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.