. . .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.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
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.
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.
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