loud echo in my head as well. I feel like at any moment my surroundings will begin to swirl and twirl and I will be sucked into a strange time machine that will transport me back to reality. I drove 18.5 hours by myself, without stopping to sleep or nap, to get here. It's a new personal record. Maybe I'll break it someday. Only a year has passed and I already feel like I am staring into a distant past I was never a part of. I hear friends talking about finals and selling back books, graduating, job searching. . . Where am I? I remember those painful goodbyes and nostalgic last classes, yet I'm a living testimony that life goes on after graduation. I didn't think it would. I've hung out with many different friends. I like the familiarity of good friends. The kind you might not write for an extended period of time [a year], but they don't harbor grudges, and seeing them again is like sinking into a down bed of feathery bliss. There are so many things I need to do, but I'm just soaking up these moments. Soon the last few threads of my happy college memories will unravel. . . friends leave, time passes, life moves on. I'm weaving a new tune. It's full of optimism. God's sitting at the loom with me, and for possibly the first time in my life, I'm letting him weave. He picked the pattern, but he's letting me choose the colors. I want this endeavour to be a colorful masterpiece. Honduras taught me quite a few lessons. I just hope I can apply them here.

So here's to curiosity: I'll investigate.
Here's to patience: I'll wait.
Here's to independence: I'll live it.
Here's to love: I'll give it.
Here's to courage: I'll find it.
Here's to life.

God promises us that He will never leave us nor forsake us and that He has special plans for us. I understand that now. He's faithful if we are faithful. I'm learning to be faithful and to trust His timing instead of my own. Things work out better that way.




P.S. If anyone has a couch for sale. . . maybe I'll be needing furniture soon. . . you know, to furnish my apartment. Or a loom, because then I could do some actual weaving.

Home again, home again, jiggity jog

White. A sterile sky of pure flakes. Where am I?
Silence. I hear the clock ticking on the wall and the clacking of the keyboard.
I woke up this morning without an alarm, without the breakfast bell, without the sound of tiny fists pounding on my door. I feel numb. My heart feels like a ball of cold snow. Where am I? The quiet consumes me. My thoughts bounce off the bleak walls in the empty rooms of my mind. Is this home? I feel like a zombie. Words leave my lips and dissapate into the chilly air like fragile snowflakes. I have no tears left. I think back to my last night in Honduras. I hold Elias close as his salty tears mix with mine. He sobs. I sob. Our hearts break together as he cries softly, "Mami." Oh cruel world. Why do you bring people together only to rip them apart? I think back to yesterday as I say my last goodbyes, holding kids close as tears rack their frames. It's all too much to take in. I feel lonely. I want to go back. Can life go on? Have I changed too much? I used to dream and hope for this day, and now that it's here, I desperately want it to go away. I've left my heart in Honduras. This hurts more than a breakup. I miss my boys, my friends, my family.

Another chapter of my life ends and another one begins. I will go back one day soon, and while it will never be the same, it will still be amazing. Nine months went so quickly. Am I really home?

[Snap]shot to the heart

My eyes are tiny cameras, constantly clicking, flashing, storing. My heart’s a memory chip with unlimited space.

Is it possible to love and despise at the same time? Is it possible to yearn for home with a weary desperation, yet cling to a place I don’t belong?

Yellowy palm branches sashay to the cadence of a windy beat. Majestic mountains look down their leafy noses at poor occupants. A mother and her three children struggle along a steep road, a burden balanced on the mother’s head. Emaciated dogs roam trash-littered side streets. Welcome to Honduras, a country with immeasurable splendor yet tainted with poverty and despair. It seems typical, but that’s just the book cover. Inside there is a story, a personal story to each wrinkled man and shabby child. I’ve only read a few torn pages. I’ve pieced together scraps and scrawled letters, desperately trying to assess souls protected by barbed wire and concrete walls topped with scraps of glass bottles.

How do I leave, yet how can I stay?

It will never be the same. I will never be the same.

10 days.

I have a hermanita

Along the way you bump into people who make a dent on your life. -Benjamin Button

I have a son

Eyes are piercing
He’s asking why
Hearts are acing
We will cry
My little boy
Soon far away
Hug me tight
Before you play
Arms are drawn
Tears will form
Behind our souls
We are torn

Goodbye.

death and all his friends

[Yester during last year’s Dia de los Niños]
Did his blond curls quake
When death came to take
His precious young mind
Was life ever so unkind?
In an instant he’s gone
Like a tiny young fawn
To respire no more
Death in every pore
The car came so quick
Like a fast pin prick
He was breathing, then not
Just a onetime shot
His brother he ran
The road he did scan
It was too much to bear
Not a rip or a tear
Yet eyes closed tight
Without much fight
They lay him down
Dressed in brown
Hands fold on his chest
They lay him to rest

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We crawl along in the crowded bus; a little girl with yellow-rimmed plastic sunglasses laughs as she puts the glasses on the boy next to her. Young mothers stare sympathetically and cajole their rowdy offspring. I glance around, shifting my weight from one foot to the other as the long journey drags. I recognize many of my students: Dilcia, Karla, Jorge, Jesus, Merari, Henri, Yovanina, Wilmer. . . It’s an unlikely funeral procession. The bus is filled with brightly colored shirts and no one’s crying. I feel like I might cry.

Yesterday afternoon, Yester, a tiny blond-haired 2nd grader, was hit by a car while crossing a main road and killed immediately. The principal and Txus arrived just a few hours after it happened. His family laid him on the only furnishing they owned, a small table, and illuminated his lifeless body with just one candle. His still-warm hands were folded on his chest, clutching a small crucifix.

I stare methodically out the window. Cars pass our diminutive procession. Why are they in such a hurry, I ponder. Hurry is what snuffed out Yester’s precious life. On one side of the road, death screams at me; dry cornfields, heaps of decaying trash, and tiny crosses scattered every few miles, a reminder that Yester was neither the first nor the last. I decide to try my luck on the other side. My eyes are dazzled by the sun’s rays as they fiercely reflect off the river in white sheets. I muse over the irony. The road of our existence is a dichotomy between death and life. Christ’s sacrifice enables us to live through His death, yet many times we jump off the bus of life onto the wrong side, tantalized by the shiny garbage we see instead of drinking from the life-giving water on the other side.

We pull off the main road and are immediately thrust into the well-kept and clean streets of Gualala. It looks like a ghost town, an abandoned paradise of fenced-in homes, with only a scattering of uniform-clad students wandering around. The sun lowers in the cerulean sky and a gentle breeze plays a rustling tune. We stop in front of a large deserted park and file off the bus. A few trucks pull up behind us, family and friends piling out and making their way to the grandiose Catholic church. I desperately try to spot Yester’s mother, but as I scan the crowd for tearful women, I see no one crying.

The black coffin rests coldly in the back of one of the trucks; a few cautious souls approach, carefully lifting the lid. A man comes to open the church and a multitude of children and young parents flood inside. I sit near the back, scrunched up against a wooden pillar. The eerie quiet is interrupted with the sound of tiny feet and voices echoing. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the stooped old man in a lime-green shirt who feebly makes his way to the pulpit is definitely not priest-like. He begins the service in a raspy whisper, which is quickly drowned out in heedless commotion. Parents strain forward to hear, but even those with the best intentions have no idea what is going on. Someone points out the mother, young and worn-out, sitting near the back in a black tank top and army pants. She cradles a blond-haired boy in her lap, a spitting image of Yester. Sunlight streams in through the open doors behind me, lighting the strange glass-cased figures at the front of the church. The priest carries a red plastic bowl and silver baton to the coffin and splashes it a few times. The family arranges a procession around the coffin and we make our way out of the church, temporarily blinded by the glittery sunlight on the steps outside. To the cemetery we trudge. A small boy asks his mother what a cemetery is for. I must pass the coffin. I hold my breath and try to picture his sweet little face, yet I prepare for death’s unsightly handiwork; white foam bubbles around his mouth and his features are clouded with purple. I hurry past, trying to erase the horrible image from my mind. His mother walks by slowly, clutching a white rag and methodically wiping a few runaway tears from her tired eyes. I feel like I should hug her, but shrink back. The ground is littered with fading plastic flowers and debris, proof that even the indestructible renown of synthetics has an end. It’s obvious no planning went into the organization and layout of the cemetery; graves and crosses are mangled together in a grotesque tribute to life’s hideous conclusion. Golden rays of sun glint through tree branches, the day’s farewell. We say farewell too, a group of onlookers watching as dirt is shoveled over the coffin. Some crowd close, others huddle in groups a distance away. It’s over.

Just a few days before he sat on the front row in English class, scrawling notes in his cartoon notebook. That’s how I’ll remember him, the little trouble maker in a blue t-shirt and maroon Alborada gym pants.

"Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?"

"God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and death shall be no more, neither shall there be anguish (sorrow and mourning) nor grief nor pain any more, for the old conditions and the former order of things have passed away."

I can’t wait for that day. Maybe Yester will be there.

Late as Usual

(L to R: Dilcia, Cindi)

She's late to school every day. Want to know why? She gets up at 3 a.m. to make 1,000 tortillas with her aunt to sell as a way to support the family.

Dilcia was in my 3rd grade English class last year. She was quiet but a hard-worker. And to think those small hands had worked tirelessly for hours before many of her peers had even rolled out of bed.

Next time you're tempted to complain about something, about your long day, just remember how blessed you are.

"Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might. . ."
-Ecclesiastes 9:10

Sweet Smell of Victory

There's a particular smell to an elementary classroom. This smell transcends time and culture. It's sweet and dirty, conjuring up images of grimy hands and swirly bacteria shapes one can only enjoy with a microscope. If one has never had the pleasure of inhaling this dainty treat, do not fear, there is a first time for everything.

I have the pleasure of partaking of this smell on a daily basis.

I also have the pleasure of other smells, like Manuel's feet.

After church this evening he proceeded to take off his shoes, and the smell was so bad even the other boys were complaining. Wonder what caused it? Socks so brown the UPS would be jealous and a smell so potent Enrique was begging me to dowse Manuel's feet with bleach.

These smells symbolize victory: Children overcoming; overcoming financial barriers to study and learn, and boys trading a past of pain for a future of promise.

Each day is filled with small battles, yet for each battle there is a victory.

The battles are intense. Sometimes I feel like I am a small branch waving madly in a terrific downpour, the wind and rain threatening to wrench me from my safe haven into a swirling world of madness. My patience is stretched like a piece of over-chewed gum, yet losing it completely isn't an option. Kids are talking, yelling, fighting, and I must find ways to resolve the drama.

One of the boys told me the other night that I am the strictest volunteer they've ever had, even more so than the ones who whacked them on the head. . . Somehow I have a hard time believing it. Either way, no matter how bad things are, there are times I smell the victory.

His victory.

1 Cor 15:56-57
The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.

Momma Had a Baby. . .

. . .and its head popped off.

What an awful nursery rhyme.

Moms have babies all the time, and does it sound insensitive of me to say that here in Honduras the baby population is about as plentiful as a field of dandelions? Well, it is.

OK, so this babies head didn't pop off, but mine almost did.

I'm standing in the back of the first grade classroom, listening to the new English teacher talk about rulers and pencils. The little girl in front of me keeps looking back to grab my hand. She's obviously not captivated by the scintillating number activity going on upfront.

"Open, Shut them. Open, Shut them," the teacher demonstrates with her hands. "One, two, three, four. . ." We make it to 15 and I think if the class gets any more exciting I'll pass out.

This is my second week assisting with English classes at La Escuela Alborada. I'm not accustomed to assisting really. I'm accustomed to someone telling me post-last minute that I need to teach a Sabbath School class or lead song service; teach five sections of high school English without books for a month. Those sorts of things. I've gotten good at it, winging it that is. Last week the high school English teacher was sick for a week and so once again I found myself back at the Colegio [high school] teaching classes without any lesson plans. Thankfully I at least had books this time. Anyways, back to the story.

The little girl turns around again, this time to tell me that her mom recently had a baby.

"Did she have it at home or in the hospital," I ask, picturing the mud-brick home she lives in up the road. "Oh, at home," she says. "Daddy cut the umbilical chord."

***

There's a short break in between two of the classes and I spend it sitting in the office talking to the English teacher. Her and her husband and two daughters have only been here a week. They're Spanish-speaking Californians who plan on living here for at least a year. He's the new principal and she'll be teaching English. A boy walks in to get a band-aid and she notices a box on the shelf labeled Lice Solutions. "What. . .do they. . .they have lice here?" she manages to get out. "Yeah, it's pretty common," I tell her. "You mean even the Hogar kids have lice," she asks. "Yeah, most of the kids here have lice." Her face contorts itself slightly, but she regains composure. "I'm itchy now." I laugh. "So, have you had lice," she asks hesitantly. "Oh yeah, I've had it on and off. It's hard not to get it when you come in contact with the kids." I refrain from telling her I combed through my hair a few days ago and found two.

***

It's a long morning. She spells octopus wrong four times in three different classes. Oh, elephant and Matthew are also spelled wrong.

She makes up for the glaring spelling errors with a brilliant idea.
Air conditioning for the classrooms?

. . .

People are having babies in their homes and showering in the river, and the best idea you can come up with to help is to air condition the classrooms?

Sometimes I'm not quite sure how I'm going to return. I don't think the same as I used to. My head itches sometimes. The heat makes me melt. I'm wearing a pair of Payless flip flops that are two years old and worn so thin I can feel every footstep, but I could care, less. I rarely match my outfits. None of it matters.

What matters are things like having conversations with a kid who thought he was lost for good, who hadn't read his Bible in five years and only went to church because he had to, and seeing him change. It makes me want to change, too. It's one thing to encourage these kids to grow closer to God, and then to put it into practice yourself.

I just got an e-mail from a good friend working in Chad, Africa. She ended with this: "It's rough out here and I have learned Tchad is definitely harsh on the body and spirit. But God is so much bigger and He is able to lead us through and give us His perfect peace and joy through blessings each day."

God is good. A person doesn't need to have air conditioning and a lice-free scalp to realize that. And even though the new teacher apparently can't spell, I'm confident God will use her to minister to these children. Being a missionary isn't about what you know or what you can do; a missionary is someone who's willing to come as they are and let God multiply and bless their feeble efforts beyond their imagination.

Fatherless

A cloudy sky threatens to suffocate the tranquil February afternoon. Dark gray clouds sag around the green forest behind the Hogar. A group of vultures circles high above to the left of where I sit. I make no attempt to control my spastic gaze, which only occasionally focuses on something concrete in my line of vision. My soul is heavy. The poignant notes of a guitar stir feelings within me, feelings of compassion, of contempt, of struggles. His gnarly fingers fly over the strings, dirty nails strumming each note with power and conviction. He has no sheet music; each song seems to be wrenched from his heart, melancholy chords violently changing to triumph, then to discordant rhythms full of frustration and confusion. I read the writing on his worn hat, Rising Stars Basketball Clinics.

Meet Brian, Jeffry and Yohira’s dad. No one knows where he lives, what he occupies his time with. He shows up to visit every so often, his mind still apparently sharp, yet ruined through years of alcohol and drug abuse. He looks just like Yohira, they have the same long nose and thin lips. He speaks to me in English, which is hard to understand at first, but quite flawless. I ask him where he lives and what he does for a living. He tells me he travels a lot and is trying to start a basketball school for kids from all over Honduras. The hat is his only credibility, and I’m not sure if I buy it. He’s been playing the guitar since he was 10. Brian walks by on the sidewalk with his headphones on. He tries to block out the sound of his father’s playing, of his existence, but I’m quite sure he’s well aware inside, well aware of the pain and sadness and the lack of a father’s love. Brian’s dad excuses himself and gets up to try to talk to Brian. Brian refuses. His dad returns agitated. He says he can’t understand why Brian has changed. I try to tell him it’s because it’s hard for him and he gets upset. He says he can’t understand what can be so hard; it’s all about God’s love for us. I agree, and stop talking before he gets angrier. I want to yell at him. I want to shake him, pound him on the head and knock off the ridiculous basketball hat. Yet I’m also overwhelmed by pity.

Kenia leans on the fountain and swings herself back and forth on a skateboard. Yenny drapes her head and hands on me and Tania scribbles on the tiles across from where I sit. Marcos sits down in his white cutoff t-shirt and stares ahead. Rain drops intrude on the moment and my guitar is handed back to me. I force myself out of my reverie and back to reality, a reality full of questions. How can someone bring a child into the world and then leave them, abandon them, forget them? How can a yearly visit make up for a lifetime of absence? How can a pat on the back replace a thousand hugs and kisses? How can it not be hard to grow up without a father and mother? What’s so hard about that? A person can run away from their problems, drink away hurts and drown in despair, but they can’t dispose of their children, or can they?

They can. They do.

It sickens me to look around at this group of kids who are growing up without parents. Some don’t even know what their dad looked like or what happened to their mother. Some have parents who are too poor to take care of them. Some have abusive parents. They’re hurting, crying, screaming, and dying inside. They won’t admit it, but they’re afraid. They feel worthless. When someone gets too close they push them away. I’m often pushed away, by the ones I have fought the hardest for.

He’s fighting too, a heavenly Father disgusted and broken by the hurt He sees. He’s fighting for these children’s lives, yet so is Satan. Each day he tries to crush their spirits and overwhelm them with despair. I see it in their eyes. I feel it in their hugs. I hear it in their attitudes. I’m fighting too. We’re all fighting. It’s draining. I cry a lot. I think a lot. I pray a lot.

Life without a Father’s love is unlivable. Let them know their Father.

Forgiveness Soup

It was the second hour of chores, Friday, February 5, 2010. I was boiling, not only because the temperature outside was rising to an uncomfortable level, but because of the bad attitudes and disrespect that are a part of the daily chore process.

The sound of whistling interrupts me mid-glare. I glance toward the kitchen, a group of the younger boys sitting around the doorway and outdoor sinks is harassing Laurel. Without a second thought, I stride toward them, my bright orange and pink Croc flip flops and sidewalk providing a temporary fashion show. I lecture the boys, asking them if they would whistle at Maria Jose if she walked by. I also tell them the need to respect volunteers. Karla, the older sister of two of the boys in the group, begins to butt into the discussion.

“This is the culture of Honduras,” she informs me. “You’re in Honduras, not the United States. This is normal here and it’s not bad.”

“I’m not Honduran,” I snap back. “I don’t enjoy being treated like a toy.”

“Dunditas*,” she spits out scornfully.

I walk away before I say anything more, my eyes threatening to spill over with tears of annoyance and frustration. I’m thankful only a few more minutes remain of chore time and I retreat to my room. I burst in, and into tears, the long morning overwhelming me. Laurel comes in and I cry more.

Lunchtime. It’s the typical Friday fare, garbanzo and vegetable soup. There are basic table rules. The boys are served a small portion, and if they want more, they must say please and thank you. Javier begins to help himself to more rice, his bowl still half full of vegetables and soup. I ask him to stop, and he laughs and continues to scoop rice into his blue plastic bowl.

So I grab the soup ladle and fill his bowl to the brim.

“You wanted more,” I point out, as he protests. “You know you need to finish your food before you ask for seconds.”

He cries and the boys at the table protest my ‘mean’ punishment. Mainor grabs his bowl and rushes to the table of older girls, filling them in on the latest piece of juicy table gossip, which happens to be my punishment. The girls focus their poisonous glares on me and I stare ahead. Soon a few of them gather around the table, giving me hard looks and spouting off hurtful comments. Manuel tries to leave the table and I physically drag him back. “Puercada vieja*,” he mutters at me under his breath.
I am on the verge of tears again as a large group of older girls gathers on the metal serving counter to watch me and talk. As soon as I can get away I rush to my room to cry some more, this time on my knees. As I pray I feel impressed to write a letter.

The impression continued to fill me and I scribbled out what I wanted to say, confident that God would use it in some way to touch someone, even if most of the kids thought it was ridiculous. This is what I wrote:

Dear Kids,
I understand that every year more volunteers come and our work here might seem easy and senseless. We come from different parts of the world, with different skin and hair colors and different personalities. We bring our suitcases full of pictures, clothes and necessities, ready to serve a few months here. What we don’t know is that you have suitcases too, filled with hurts, struggles, and thoughts. Many of us come here without knowing the language and the culture, and pass the first few months with difficulty. Instead of helping us learn, you criticize and make fun of us. We leave family, friends, studies, work and our culture and language.

Why do we do it? I want to tell you why I came here. I was in my last year in college. One day in class I felt God’s voice and the desire to come and serve somewhere. I don’t know exactly why He brought me here.

At first the days went by really slowly. Sometimes I thought about how I wanted to come home because I missed my life in the United States, but He strengthened me with His power and I began to feel more at home. I began to enjoy my work, every moment spent talking and playing with you. I wanted to meet you all and be your friend. I didn’t have much to share, just my time and affection, my advice and my encouragement. I also didn’t come here to correct your lives, because that is only something God can do.

I have visited some of your families and homes, listened to your problems. I have passed many memorable times with you. Unfortunately I have to punish too. I have never liked to punish, but it is part of my job. I know I’m not perfect and I wish that God had someone better than me, but the Bible says this in 2 Corinthians 12:9-10.

But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

Right now I feel weak. I am sharing a piece of me with you. Today some things happened that made me really sad. Every day the volunteers have to put up with bad attitudes and disrespect and it’s hard. We try to help you with your work, but instead of a thank-you we receive insults. It’s hard to try to help someone and to have the help or advice thrown back in your face, but it’s a reminder for me of what Jesus did for us. What we do for you is nothing in comparison with what Jesus did for you and for me.

I just want to finish with this. I don’t expect you to ask for forgiveness from me or the other volunteers for the times you’ve disrespected us, but I want you to remember that you’re also offending God, the person who sent us here. When you talk back to me and disrespect me, it doesn’t matter that much. What makes me very sad is to think that maybe you’ll live your whole lives like this, sad, unhappy and angry. After all of the time and love Maria Jose, Txus, Nelson and Senior Gus have given you, the years sacrificed from their lives, the months volunteers have come. . . You still continue to think about yourselves. I’m tired of hearing the nicknames and ugly things you say to each other. I know that my time here is short, but the thing that hurts the most isn’t the attitudes, it’s seeing you fulfilling Satan’s desires. He wants you to fall. God has a big plan for each one of you. He has created you intelligent and beautiful, and He wants you to live for Him each day. God wants you to know that you’re worth something, that you’re special.

The small sacrifices that we make for you aren’t big. In a few years maybe you won’t remember my name or the time you were angry because I asked you to do your chore or eat a bowl of soup. That’s not important. I’m here, like the other volunteers, to try to remind you of God’s love and His plans for you. Please don’t let Satan win the battle for your lives, with your words, attitudes and actions. I love you all. Thank you for listening to me.

Maria Jose got up to address the things that had happened. The air was full of tension, and then it was time for me to get up and share my letter. I prayed with Laurel beforehand, but I was really nervous. My voice began to break and I had to stop for a few seconds as tears escaped. It was then that I started to read the Bible verses. I felt my voice and confidence soar, and I was able to finish the letter. The library was deathly quiet when I sat down. Maria Jose got up to speak, but she began to cry. She said she often felt the same way, after years of being here taking care of the kids. Nelson got up to speak and asked that the kids make a promise to change and to apologize. A few kids quickly got up, but then the struggle began. I looked around me, some were crying, some were laughing, some looked angry. Time passed, minutes, an hour. It was almost 8 p.m. We hadn’t eaten. Eventually everyone went up, even Karla, her face repentant and tearful.
Afterward many of the kids came up to apologize to us personally, many in tears, some clinging to us. Karla came and apologized, as well as others whom I never would have expected. It was a moving night, one I will never forget. I just hope it doesn’t stop there. I hope a real change will take place. I know God was working, and will continue to work.

And to think it all started with a whistle and a bowl of soup.

*Dundita = Stupid/dumb.
*Puercada Vieja = Old pig.

Dye-ing Inside. . .Outside

I have gray hair, at least that's what the kids say. They even pulled out a few strands to show me. I don't believe it, them. My theory is that the scorching Honduran sun has bleached my hair to an almost white state that will probably regain its shiny red splendor upon my return to the States.

There are two scenarios:

I am either drowning ridiculously in denial and unable to face the possibility of turning gray at the tender age of 22 [almost 23].

OR

I'M TURNING GRAY!

The latest is that I have no future plans to dye my hair. I do attribute this shocking discovery to the past six months. While this experience has been amazing, there are moments when I feel like it has taken a toll on me. What makes it so hard is feeling so helpless; feeling like the kids will never learn, never grow, never change, never forget, never become the people I want so much for them to be.

Now I know why parents gray so fast.
Sorry Mom and Dad.

For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.
-Jeremiah 29:11

Lord, please bless these children. Guide them and help them learn to love and trust You. They're stubborn, hurting, confused, frustrated. May they see YOU, not me.

Homeward bound

A thick gray mist hovers, hiding the green mountain splendor of Santa Barbara. The small bus is full, and I get up hastily, following her* off the bus. As I near the front, a small girl glares at me and says to her mom, "Ella tiene varisela (She has chicken pox)." I am caught off guard, but quickly recover, "No tengo varisela (I don't have chicken pox)." I glare back. My freckles seem to have a similar effect on many of the kids here. Elias once asked me if they would go away when I got to heaven.

We cross the road and climb upward. Trash litters the bumpy road. I listen as she points out different people she knows or places she used to play. We're going home. I spot her sister in a group of kids ahead. We descend a little, and after saying hello to uncles and aunts, we continue to climb down. Dirt steps and tree stumps are the walkway. The house is new, concrete blocks and a shiny, silver roof. A pot simmers on an outdoor stove and her mom beckons us to come in. We hesitate in the doorway, and she repeats the invitation. I take off my paper thin flip flops and stand in the entryway. She tells her mom I want to see pictures, and a small High School Musical photo album is handed to me. I sit down and begin to look at each picture, asking questions and trying to savor each one equally, even if the photo doesn't interest me. There are pictures of uncles, kindergarten graduations and babies, each one colored with age and use. This pathetic collection of pictures feels like treasure in my hands. We laugh together as her mom comments on a picture of a sassy little girl, a girl who isn't so very different from the one who sits beside me.

We go in search of her grandmother who lives in another house. Back up the dirt steps and trash-laden hillside and we're there. The conversation ebbs and flows like an ocean tide, I nod my head and agree now and then. Questions seem to fail me and I look around awkwardly. A cartoon sheet hangs behind the grandmother's chair, separating the small bedroom from where we sit. A small, skinny black puppy scampers about, finally settling on a scrap of flowery cloth under the table. Baby chicks hop around in the other room.

It's hard for me to focus at times as I remember stories she's told me. It's hard for me to extend my hand to say goodbye to the man who beats her mom. It's hard for me to smile at women who sold her body to a horrid old man. It's hard, life is hard. From the muddy candy wrappers and crusty dirt path to the bleak sky overhead, I see the struggle. There's a struggle here to climb those dirt steps and go somewhere, to be someone. And while the pain of yesterday lingers, there's hope. I see hope in her smile. I see hope in her eyes. It tugs at the edges, edges that overflow with tears on hard days and sparkle with laughter on silly days. I only want her to know, to feel, to change, to forget, to forgive, to grow, to live.

Moments here pass in the blink of an eye, moments I treasure, moments I abhor. Her home is here, mine is there, but we have a home together that I one day hope to see.

We're going home, together. Home, forever.

Underdoggies and Cold Shoulders

Someone give me an underdoggie cuz I’m flying on mood swings; hand me a sweatshirt cuz I’m getting the cold shoulder.

I haven’t conducted a credible survey, but I would say there are an average of two people upset with me at the same time, all the time. I’m not usually aware they’re upset until someone, a messenger of peace and love who comes to bang on my door or bumps into me on the pasillo*, comes to inform me of this breaking development. Sometimes I am shocked, sometimes I’ve been waiting for it, and sometimes I have no idea what they’re talking about.

In the last six months I have formed relationships with many of the kids. There are some who I joke around with, some who I hug a lot, some who I listen to, some who hate me, some who follow me around and kind of get in my personal space. . . I’ve invested a lot of me into these relationships.

Last week one of the boys stole some money from my room. It’s a long and complicated story, but basically another boy pointed the finger and I began to ask questions, eventually taking the boy in question to talk to Maria Jose. I never once accused him. That night about half of my boys were upset with me. They weren’t listening or cooperating when it came time to put them to bed. A few of them were rude and disrespectful. I tried to maintain my calm, but eventually called Maria Jose to speak with them. They said many hurtful things, and it confirmed in my mind that they were guilty. The boy who was in question, Manuel, took a birthday card I’d made him and ripped it up, bringing the pathetic pile of pieces to me with a defiant grin. It took a big effort not to cry, but I sucked it up and told him to make sure he threw the pieces away in the trash can. I cried later. The next night at supper such an unexpected thing happened. One of the boys who had treated me so badly apologized, a real apology.

On Saturday night I cried a lot; I cried because, Tania, who I call my little sister, was planning on running away to another city, alone. She wasn’t thinking straight. I’ve had many talks with her, but there is so much hurt and pain inside that sometimes I wonder if I’ve even dented the surface; her surface has a lot of dents, but she’s built a wall to hide away her feelings. We spent an hour or so in each others arms, me begging her to say and her telling me she couldn’t. I prayed silently. In the end, she stayed, and it might seem like a happily ever after ending, but it’s not. There will be more tears and more struggles. Her mood swings change all the time, and it often seems like she’s more often mad than happy with me.

The kids remind me of how I must make God feel. I often push Him away, angry because He hasn’t answered a prayer, a ‘knock on His door.’ He never gives up on me though. Sometimes I want to give up on these kids. It’s not easy: Jenny’s clingy hugs, Tania’s quick temper, Manuel’s atrocious eating habits, Enrique’s attitude, Leti’s evil laugh and long stories.

Last week the Sabbath School lesson was about love. I didn’t study it, but when we discussed it in class, we read 1 Corinthians 13. Most people know it by heart, but it always seems more beautiful and meaningful each time I read it.

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.Love never fails.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

I want that love, a love that forces me to keep giving, even when the kids throw it back in my face, call me names, disrespect me, ignore me, and taunt me.


*pasillo = sidewalk.

Déjame entrar

There's a song by Makano, a Panamanian recording artist that happens to be very popular here in Honduras, called Déjame entrar. In fact I heard it on the bus ride today and I'm listening to it now on my computer.

déjame entrar
a tu vida y a tu corazón
que yo quiero solo darte amor
mi amor

It's been almost six months since I arrived at the Hogar. There are days when I have wanted nothing more than to jump on a plane and fly home, but now I dread the day when that wish will come true. What has changed, I sometimes wonder. Some of these kids have allowed me a glimpse into their hearts, their souls, their dreams, their nightmares. How can one walk away from this without a tiny tear in their heart. . . I can't, yet I will soon have little choice. My mom just sent me pictures of my niece and nephews enjoying a fresh snowfall and a late Christmas, and a sudden sadness filled me as I realized they have continued to grow in my absence. I looked at Justin and realized that his face now seems less familiar than some of the boys I call mine at the Hogar. I have made a new family here. Why does life have to be this way? Why must I give up one family for another? Why must I leave one to be with another?

This Christmas was one of the most memorable that I have experienced. I was so blessed to have my parents here for nine days. Our church decided to sponsor the Hogar as their Christmas project this year. With their donations and the help of family friends, my parents were able to bring a Christmas present for each kid, in fact most received about three items. The volunteers had fun wrapping everything. The kids had no idea they were going to receive presents. A group from Andrews left some used clothing for them to give to the community, but that was it. On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, the kids were divided up into two groups to deliver the clothes. We only had small plastic bags of clothes for a few families, but each recipient was grateful.

In everything I did, I showed you that by this kind of hard work we must help the weak, remembering the words the Lord Jesus himself said: 'It is more blessed to give than to receive. Acts 20:35

That night we brought the presents out in a wheelbarrow. As we entered the dining hall, surprised faces lit up with joy and excitement. I will never forget the sound of happy voices that roared out to meet us.

It was a beautiful Christmas. One I will never forget.

I will try to forget that my head itches, that I go back to teaching on Tuesday, that there's usually at least one or two kids mad at me at the same time, that I will be leaving my second family soon. . . Some things should be forgotten so that the more important memories will never fade.

In exchange for these memories, I have given these kids a part of my heart, a lot of my love, and all of my hope and affection. I want nothing more than for them to heal from their painful past and move on to a bright future. If God blesses and enables me to have a small, minuscule part in that, all of this will have been worth it. All of the late nights sharing tears and days spent yelling at kids to do their chores. . . memories I will never forget.

Déjame entrar. . .