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.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, January 11, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
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. . .
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. . .
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