Aspirations I Only Aspire To

Straight Up Statistics

2011-08-08T06:22:00.000-07:00

I love statistics. Correction. I love statistics that don't require me to use a TI-83 calculator and the bell curve. I took a statistics class one summer as a general math credit. The class lasted for about three hours twice a week. It was torture. I don't remember much about the class. I'm drifting away from my point though. I love statistics because. . . well, because they let me know how many people read my blog on a daily/weekly basis. Even when I'm not posting anything, people are still reading it! I guess that's a good thing. I often wonder what they find interesting, or if they even read a whole post.

Anyways. I don't write much because. . . well, because I'm lazy.

I have decided to take a break from Facebook. I'd been toying with the idea for awhile, but finally went through with it. I have been Facebook-free since Thursday morning. I still have to use it for work, but I have deactivated my personal account. Yeah, I am definitely going through withdrawals. Mostly when I am bored at work or in the evening. It is a needed break though. The big reason it took me so long to deactivate it was that I use it to communicate with friends who live far away. But I also spent hours on it, just sifting through my news feed and bouncing from one profile to the next. I want to use my time better. I don't like having an addiction, but that's what Facebook had become for me. I know many people who are addicted to Facebook/their smartphone, but refuse to see that they are. Whatever. My goal is to stay away from it for at least a month.

Well, this post is more of a time for me to ramble. Maybe I'll post more now that I don't have Facebook to suck up all of my free time. Maybe I won't.

I've been playing soccer a bit recently. I love sports. I love playing with guys too because for some reason it's assumed that girls can't play well. I like to crush that notion with a few flicks of my left foot. Yeah, I fall down sometimes and I miss the ball too, but there's always a feeling of inner satisfaction when I make a steal or assist a goal.

I think this is a good time to insert a cliche side note. Life is filled with ups and downs, but what is it that everyone says? Oh, that it's not about falling down, it's about getting back on your feet after the fall. I think sometimes I feel like I'm sort of floating in mid-air between the ground (a fall) and getting back on my feet. Picture a slow motion soccer replay of a bicycle kick-- that's how I imagine myself. I feel like my life isn't bad enough to equate it with a fall, but I don't have a clear idea of where I'm headed or what I'm doing, so I wouldn't say that I'm standing strongly on my two feet either.

I should get back to work. Should. . .

Flamenco: The Fight of Freedom

2011-06-20T09:19:00.000-07:00

I recently returned from a trip to Europe which, I must say, is a continent with too much to see and enough culture and history to stick its tongue out at the United States. I won't continue with that thought.

I have wanted to visit Spain for a long time, and I was finally able to do so on this trip. Unfortunately I only made it to Barcelona and Madrid, but I was still impressed. Barcelona is beautiful! I love the fact that there are mountains AND the ocean, as well as an abundance of art, both old and new. Two days was not enough time to even scrape the surface of this precious city. I will be back.

After Barcelona, I spent a day in Madrid visiting a dear friend that I hadn't seen in 13 years. It was there that I saw some paintings that inspired me: flamenco dancers. I really wanted to see a live performance, but alas, I didn't have enough time. However, the city is full of souvenir shops overstocked with fans and flamenco regalia. That settled it. The paintings were too big to take home, but I was determined to make my own. Yesterday I started looking for images, as well as watching a few videos, to help me make a better painting. So, here's a more artsy end to my blog.

Flamenco: The Fight of Freedom

Her hands curl intricately, following the rich notes of the melody. A bright light highlights her scarlet dress and a yellow silk scarf pinned to her waist seeks to free itself as she twirls. An unseen guitarist plucks violently at the strings of his instrument, providing her with the rhythm she craves as she storms across the stage. Her shoes thump and tap, thump and tap, echoing into the darkest shadows of the room. Yet in all of the calculated commotion, she's dancing, nay, fighting for freedom. Smiles die on her proud cheekbones and fail to flutter across her boldly painted red lips. A new moon of stage light glows in her hair, it's perfect semi-circle mimicked in the exquisite arch of her back.

Flamenco. A dance and genre of music that originated in the southern Spanish region of Andalusia in the 18th century. A dance of rigidity dominated by exact steps and precise movements; however, underneath the costumes and pretentious routines, there is a profound liberty of expression, an internal and external fight for control of ones body. Dancers must escape the rules of time and social conventions, of unwanted emotions, yet as they seek this liberty, their inner joy must remain masked and solemn. Despite their struggle to maintain this facade, a triumphant glimmer occasionally rushes through the cracks in a defiant display. Flamenco has a soul of structured beauty, with the heart of a rebel. This is probably why gypsies were so influential in its development.

Close your eyes. You sit breathlessly in the dark bowels of the large room. You hear her steps thunder closer, closer. You catch a whiff of her perfume and feel the air move as her arms scream wildly in anticipation of the close of the dance. You long to open your eyes, to see her haughty expression, but you find you cannot pry them open. You feel trapped. A desire to run outside overwhelms you and you try to yell, but the sounds fail to leave your parched lips. It feels like a nightmare. You begin to move your feet to the notes of the insistent guitar, succumbing to this feeling of helplessness. You move them faster, and suddenly, an inner strength surges through your muscles, leaping along the sinews and bubbling through your veins. You, my friend, begin to dance, immersed for a second in her plight. You suddenly understand her struggle, and you make it your own. Freedom is just a few notes away.

-HK

Die Katze ist unter dem Bett

2011-04-11T05:22:00.000-07:00

I have three favorite words in German:

Katze (cat)
Zeitung (newspaper)
. . .

I thought there was a third. . . and I believe there is, but at this early hour of the morning I can't quite seem to remember it.

Regardless. I like German! I never thought I would say that. That is like saying "I like sweaty socks" or "My favorite food is moldy bread." Yeah, like, unthinkable. Yet, I do. It's proof you can change your opinion of something/someone if you give it/them half a chance. I've been trying to practice German each day for at least 30 minutes. Sometimes it's quite exasperating. Rosetta Stone is great, but you don't get an explanation for anything. . . you just repeat, repeat, repeat. . . which is why it works apparently. Practice makes perfect.

The past few days have been simply lovely. I love sunshine. I love the smell it wrenches from the spring flowers. I love the way it seeps into my pores. This morning (Monday) was made slightly more bearable as I walked outside for work and breathed in the luxurious and intoxicating scent of sun.

A new week. The same responsibilities. Yet so much to be thankful for.

Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul.

Psalm 143:8

Temblor 24

2011-03-11T05:26:00.000-08:00

I remember the time when. . .

Oh, but there are so many times I remember. They're probably not meaningful to most people, but to me they represent 24 years of living.

I remember my first kitty, who survived many moves and a truck accident.
I remember burning my arm while making tortillas when I was 4.
I remember trips to England to see my grandparents.
I remember pleading with my Dad to let me paint my ceiling purple (to go with my pink walls and carpet).
I remember how I used to put carrot shreds on my teeth for "braces" (and then one day I had to get the "real" ones. . . not so glamorous after all, despite the exciting chance to change the band color each month).
I remember when I couldn't wait to be a teenager.
I remember being a teenager, and realizing it wasn't quite as amazing as I'd always thought it would be.
I remember my best friend's barn burning down.
I remember my first day at school. Eighth grade. I had braces (the real ones) and I was so shy I barely talked to anyone at recess.
I remember high school crushes.
I remember arriving at college with high expectations.
I remember the distinct desire to stay, but graduation came too quickly.
I remember arriving in Honduras, the heat and newness were overwhelming.
I remember sleeping in my closet for a few nights in my first apartment until I could find a bed.
I remember the butterflies in my stomach as I anticipated talking to a friend.

And now, as I write this. . . minutes are passing and tomorrow I will remember writing this blog. Sunday I will turn 24. So many memories crowd my head; boring and ordinary memories for most, yet for me, they are beautiful reminders of how God has blessed my life.

There are so many insightful quotes about life. . . I wanted to end with one.

Only a life lived for others is a life worth while.
|Albert Einstein|

May this be my motto. Whether I live for another day or until I turn 90, may each day be lived for others.

Happy birthday to me. I'm thankful for the life I've been given, and I feel blessed to wake up each morning. Suffering and pain abound (Japan's 8.9 earthquake and tsunamis are a fresh reminder of life's fragility), yet I'm alive.

And Then You. . .

2011-02-22T13:12:00.000-08:00

How my thoughts they spin me 'round
And how my thoughts they let me down

I'm supposed to be editing an article for work. I haven't blogged for awhile. My knee hurts. I think I did something to it playing tennis yesterday.

I think I have an attention disorder. Seriously. I can't read a page without staring off for a few minutes to think. I can't edit a paragraph without finding a different song to listen to. I can't start a project and finish it, before starting a different one. I can't sit for long periods of time and focus on what's going on around me. A lot of the time I'm in my own world of ideas and thoughts, even when someone's talking to me. Who do I blame? What do I blame? Was I always like this? I'd like to think it's a recent development. You know, I think it's Facebook's fault. Facebook fueled Egyptian frustrations and helped overthrow their leader. That seems positive, despite the casualties. Has Facebook done anything positive for me?

I think it's destroying my brain cells. Actually as I was writing this sentence I checked Facebook.

Help! Why is my attention span so short? Why am I always thinking about tomorrow and not living today? Why am I a dreamer, but not a doer? The late-afternoon sunlight is seeping through the office window. I'll be going home soon. My evening will pass like so many others.

How my thoughts they spin me 'round
And how my thoughts they let me down

Sell Fish

2011-01-13T11:10:00.000-08:00

A bitter winter wind claws at my face. Flighty snowflakes float through early morning sunbeams. I trudge up the steep hill to work, my lungs straining under the weight of icy air. Due to Monday's snowstorm, our hill is too slick to drive on, which means I have to park at the bottom. As my feet, cocooned inside soft black boots, stumble over the slippery slope, I muse about a world away, a world removed. Somewhere someone has lost a home to flooding (Australia). Somewhere a baby is dying of malnutrition (Africa, India, etc.) Somewhere a woman is being raped (Haiti).

Oblivious? Read the headlines. Yet in all the pain, there is hope. There are stories of people who forget themselves, forget to be selfish, who remind us what it really means to live/and die.

What's my biggest problem today? Not parking at the bottom of the hill. My biggest problem is forgetting myself. I'm not selling fish, but I am selfish.

www.edition.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/asiapcf/01/13/flood.teenager/index.html?hpt=C1

Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.
John 15:13

Love Letters

2011-01-13T09:52:00.000-08:00

This is a response to my last blog. It is written by someone much wiser than I. And, due to its simplistic truth, I have decided to share it here.

". . .Perhaps your definition of love letters is too limited – what about the crumpled, grubby fingered letter from Elias, complete with cookie crumbs? What about the BOXES of love letters you brought back from Honduras? What about love letters from parents? From niece and nephews… 'Hannah, I’m a wreck without you!'

Perhaps your book can explore the theme .. what is love? .. What is a love letter?.. what are the most precious expressions of love I have experienced?.. what individuals have I met who have exemplified true love?"

Thank you Mom for putting things in perspective :)

Palabras on Paper

2011-01-09T08:23:00.000-08:00

¿Qué hacer para explicarte
si quiero hablar contigo
no me salen las palabras?

No sé que hacer para decirte
que eres como una carta
que me falta por abrir

¿Qué hacer para explicarte
que no encuentro las palabras
que había escrito para tí?

No sé que hacer para explicarte
que tú eres como un libro
que no supe escribir
con palabras de amor,
con palabras que no mienten
con palabras que se esconden
y que nunca sabré donde

-Jarabe de Palo

I'm stuck. I'm supposed to start writing a book, but nothing's coming to me.
No sé que hacer para explicarte que tú eres como un libro que no supe escribir. . . I know what he's talking about! The memories are there inside my head, but putting them on paper is a different story. Get it? A different story? Maybe what's inside my head isn't meant to be written down. Maybe what makes the story so special is that only I know it. It's mine to tell, or not to tell.

What about paper? It's not special until someone graces it with a fluid flourish of paint or ink. Suddenly, that insignificant piece of paper is special. We frame it, treasure it, store it away, put it on display. What's the difference between a receipt and a love letter? They're both just pieces of paper. . . aren't they? One's a record of money spent, the other a record of feelings revealed. One goes in the trash can and the other. . . well, you get the idea.

I'm afraid I've dealt with more receipts than love letters.

A piece of paper is nothing more than paper until it's covered with feeling. A book is just a figment of the imagination until it's brought to life on paper.

I have special paper, but no book.

Bamboleo

2010-11-15T10:06:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-10T08:56:00.000-08:00

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

2010-10-27T17:16:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-26T19:34:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-26T18:28:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-17T19:46:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-09T22:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-07T17:09:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-25T07:06:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-19T12:59:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-15T20:33:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-11T06:32:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-06T22:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-17T20:46:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-08T20:03:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-24T10:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-18T14:34:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-12T14:51:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-27T22:32:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-17T06:13:00.001-07:00

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

2010-04-06T09:32:00.001-07:00

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

2010-03-25T10:35:00.000-07:00

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

I have a son

2010-03-23T09:37:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-08T20:00:00.000-08:00

[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

2010-03-04T08:36:00.000-08:00

(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

2010-03-03T19:09:00.000-08:00

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. . .

2010-02-22T18:37:00.000-08:00

. . .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

2010-02-10T13:59:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-06T21:36:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-25T08:30:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-17T19:55:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-11T19:58:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-02T21:02:00.000-08:00

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. . .

Beachy bliss

2009-12-07T21:57:00.000-08:00

It has been brought to my attention by my loving mother that my blog needs to be updated. I just want to take a moment to apologize to all of my faithful readers who dutifully check each morning to see if I've posted something inspiring and insightful to go along with their Wheaties. No, really. I have wanted to blog but haven't had the time or energy. On Sunday I returned from a relaxing vacation on Roatan. It was my second time on the island.

Beautiful is an inadequate word to describe this place. There is ugliness too. I suppose life is a dichotomy of beauty and filth. It's like trash caught in the seaweed along the beach; God's perfect creation littered and ruined by man's pathetic inventions. I walked the beach, collected coral and shells, watched the sun set, and gazed into the starry heavens, yet all of this was tainted by the presence of man.

I was still able to get a taste of heaven. Now I'm back at the Hogar, five months down and four to go. Sometimes I don't know how to keep going, and others I'm not sure how I would be going without this. These kids are taking a part of me, but I don't want it back. I suppose a part of me will always be in Honduras.

Growing up so fast

2009-11-21T21:15:00.000-08:00

My baby boy is graduating Kindergarten tomorrow.

OK, so Elias isn't a baby and he's not technically mine, but does the fact that he calls me Mom count for anything?

It's kind of cool to only be 22 years old and have 10 boys without ever having sported a baby bump or changed a dirty diaper. Sometimes I want to hang them by their ears, but they're growing on me. . . and growing up.

Each night when I tuck the boys in, I go around and pray with each one. It's nice to be able to talk to God together and it also gives me a chance to learn more about them. I get to ask them how their day was, hear them tell me about a goal they made or the bump on their leg that won't go away. Of course they're typical boys. I often shove my nose into my sweatshirt when the farts start to fly. I mean, give them a break, they eat beans at almost every meal and they're boys. Some of them like hugs, some don't. Some give me a kiss on the cheek and some give me two.

Manuel wets the bed and Roberto's afraid of the dark. Javier and Enrique roll from side to side before they fall asleep [They're brothers]. Anael likes to have his feet tickled. Nahum doesn't like to pray. Marvin prays his dad will stop drinking and find Jesus.

Sometimes I pray, sometimes they do. Sometimes we pray in English and sometimes in Spanish. Sometimes their prayers are short, but there are times they surprise me. Friday was Nahum's 14th birthday. He has never prayed, but he promised me he would pray on his birthday. I told him he'd better make it good, make it 10 minutes long or something, but all joking aside, I wasn't ready for the beautiful prayer that left his lips. He prayed for wisdom and kindness. He prayed for me. He thanked God for another year of life and asked for His safety and guidance. When he finished, I felt so blessed.

Friday night I also had the blessing of spending some time looking at photographs of the kids when they were younger. I walked with Tania, Laurel and a few of the girls to the home of Txus to drop them off. She has five of the girls living with her in her cottage at the bottom of the hill by the school. She invited us in and it was so refreshing to be in a home again. I felt safe and happy. We laughed at chubby cheeks and fat bellies and had fun picking out who we recognized in the box of photos.

They're growing up so fast. . . they're still crazy boys who fart on each other and have to be reminded to hang up their towels, but I hope one day they'll grow up to be strong, smart young men who will make the world a better place. But it's one step at a time, and for now we'll settle for a Kindergarten graduation.

Chillian' like a villain

2009-11-19T10:19:00.000-08:00

It’s cold. I’m cold. I have a cold. Is it wrong that 65 degrees now seems like sweater weather?

I slop two globs of soupy beans on each plate, followed by eggs, bread and aguacate. “Let me try the milk,” cry all four boys, thrusting their colored plastic cups in my direction. I drip a few drops in each cup, waiting for the verdict. “It’s really good,” Enrique says. I proceed to fill all four cups, and then try it myself. Gross. If I were to describe its flavor for a food magazine, this is what I would say; the Hogar’s warm soy milk has a sweetly rich undertone, and is often, as on days such as this, followed by an overpowering burnt flavor that sears the palette and mutilates the taste buds. There, a brief yet adequate description as to why I did not help myself to more.

I pry my stale roll apart and begin to make a sandwich. I smear on the avocado, beans and eggs and take a bite, conscious that as I bring the thing closer to my mouth and nose, I become more aware of the smell. I am instantly glad for my cold, wishing both of my nostrils were stuffed. I close my eyes, desperately trying to imagine I’m eating something else; raspberry flavored Yoplait yogurt and granola, Tropicana orange juice, pancakes and peanut butter and applesauce, waffles, anything to take my mind off of the disgusting sandwich in my hand. I stare across the table at Manuel. He’s happily slobbering all over his plate and asking for seconds.
There’s a week until Thanksgiving. This will be the first time in 22 years that I have not been with my family. I’m here with a bigger family. A family that drives me crazy, makes me angry, makes me cry, makes me laugh. . .

And as I sat here writing this, I found out that one of my fellow SMs was murdered on the island of Yap. Kristen Wolcott. And here I am writing about burnt milk and sloppy beans.

She went away this year with the same purpose as I did, to serve God. I feel unworthy. I feel guilty. I feel depressed. It’s times like these when I wonder what my purpose is. When does it begin, when does it end? Had hers ended? I don't like to ask questions, but it's definitely hard not to.

The post was supposed to be about being thankful. I have so much to be thankful for, despite my momentary lapses while eating sloppy bean breakfast sandwiches. . . and yet, now I feel the greatest gift I'm given is another day of life. Why her and not me? I don't know. I suppose this is a reminder and an incentive to work harder and be a better missionary.

Bus ride

2009-11-15T16:36:00.000-08:00

I sit on the brown bus seat and glance around. A small girl of about 7 or 8 years in a red shirt immediately catches my eye. She stares, I stare. The bus driver starts the engine and maneuvers us onto the street and on our way. The girl moves two seats in front of me, in front of a middle-aged couple with their arms draped around each other. My eyes move from the graffiti-plastered seat to the back of his gray-flecked hair and her bushy ponytail. He occasionally plants a tender kiss on her forehead or cheek and they seem content munching cookies with pink icing and sprinkles. For a split second the little girl smiles at me and arranges her arm on the windowsill and looks out. I look out too. The wind ruffles her chocolate brown hair and tugs at her brilliant blue and black-edged ponytail holder. The now familiar side streets of Santa Barbara fill my view. Are we seeing the same things, I wonder. We pass the market. A plump lady wearing an apron sits in her booth, surrounded by plantains, onions, potatoes and fruit. We pass a pulperia*, two, three, I lose count. We pass wizened old men with salt and pepper beards. We pass wooden electrical poles with pictures of people running for office. A certain Thelma for mayor grins at me from her plastic poster. I wonder if she would be smiling so widely if she knew her makeup looked like an overly frosted birthday cake. Salsa music flows around me like an ocean tide, pulling me under with each beat. Majestic mountain grandeur rises above the pathetic buildings, clouds and mountain tops meld together until there seems to be no separation between earth and sky. My eyes fall back to the filthy streets littered with empty plastic water bags and shiny candy wrappers that glint in the afternoon sun. Laundry hangs on makeshift lines in dirty yards. Mothers hold babies on their hips and an almost toothless old man smokes a cigarette. How long before all of this seems normal to me? How long before my life in the States seems like a forgotten dream? The bus slowly empties as we near our destination. The little girl gets off. I savor the air as we turn onto the main road and increase our speed. I’m conscious again, conscious of life whizzing by. But it was the little things that made the ride interesting; the overturned cardboard box and the diaper-clad baby, the old man in a straw hat with a bag slung over his back and a rusty machete clutched in his right hand. Who am I? Where am I going? Am I just an unsympathetic bystander, watching from my comfortable bus seat as the world suffers, struggles, groans, begs, dances, sleeps, eats, cries, laughs outside my window?

Be the change you want to see in the world.
-Mahatma Gandhi

*A pulperia is a tiny convenience store, usually connected to a person's home.

Temper Tantrums in E major

2009-11-07T19:56:00.000-08:00

I gaze at the goldenrod curtain and burnished pink walls on the platform and take in the off-tune singing and sea of plaid shirts. The plaid shirts are the result of kind and thoughtful donations by people who apparently don’t realize how painful a mass collection of plaid shirts can be on the eyes. I desperately hope the sparse arrangement of fans will chase away the sleepiness that threatens to drag me under. A violent tug of war between my English thoughts and the Spanish sermon ensues, and then another tugging begins. His little arms surge upward and before I have time to arrange myself in a ladylike manner, he’s on my lap.

Elias, 7, is my youngest boy. He’s almost permanently attached to my hip. . . leg. . . arm. . . neck. For some reason I have become a huge part of his life. He calls me Mami and is constantly begging for hugs and kisses. The problem is he’s also very, very, very disobedient. I have tried so many disciplinary tactics with him, but nothing seems to work. There are the early morning battles to wake up and shower, struggles to eat vegetables and finish what’s on his plate, and church. Oh, church.

It often starts out quite peacefully. He settles himself on my lap to draw and rearrange my hair, but then the long service begins and I dread the scene I know will unfold at any time. We make it through song service and prayer, but his impatience grows and he rattles the green plastic chairs. I shoot our neighbors embarrassed glances, the kind mothers give annoyed customers in the check-out line as their children whine for candy. I sternly tell him if he continues, I will take him outside. He gets angry and crawls under some chairs and throws papers on the floors. I’m stuck. If I talk to him again, I’m enforcing his negative behavior and he’s only doing it because he knows it will get my attention. He comes back to the row in front of me and pushes a little girl and another chair. I see that action must be taken and I swoop in like a hawk descending on its prey and swiftly walk outside. I’ve done this before and I’m quite prepared to do it again. I vaguely remember similar scenarios involving my father and I. There’s only one problem. *Patrick. He’s sitting in the back on one of the detestable green chairs watching me drag Elias out. Great, he’s going to come meddle. I inwardly grown. He’s quite good at it. In fact, he often meddles with my disciplinary tactics, and I struggle to remain silent while he butts in, assuming I’m not handling the situation well. I decide to take Elias right outside the doors, hoping that if Patrick can see him and me, he won’t feel the need to come investigate. I plop down and stare into Elias’ eyes. You know why I brought you out Elias? He looks down at his hands. Elias, you know that’s not how we behave in church. I begin to pray with him, despite his efforts to shrug me off. I tell him we’ll sit here until he’s ready to go back in. I give him five minutes. I tell him I’m ready and proceed to bring him along. He shakes his head. Elias, I’m going to count to five. If you’re not ready on five, I’m going to spank you. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro. . . cuatro y media. . . cinco. I spank him twice and wait for the soft crying to ensue. It’s like clockwork. I take him on my lap and begin to comfort him. It would probably have taken about one more minute for him to calm down and be ready to go back in. . .

And then, the sun ceases to shine. Patrick’s familiar shadow looms above us and I glance up angrily. He doesn’t want to go back into church? I explain the situation briefly and before I have a chance to finish my spiel, he drags him off my lap and leads him away. I fume. Meddler, I want to scream. I sit there and a few angry tears squeeze their way out. I walk back into church knowing there’s no way I’ll glean anything from the sermon now. Anger boils in my veins. It’s easy for him to discipline him, he only deals with him once a week. Try getting him up in the morning or making him brush his teeth. Try having him bang on your door while you’re trying to take a nap. Try making him do his chores or finishing his food. Try LIVING with him. I want to say all this while waving my freckled fist. Church ends and I’m about to sulk out, but before I can escape, Patrick is back with Elias. He sits down and tells Elias to apologize, coddling and coaxing him. Minutes tick by and I arrange my face in a pensive pout. People are leaving and the church is almost empty. I start to get up and tell Patrick Elias can apologize before lunch. Wait, he’s almost ready, he pleads. I sit down, glaring. Two more minutes pass and Elias looks around with no intention of apologizing. Honestly, I want an apology from Patrick, not from Elias. I grow impatient. Finally, Elias tumbles out an apology and Patrick shoots me a triumphant grimace. Yeah, great work. You got a kid to apologize after an hour, do you want a cookie? Did you make the atomic bomb too or invent the Internet? I charge out to the bus and get on.

I know I sound incredibly rude. I sound like a person you wouldn’t want working as a student missionary. In fact, I don’t even sound like a Christian. Over the course of writing this blog I hoped some magical lesson would unveil itself, yet none has. I’ve had a rough week. I had a difficult and embarrassing talk with one of the staff, which resulted in me crying in front of her and some of the kids. I got food poisoning and spent Thursday afternoon and night throwing up. And at church, where I thought I might find myself close to God again, I had another human moment. Oh, the joy of human moments. I bask in them daily here.

I am afraid I have a long way to go in my growth as a Christian. Sometimes I’m like Elias. I desire to be so close to God, to give him hugs and kisses and bang on His door until He answers, but when He doesn’t answer or He scolds me, I’m tempted to throw chairs around and make a raucous. I decided to reread one of my favorite Bible verses.

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.Psalm 73:26

This year I’m being tested. My flesh and my heart have failed me, and I need to learn to lean on my Father’s strength and not my own. My own cries out, my own gossips and is easily angered, but His, His is perfect. I wanted to give Patrick a piece of my mind, and probably would have if I’d had a chance. I want to yell at the kids and stomp my feet when the staff just don’t get it, it being my point of view. I want to jump on a plane and fly home. I want an easy button.

The journey continues. . .

*Name changed for privacy

Dad

2009-10-31T21:12:00.000-07:00

I am blessed. Not everyone can say they have two amazing fathers. I can.

Tomorrow my earthly dad is turning 57. At least I think that's the right age. My dad does a lot of things. He can change the oil in my car, make a bookshelf, build a house, preach a sermon [without notes] and play baseball. My dad likes peanut butter and onion sandwiches, hiking mountains, chopping wood, building things and mowing the lawn.

Dad, thank you so much for all of the love you've given me. I feel so blessed to have you as my father. I hope you have a wonderful birthday! And I promise to make you an apple pie when I come home :)

Book It

2009-10-23T08:52:00.001-07:00

Pebbles squeal in protest beneath my green flip flops as I stride heartily toward the Hogar. I thrust my legs forward like a sumo wrestler entering the ring, clenching my fists tighter and arranging my face in a calculated frown. It’s my Friday walk back from the high school; a two-mile trek that takes about a half hour. Cars and trucks fly by, horns blaring. I wish I had brought something more than the llama purse slung around my neck. Inside I have a few whiteboard markers and Burt’s Bees chapstick, which I know won’t be much good against an attacker. Maybe attacker sounds a little dramatic, but after passing a group of guys a few minutes back who hollered in English and Spanish, attacker is a plausible term. The morning haze evaporates into the azure sky. I gaze around me, taking in the green mountains and I am comforted. The bus stop is in sight, and from there the Hogar is even closer. I continue to pray and my steps are quick, but I am no longer afraid.

As the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the LORD surrounds his people both now and forevermore.
Psalm 125:2

Not only do I arrive unharmed, I cut five minutes off my time thanks to my agitated gait.

Snickers, Stickers and Kickers

2009-10-18T17:10:00.000-07:00

My eyes comb the room like an eagle stalking its prey. It’s 8:20 a.m., early enough that the heat hasn’t yet devoured my energy. Heads bow low over desks. A cacophony of sounds filters through the classroom, pens tap on desks, students shriek and laugh outside, birds and insects chirp and sing. I glance out the door at the gray concrete of another classroom and instead direct my gaze back inside. It’s amusing to think that just four and a half years ago, I was probably sitting at a desk taking a similar language exam, except in Spanish.

To think that learning Spanish would turn out to be so helpful. I wish I could convey that to my English students. Language can take a person so many places. I’m completely immersed in Spanish, sometimes so much so that I feel like I am drowning.

There are three things that help me maintain my sanity: Snickers, stickers and kickers.

Snickers. On a diet of oily rice, beans and bread, I am frequently craving sweets. Days off usually include a trip into town. There I reward myself with a Snickers bar. It does not matter to me that the chocolate is melted to the wrapper. I savor the richness with each bite and avoid looking at the calorie count on the label.

Stickers. I used to store stickers in a secret box in my room. When it was time to write a letter to a pen pal, I would slowly pull out the box and dig through piles of Lisa Frank’s blinding creations. I still have a special place in my heart for stickers. A sticker on a letter says, You’re special, You’re worth extra. My students love stickers too. They plaster their notebooks and desks with them. I’m not exactly sure how it began or how it begins, but it has become a trend. A student will approach me, reach up and slap a sticker on my shirt. A mass migration quickly begins to the front of the classroom. Students are prying stickers off of books and papers and proudly rushing to display them on me. It becomes a contest. Who will bring the biggest sticker or the most? I leave classes looking like a walking sheet of stickers. This also happens with other trinkets. I am often given cookies or treats from their lunch boxes, pictures, flowers, and any other thing they can scrounge up. It almost makes up for the screaming in class.

Kickers. I’m all about soccer. It’s refreshing to be in a country where the people take the sport seriously. It’s impossible to go anywhere without seeing at least 10 people sporting the national team jersey. While I haven’t played nearly enough since I’ve been here, it’s still fun to support “la H” [the national team] along with the 100 por ciento Catrachos [Hondurans]. I’ve even purchased a jersey to wear, which was met with mixed reactions. But when it comes down to it, I’m still 100 percent for my team, England. I could never bring myself to support some of the other famous teams like Argentina ;)

Go Green, Green-go, Gringo

2009-10-18T15:01:00.000-07:00

I have a shirt that says Go Green. The Hogar kids immediately decided it said gringo. . . For those of you who are as lost as I was, I have provided the following sequential explanation. . . Go Green, Green-go, Gringo.

I am tired of being a gringa. Let me provide you with a local definition: Someone to be stared, whistled, growled, howled and looked at. . . on the bus, on the street, in a store or restaurant. . . when the sun is shining, when it’s raining. . .

I and two of my enterprising volunteer friends were tired of being attacked from behind on our bus rides into town. When I say attacked, I mean massive invasions of personal space.

Let’s look at a real life example. One day we were riding back from town and I was sitting next to Ingrid, a German volunteer who was visiting the Hogar for a month. I felt something or someone touch my hair. Incredulous, I asked her if the guy behind me was really touching my ponytail. Really? She nodded. I leaned forward immediately, trying to put as much space between me and the dirty sketch ball. On his way out, he even put his hand on my shoulder, and it wasn’t the shoulder closest to him.

On another occasion, Laurel decided to joke with Amanda and play with her hair, reenacting the above scenario. Probably five seconds later, I glanced back to notice a large, dirty, fat, creepy hand moving toward the back of her head. I asked her, “Laurel, has anyone ever done that to you?” “Um, no,” she said. “Well, they’re about to,” I said with a suppressed laugh.

So, back to our ingenious idea. We now sit on the back of the bus, and I mean literally. We sit in the very last seats. One would think this has reduced or even eliminated the unwanted attention, but no. We are still subjected to the glazy, perverted glances.

Well, today I became a creeper.

It has been exactly 96 days since I have seen a cute guy. It has also been 96 days since I left the States and touched down on Honduran soil. We have every other Sunday off. Today we went into town to get our fill of junk food and a few supplies we needed. Our usual favorite restaurant was closed so we headed to the snazzier one down another street. Upon entering, we saw a kid eating a plate of french fries. I’d already eaten an ice cream and a smoothie, but french fries with KETCHUP? It was too much to resist. We sat down in the crowded restaurant and waited to order. There were a lot of buff, fit looking guys inside who all seemed to know each other. I told Laurel and Amanda they looked like a soccer team. The tables near us started to disperse as the guys headed to another part of the restaurant. “I wanna ask if they’re on a team,” I told the girls. “Do it,” Laurel said, as she jabbed her head at each one that passed. No one seemed to be going slow enough or looking in our direction and I was getting worried I wouldn’t have anyone to ask. I’m sure I looked like a Grade A creeper as I stared each one down. Finally the last guy made his way past our table . . . and lo and behold, he looked at us. I took the opportunity and ran with it. “So, are you guys on a soccer team,” I asked in Spanish. “Yeah,” he said, “Soccer,” as if to show off his extensive English vocabulary. It turns out they were from Real Juventud, the team from Santa Barbara.

I would just like to thank Mr. Real Juventud, because I did not have a chance to ask his name, for providing me with my first glimpse of a cute guy in 96 days. It didn’t hurt that he played soccer either.

Persevering to be endearing

2009-10-15T09:01:00.000-07:00

Being a missionary is easy, easily the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I mentally prepared myself as best as I could before I came to Honduras. I thought of as many difficult scenarios and situations as I could and imagined how I would magically solve them. I pictured what my room would look like and how I would introduce myself to my classes on my first day of teaching. Unfortunately the imagination falls short of reality or maybe it's the other way around. . .

Hours after arriving in Honduras, I had already helped move a family from their small, dirty dwelling. Their possessions fit into a few boxes and their furniture on the roof of Nelson’s car. Talk about contrast. The days and weeks that followed were filled with adjustments. I learned to check my bread for ants and to smell my beans in the morning before thrusting a hearty spoonful into my mouth. Gringa became my new middle name or first name on some occasions. I discovered that a minor in Spanish and hours of study and writing papers did not mean I could freely converse with anyone I wanted. As words fail me and my heart longs for home, I am learning to let God speak for me and to fill the emptiness with His peace and love. Oh how hard that is at times. The past two weeks I have struggled with my frustration. I have struggled with my temper. I have struggled with gossiping. I have struggled with my purpose.

Last Sabbath I volunteered to prepare the lesson. Of course I elected to wait until Sabbath morning to do it. On my way out the door I grabbed my Bible and Max Lucado’s "Everyday Deserves a Chance", an encouraging devotional-like book my friend Michelle indefinitely loaned me. As song service began, I frantically flipped through the book looking for some life-changing idea to share. I decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask for God’s guidance and He definitely delivered. In the next 15 minutes, I discovered a Bible verse that gave me my topic in the chapter Calling for Purposeless Days. Other verses followed as I was impressed to look up the word perseverance in the back of my Bible. Here is what I came up with:

TOPIC
Purpose + Perseverance

1.1 Corinthians 3:5-10 “. . . the Lord has assigned to each his task. I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God made it grow. So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow. The man who plants and the man who waters have one purpose, and each will be rewarded according to his own labor. For we are God’s fellow workers; you are God’s field, God’s building. By the grace God has given me, I laid a foundation as an expert builder, and someone else is building on it. But each one should be careful how he builds. For no one can lay any foundation other than the one already laid, which is Jesus Christ.”

--> This year I am realizing that I cannot compare workloads or talents. Working with the kids is not a popularity contest. God has sent each of the volunteers here for a purpose. He is going to use each one of us in different ways. Some of us may be building on the work of another volunteer. Some of us may be clearing the ground for a future volunteer. Some of us may never see the fruits of our labor. The important thing to remember is that we all have our own, specific purpose but that ultimately God is the only one who can bless our efforts.

2. Esther – The story of Esther has always been one of my favorites, ever since I was small. In fact, when I was younger I wished my name was Esther. My favorite part of her story is found in Esther 4:12-14. At first, Esther didn’t know God’s purpose for her, but in time He revealed it and because she accepted the challenge, He was able to work through her to save the Jews.

3. James 1:3, 12 “Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Blessed is the man who perseveres under trail, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him.”

--> Every time I am tempted to give up when I’m having a bad day at school or the kids are angry with me, I will remind myself of these verses. Not only has God given me a purpose here, but He also promises me that I will be rewarded and that the tests I’m going through now will develop perseverance.

4. Revelation 2:3 “You have persevered and have endured hardships for my name, and have not grown weary.”

--> I don’t think God means we won’t literally be tired, but more along the lines of we won’t give up.

5. Romans 5:2-5 “And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.”

--> I have found so much encouragement in these verses. There are days when I’m so emotionally spent. I am definitely not suffering, but I am struggling. Each struggle presents me with a decision, to press forward, to persevere, or to give up. I knew coming here was going to build my character, but I’m not sure I knew how difficult the process would be. What I love is that it says character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint. To me this verse paints a picture of a dark tunnel, but at the end of the tunnel is a brilliant light.

6. Hebrews 12:1-2, 12 “Therefore, strengthen your feeble arms and weak knees. Make level paths for your feet, so that the lame may not be disabled, but rather healed.”

--> I have already posted Hebrews 12:1-2 in a previous blog, but as I was rereading it, I stumbled on verse 12. I think this is one of my new favorite verses. It’s really simple yet powerful. The kids here at the Hogar have been through so much. They have so much pain and heartache; they have been abandoned and discarded; they are heartsick and in need of healing. Some days it’s very difficult to maintain my temper and attitude. However, this verse reminds me that I must be strong in Christ, so that my example will be uplifting and healing rather than harmful.

Max Lucado writes, “While none of us is called to carry the sin of the world (Jesus did that), all of us can carry a burden for the world.”

I have a burden for Honduras, for this Hogar, for these children. I just pray I will be constantly reminded of my purpose and ask for God’s perseverance.

Javier

2009-10-12T09:47:00.000-07:00

Individualism is rather like innocence: There must be something unconscious about it.

-Louis Kronenberger

*Photos taken by Miguel

Cheering for a better attitude

2009-10-09T08:51:00.000-07:00

A tornado of maroon and white uniforms whirls toward me. Tiny legs scurry to the black iron fence that separates the Kindergarten class and playground from the path to the Hogar. This flurry of excitement has become a part of my day. Happy voices clamor “Viene la teacher, viene la teacher,” and the cry of “Give me five” spreads along the fence like a piece of juicy gossip. Hands are thrust at me and a few brave souls clamber over, seemingly unaware that the fence is there to keep them inside. I feel like I’ve just finished the world’s longest marathon or discovered a cure for cancer. Some days the gate is left open and the children gush out to meet me, enveloping my frame in a moving hug of childish exuberance.

It’s moments like this that keep me going. This week I needed an attitude adjustment. There were a few days where I let my frustration and bitterness simmer inside of me until the ugly concoction began seeping into my actions and attitude. I felt frustrated with the staff, with the kids, with my surroundings, with my work, with myself. A wise person [my dad] once told me that being happy is a choice and that while we’d like to blame others for our shortcomings or poor attitude, we are the ones who are ultimately responsible.

One day after lunch this week I was helping Marta scrub pots in the kitchen. There had been a pan sitting under the sink for two days. I picked it up and watched as the amber colored water swirled around a few burnt plantains. It kind of looked like my attitude. I grabbed a scrubber and got to work. And thanks to some prayer and a conscious decision on my part, I started to scrub my attitude clean too. Of course that won’t be the last time I have to scrub a pot, or my attitude.
Changing my attitude was only difficult because I made it difficult. I indulged in my bitter thoughts and frustration for a few days, kind of like letting the burnt plantains sit in the dirty pan.
While I am sure the next six months hold plenty of challenges, I am determined to run the race Paul talks about in Hebrews 12:1-2.

“. . . Let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him, endured the cross. . .”

And not only do I have a few Kindergartners cheering for me, but the entire universe and my heavenly Father.

My life be like Ooh Ahh. . .

2009-09-30T15:56:00.000-07:00

The monotonous beeping of my alarm drones next to my ear. I rub my eyes, trying to erase yesterday’s troubled dreams and ready myself for another long day.

I melt beneath a fiery sun as I stand outside a classroom at the high school, giving an English reading quiz to a girl who stumbles over the unfamiliar words like a blind man on a rocky path.

“I’m going to count to 10,” I scream. “If you’re not out of the pool on 10, you’re not swimming tomorrow.” Kids start plowing through water like Michael Phelps on his way to a gold medal.

Tears trickle down his face as I carefully apply the baking soda paste to the welts on Enrique’s body. Enrique’s got chicken pox, but unfortunately for him, he´s 13, a lot older than most kids with pox.

Bertha drags the comb through my unruly hair. “I found one,” she exclaims. That makes four. I’m resigning myself to the fact that I will probably have lice on and off for the next six months.

An orange flies across the floor and a defiant Manuel glares at me from across the table. He´s angry because I punished him with only bread and water for breakfast.

I glance down at my legs. My feet are still dirty from playing soccer in the mud a few days ago and they´re covered in bug bites in various stages of healing. I`ve forgotten what a good hair day is like and what I look like with makeup on.

They´re simply out of control. It`s my first grade English class and I`m screaming at these hooligans at the top of my lungs. I drag three to the office.

“Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”

2 Corinthians 4:16-18

Some days are more difficult than others. Sometimes I wonder what I´m doing here.
This verse gives me strength and encouragement.

Too cool [cold] for school

2009-09-24T19:25:00.000-07:00

The kids here are too cool for school, but it’s definitely not a snow day.

I peer down at the foaming water beneath the bridge. Sunlight sparkles through tiny breaks in the thick foliage. My ears fill with the sound of water; water under attack as delighted children fling themselves from vines into its cool depths. Expectant faces turn upward, waiting, watching, wondering. I have cliff jumped before, but this seems much higher. I’m nervous, determined and slightly worried, worried about falling on the rocks at the base of the small waterfall. Laurel and Pablo [one of the teachers from the high school who often hangs out with the kids from the Hogar] join me, as well as two Honduran guys. They’ve parked their blue truck right behind us on the bridge, but insist that there’s enough room to jump. As if to prove their point, they count to three and leap, clearing the rocks below and bobbing to the surface as the current begins to drag them toward the river. A few minutes pass and Pablo jumps. I can’t think about it anymore. Before my mind has a chance to catch up, I send my body over the edge. Seconds feel like minutes; the air binds me in a protective cocoon, but gravity’s greedy fingers wrench me free and my body hits the water with a definitive bang. I wriggle to the surface and wipe water droplets from my eyes, reaching for the rocks on the shore. I am satisfied.

Honduras doesn’t have snow days, they have political days. School is cancelled when a toque de queda [curfew] is issued. We didn’t have classes for two days because Zelaya made a stealthy return into Tegucigalpa on Monday and because of unrest there, a nationwide curfew was issued. In other news, the pool turned a slimy green and had to be drained, which meant that when the kids were stuck at the Hogar with nothing to do, we had to find somewhere to cool off. The river was the next best thing.

Why did the river suddenly become better than the pool? The answer is simple. The pool had gone a few days without chlorine. The heavy rains had washed in dirt and leaves and grimy children had forgotten to wash their feet before jumping in. The filters in the pool had become clogged. Algae began to grow, slowly at first, but then faster and faster. The pool was no longer refreshing, it had become stagnant and ugly. I think our minds are like the pool. If we don't constantly add new ideas and thoughts [chlorine], they become slimy and stagnant. If our filters stop working and we let leaves and bugs [bad thoughts, words, images, sounds] clog our pipes, the water [our life] will no longer be precious. The river's constant motion and influx of new water [ideas] keeps the water clean and pure. I want my life to be a river, not a stagnant, slimy pool.

And I'm definitely too cool for school. I'm counting down the weeks until vacation.

Loco for Coco

2009-09-20T20:15:00.000-07:00

Coconuts falling, children calling, the sights and sounds are quite appalling.

It’s coconut season. Children migrate to the coconut palm-lined driveway with machetes and kitchen knives. Coconut husks fly as skilled hands hack away the useless skin. The afternoon sun’s lazy rays filter through the trees, cloning shadows of the lofty palms on the stark gray of the driveway. Heads tip back, allowing sweet juice to quench parched throats. Eager hands pry apart tough skin, revealing tasty meat that satisfies hunger.

The kids here are like coconuts. Many of them have a tough outer skin and sometimes getting them to open up takes a lot of work. I like to think that my time and patience act as a knife. I hack away at their tough exterior for awhile until they let me see who they really are. Life's rains and storms have hardened their skin and soured their flavor, but inside there is a heart waiting to be reached, waiting to be told it has value.

I've become close friends with one of the older girls. She's 15 years old and has lived at the Hogar for almost a year. Sometimes we joke around. Sometimes we sit and look at the stars. Sometimes we talk about boys. Sometimes she tells me what's on her heart. Today she came to my room to talk. She told me she wanted to leave the Hogar, that she wasn't happy here. I told her how special she is and that she can't let her painful past stop her from fighting for a bright future. I told her over and over that God has amazing plans for her and reminded her how special and unique she is. By the time I was done talking to her, she'd begun to cry.I asked her if she wanted to pray with me and she didn't answer. I sent up a silent plea that God would help me say something right. When I opened my eyes, tears were sliding down her cheeks and pooling in her lap. I felt my own eyes beginning to water as I put my arms around her. My knife had done it's work well. She had shed her tough outer skin and let me see her heart. I realized something though. God can use us to reach others, but sometimes we have to let him do the rest. My knife can peel away the exterior, but it takes the Master Carver to carefully extract the meat that's inside and make it edible again.

Precious Lucy Kuntz

2009-09-17T21:38:00.001-07:00

I was 3 years old when we brought her home. There was an ad in the paper for free kittens and my parents took my brothers and me to choose one. Precious and her sister Sunshine both needed a home, but we could only take one. I can’t remember why, but the decision was easy and during the next 19 years, I never regretted choosing her. Precious Lucy Kuntz immediately settled into her place in our family. She was so energetic that she would tear around our two-story house at night until the early hours of the morning. What she enjoyed most was touring her vast estate, our 80-acre West Virginia property. Her chief responsibility was to catch mice, but that was just to keep my dad off her back. She spent most of her time catching mice outdoors rather than indoors and sleeping. She was so loyal. After she was spayed, we brought her home feeble and groggy and put her at the bottom of the stairs in a basket. In the morning we found she had dragged herself all the way up the stairs to sleep in my room with me.

I found in her a friend and playmate; a companion to keep away the scary dreams and shadows in my room at night and someone to talk to when no one else seemed to understand. I dressed her up in scarves and hats and carried her around in baskets, but she never complained, other than an occasional scratch. During the next few years we moved a few times and had a few dogs die, but Precious kept going strong. One time she disappeared for a few days and we thought she had been killed by a wild animal on one of her hunting sprees. Tears were shed and prayers were said but I’d given up hope. On the fourth day, she came back. A neighbor told us they’d seen her get hit by a semi-truck, but somehow she’d survived and after recovering enough to walk, had come home.

We grew older together. She played less and ate more. My mom spoiled her with every kind of special cat food available. . . So much for catching mice. She loved to sit in windows and watch what was going on outside. She adored sleeping in baskets and on warm beds and fresh laundry. The years seemed to fly by. When I was 7, my best friend and I threw our pets birthday parties. For Precious’ birthday, we invited our friends and planned games and activities. While we were all outside playing, Precious snuck onto the table and devoured her birthday cake [a whole can of cat food]. Through the years she was given many nicknames: Preshie, Poohbears, Stinkerpoo, Roo Poo, Presh Poo, Stinkerbums [my personal favorite].

I supposed we all knew it was coming. She was 19 after all, which is pretty old for a cat. She was having trouble with her kidneys and had an infection in her teeth, but the vet seemed to think she still had some pep left. I mean, cats have nine lives right? Unfortunately her aging body wasn’t able to sustain her fiery spirit any longer. When I called my parents today, my dad broke the news.

No one truly understands the loss of a loved one except those who loved.
I don’t like cats, but I loved Precious.

Lemon[s ][from] Heaven

2009-09-16T21:55:00.000-07:00

A tiny drop of blood formed on my right index finger as I let the branch snap back into place. What does blood have to do with lemons? I’m a journalist. If it bleeds, it leads.

The kids have vacation this week. Vacation might generally imply a time of rest, relaxation, fun and excitement, but the Hogar kids began theirs with a punishment. They had to clear a huge portion of field between the Hogar and the school, with machetes, by hand.

On Monday, Laurel [the latest volunteer at the Hogar and friend from Southern] and I decided to make lemonade to take to the kids working outside. Unfortunately one does not simply open a cupboard and take out a mix here. Due to the unlucky circumstance that there were no lemons in the kitchen, we were forced to walk down to the school to see if there were any on the trees there. Let me clarify that the lemons on these trees are large and in charge. Not only are they obnoxiously big, the branches are thorny. Of course all of the ripe lemons were near the top of the tree. Laurel was able to knock a few down with rocks and I picked a few by hand, which is how I cut myself. By the time we decided we’d gotten all we could, we were sweaty, tired and defeated. We gathered our meager harvest into a box and began trudging back up the hill to the Hogar. I lamented to Laurel that I was afraid we wouldn’t have enough lemons. Half-jokingly I told her it would be awesome if we had a loaves and fishes experience. I kid you not, but two second later, Nelson, who was standing in front of Txus’ [one of the staff who lives between the school and the Hogar], house talking with someone, stopped us. He looked at our box and then reached down and picked up two bags full of small lemons. I told him we were going to make lemonade for the kids, but he just nodded and kept on talking like he'd known all along.

I know it wasn’t a coincidence. I know God had those lemons waiting for us. We were able to make more than enough lemonade. We squeezed the juice by hand and I mixed it with water, sugar and orange juice. It tasted really good and the kids were so happy for a treat later that afternoon.

And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work.
2 Corinthians 9:8

Sweaty Betty

2009-09-13T18:19:00.000-07:00

Monster balls of sweat coagulate on my nose and neck. The merciless Honduran sun pierces my eyes and ravages my skin. It’s been 20 minutes and I’ve only cleared a small section of grass. Sweat is pooling in my thick, over sized rubber boots. I desperately grasp the slippery handle of my machete and take another swing. Voices float above the tall grass, tangling with each hearty blade. I wipe my eyes on my shirt and they begin to sting. My nose, inspired by my sweat glands, is running Olympic-style down my face. I feel the sun’s sinister fingers reaching for my delicate skin. Secretly I am glad that soon I must leave to open the pool. I methodically launch the blade of my machete into the insubordinate grass. This grass isn’t the innocent, velvety golf course variety; this is juvenile detention center material, the don’t-mess-with-me-or-I’ll-pop-you-one kind. I grit my teeth with each swing, grabbing the handle now with both hands. My pitiful contribution is laughable, but no one says anything. The kids have been out here all morning, all week, all month. They’ve probably cleared more grass by hand than I’ve mowed on my dad’s riding mower. They come to me for Band-Aids, to cover their blisters and calluses, their hands worn raw from hours of hard labor. Even Elias, who is 7 years old, helps clear land every afternoon. Not only is this machete business hard work, it’s dangerous.

Today a scary thing happened. Cindy, one of the girls at the Hogar, was clearing brush with her machete and cut her knee. I didn’t see it happen or see the initial cut. When I walked out of my room for lunch I was shocked at the crowd gathered around a few seated figures. Nelson, the man who started the Hogar in 1996, was bent over Cindy. I didn’t hear her cry or scream, even though he’d just injected a strong dose of pain killers and was stitching the cut closed with a needle and thread. After lunch she was back in the kitchen washing dishes. Please show me an American girl who would be back at work less than an hour after her leg was sliced open. This afternoon I gingerly peeled away her bloody bandages to put on fresh gauze. Course, black thread zigzagged across her knee like the trail of a runaway horse. No tears, just a face scrunched in pain and discomfort. I wanted so badly to make her feel better, but there was not much I could do.

While her accident frightened a few, they had no choice but to continue to clear the field after lunch, and that’s when I joined them for a measly 20 minutes. I returned to my room plastered in sweat and sporting an ugly sunburn. I hated every second of it, but I am determined to do it again soon.

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.
-Matthew 11:28

J-o-y

2009-09-09T21:44:00.000-07:00

Joy is not in things; it is in us.
-Richard Wagner

Sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, but sometimes your smile can be the source of your joy.
-Thich Nhat Hanh

Malformed Thoughts

2009-09-09T20:40:00.000-07:00

- Written Monday 9/7/09 -

His eyes dart back and forth, searching for a place to rest his anxious gaze. Tiny, malformed legs dangle beneath the table like discarded Twizzlers and a pair of greedy hands scours the plate for food. I firmly nudge them back onto his lap and scoop another mouthful of rice and beans into his mouth. Con cuchara, I tell him. Just then, from across the table, another pair of hands has lost hold of a cup, and dark red juice is splattering everywhere. I drop the spoon and run for a towel, but it’s too late. Christian is wetter than a soggy muffin and meanwhile Luis is eagerly devouring the remainder of his food with his grubby hands. Two seats down, Elias is reaching for the pitcher of juice and Javier is asking for more bread, while Enrique proceeds to touch every piece of watermelon on the table. Kids are filtering out of the comedor on their way to school and dishes are clattering in the kitchen and my mind is desperately rejecting the sights and sounds around me. Why do I get stuck with them? I selfishly ask myself.

They’d been here all weekend, three brothers who showed up at the Hogar with nothing more than a pile of clothes. When I walked into the boys’ room on Friday afternoon to help finish cleaning, I was surprised to find it full of strange faces. I was told that Oswaldo, Luis and Christian were to stay with us all weekend. I already have my hands full with 10 boys, and now there were three more. That wasn’t all, two of them couldn’t walk properly and all of them seemed slightly slow. So, for the rest of the weekend, we all took turns carrying them, feeding them, washing them and putting them to bed. I had Sunday off and even though I fed them a few times on Sabbath and this morning, I hadn’t done much else. Yet I was still bothered. I was still afraid their family had left them here for good and wouldn’t be returning for them. I still feigned busyness when I saw kids coming my way with them.

Luis’ sneeze brings my attention back to the table. He wipes a glob of green mucous away from his nose with the back of his hand and stares at me intently, awaiting help. I sigh and go back to the kitchen again for another cloth. After the table is finally cleared, I head into the kitchen to help Andrea before I have to teach. It’s Green Bean Monday, and I glance occasionally at the clock on the wall to make sure I won't be late for class. The sound of wailing grates on my ears and before I can escape or decline, Luis is back in the kitchen on the floor. Andrea is talking cheerily to him, and all I can do is glare. Where are his parents? I secretly gripe. Why aren't they coming? I glance down at his ugly legs, my mind churning with exasperation.

Once again I'd failed to love as I should. My thoughts were more useless and ugly than his malformed legs.

Lord, give me strength to love.

"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames,but have not love, I gain nothing."

[1 Cor 13:1-3]

Unsalted Rice

2009-09-05T15:15:00.000-07:00

My throat is a sore loser. That's right, I'm sick again. I've been trying to think of an interesting blog all week, but unfortunately my thoughts aren't flowing as well as the mucous in my nose. I suppose I will just list a few of the most recent developments at the Hogar.

#1 Two volunteers arrived on Wednesday from PUC. We are expecting at least one more volunteer in the next week or so.
#2 I have moved back into my old room. Goodbye dark and sweltering cave, hello fresh air and windows.
#3 I have passed the 7th week mark.
#4 I have figured out how to take a hot shower.

Today is Sabbath. Even though I am very grateful for Sabbath, it's not the same here. I don't actually get to rest. I still have to wake up the kids, help with meals, do an afternoon ministry, and put the kids to bed. The church service is as bland as a bowl of unsalted rice, and this Sabbath I'm sick, which makes everything slightly less enjoyable. Unsalted rice. . .

"You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt has become tasteless, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled under foot by men."
-Matthew 5:13

Today I feel like I've lost my flavor, but it's not just today. This week there were so many times when I felt inadequate and flavorless. I see the need around me and I tremble with shame at my minuscule contribution. Life is like a giant pot of rice. Hundreds of tiny grains represent people, blending together as their troubles burn beneath them. We have been called to flavor the pot, but I think we have forgotten to let the Cook measure the salt. Christ's love is the salt that brings the flavor. I myself am not capable of bringing flavor or taste to those around me, but if I allow Christ to fill me with His love, then I regain my flavor. Right now I'm tasteless and can't help these kids or people on my own. The lesson I'm learning this year is to let Christ/the Cook handle my shortcomings and turn my small contribution into something flavorful and useful.

I'm going to take a nap now and hope I wake up cured. . . Dream on, and I will.

Hey cucaracha, I´m comin´for ya

2009-08-30T19:54:00.000-07:00

I committed a murder last night, and it was premeditated.

As I stumbled into the bathroom and flicked on the light,a brown object scurried across my sink. If the boys hadn´t been sleeping, I might have screamed, but I swallowed my disgust like a spoonful of overcooked broccoli, and assessed the situation. I was unarmed. The cockroach was big and when I approached it, raced behind the sink where I could not smash it. Brilliant. I looked around for a weapon, but didn´t see anything. . . Until I noticed the half-empty bottle of purple, scented bathroom cleaner. I grabbed the bottle and began to pour its contents behind the sink onto the unsuspecting creature. I grabbed the empty bottle and knocked the cockroach onto the floor. Grimacing, I finished the job. Crunch The sound of its untimely death was akin to taking a bite of cereal. I would say the deed was done in under two minutes, but I can´t really be sure. I was so disturbed and shocked that I temporarily lost track of time. This marks my first solo kill. I had assisted in a cockroach kill within my first week here, but never alone and unarmed. I have survived to tell the tale and am ready to defend my room at a moment´s notice.

Drumroll please

2009-08-26T19:41:00.000-07:00

The rhythmic pounding continues to drone outside the windows, each beat thundering into the classroom and bouncing off the walls and into my ears. I hear my voice cracking, but I refuse to surrender my vocal chords to the enemy. I’m in the Lord’s army, yes sir. I’m in the Lord’s army. . . I find myself screaming the words, and with the drums in the background, it really does seem like we are in the middle of a battlefield.

It’s my fourth class of the day, second grade, and it’s almost over. I can taste the delicious patties and sauce we’ll be having for lunch, but first I have to get through this song. The kids have been rowdy. I have tried everything to keep my students on task, but sometimes it seems pointless because there are drums outside and screaming children inside. Before second grade, I had first. Today one of the boys called me the P word in Spanish, the worst one. A FIRST grader! I had to send another one to the office on probably his 20th offense of the day. Even on their good days, they’re bad, but today was one of their bad days, which meant they were out of control.
12:15. I finish class with a prayer and it’s over, until tomorrow. November can’t come soon enough. Why? November is when their summer vacation starts and I will have three months of peace, well, not quite. When I finish school a different sort of chaos ensues. There is food to be served, plates to be washed, chores to be supervised, a pool to be cleaned. . . I've been here six weeks now. One minute I want to box my boys by the ears [I actually still do not completely understand this expression, but it sounds violent so I'm going to use it] and the next I've resigned myself to hugging them.

We're getting two more volunteers next Wednesday. . . and maybe one more soon after that. God is good. I will survive, even if my vocal chords take a beating and my hair falls out [I rip it out].

Thoughts from the bottom of the oatmeal pan

2009-08-24T19:29:00.000-07:00

The indiscernible words tangle with a familiar melody, the sounds floating through the sticky kitchen as I impatiently clean green beans. Leti is singing again. It’s Monday morning, the start to another predictable week at the Hogar. Everything about my life here has become predictable. I wake up at 5:15 every morning, and get out of bed at 5:30, just in time to drag the world’s sleepiest boys out of bed. After showers and devotions, we eat breakfast. I could probably survive here without a calendar or clock. I can tell you what day of the week it is based on what we’re eating. After breakfast, sometimes I stay in the kitchen to help Andrea, the cook, until I teach. Monday is one such day. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m still full of slightly burnt oatmeal or because it’s barely 7:30 and already sweltering, but I feel crabby. And Leti is singing. She sings every morning while she wipes the tables. When she’s not singing, she’s asking me questions from halfway across the dining hall in her warbled voice. Most of the time I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I have discovered a trend in topics, even if the transitions are random. One minute she’s telling me about Christmas, and then BAM, we’re talking about babies and how they like to soil their diapers. I stick to safe responses, usually ‘yes’ works quite well. I say yes because if she’s just asked me a question and I didn’t understand it, she’ll think I did and move on anyway. If she just made a statement, and I agreed with her, she’ll be happy. It’s a win-win situation.

I continue to clean the beans, wishing I could drown out Leti’s voice. I’m not sure what is worse, her singing or her incessant chatter. I guess I should clarify something first. Leti is mentally handicapped in some way. Unfortunately everyone here just says she’s crazy, but that’s a very shallow diagnosis. She just turned 27 years old, but this would not be obvious to the casual observer. She has to be directed in everything she does. She drives Andrea nuts every day because she always runs off before she’s done. She also has a mean streak. She’s been known to get in fights with the other girls. Just two weeks ago she and another girl got into a fight at the sink. It wasn’t like they just started to scream at each other, no, they were pulling hair and clawing each other’s faces and arms. Leti also once gave an unsolicited buzz cut to a girl while she was sleeping.

My desire to escape makes me work faster. I’m ashamed of my thoughts; even though they don’t leave my lips, they leave a bad taste in my mouth. My attitude and thoughts are kind of like the bottom of the oatmeal pan, burnt and ugly. They may be hidden from sight, but all it takes is a little stir of the spoon and their bitter essence pollutes the rest of the pot or my day.

We’ve been studying about love in our Sabbath School quarterly. I find it fairly easy to talk about loving people when I’m sitting in the shade on Sabbath morning, but it’s a different story when Monday morning rolls around and I’m faced with putting those words into actions. This is the ultimate challenge for me this year, loving. I want my love to fill those around me like a good bowl of oatmeal, but the challenge is making sure I don’t let my thoughts burn on the bottom. I’m going to start with Leti.

Sounds of the night

2009-08-22T19:45:00.000-07:00

I just made two of my boys sleep out on the porch by themselves. First time I´ve had to do it, or maybe I should say it is the first time I went through with it. There´s only so much accomplished with talking and counting. I mean business kiddos. I guess they should have noticed my SWAT shirt or the way I was brandishing my flashlight. In all seriousness though, I don´t like being serious, but it has to be done. They are all in need of a good lesson.

This blog is now concluded.

Mud Brick Mansion

2009-08-15T19:34:00.000-07:00

I could feel the sun’s smoldering breath on my neck as we trudged along the uneven dirt street. For some reason I had agreed to walk home from church with Cindy and Damaris, two of the young girls from the Hogar, even though I was tired. We passed dirt houses with crooked wooden fences and half starved dogs in the shade. I tried not to stare, but brightly colored laundry caught my eye, poverty's meager flags of surrender. I clutched my Bible tightly, my other hand caught in Damaris' sweaty grasp. We had taken this back way so we could stop by Cindy's house. Even though both of her parents are alive and live within five minutes of the Hogar, they are not able to take good care of her.

It was only coincidence that my eyes fell on the neatly printed sign on one of the houses. It read, "Jesús es mi Pastor. Con Él, nada me faltará," which translates to, "Jesus is my Shepherd, with Him I will lack nothing." There were no fancy cars in the driveway, in fact they didn't even have a drive way. This wasn't Better Homes and Gardens material. Faded flowery curtains hung limply in the window of the mud brick structure. I sighed. By most standards, maybe by American standards, this family was definitely lacking. In fact, I was quite certain they lacked running water and electricity, not to mention the house consisted of no more than two rooms. They even lacked grass in their tiny yard. Images of over-sized houses and yards came to mind as I pictured homes I'd seen in the States. I can imagine conversations floating out of airy windows, conversations about needing to pick up more mayonnaise from the store or buying a bigger washer [because the one they already have can't hold all the clothes the family goes through in one day]. I can imagine kids complaining at the supper table because they don't like the food and mothers scraping uneaten platefuls into large trashcans overflowing with waste.
With Him I will lack nothing. My mind flashed back to reality. Who is really lacking? Is it the family who goes to sleep at night on empty stomachs or the one that can't sleep because they've eaten too much? Is it the one who can count their possessions on two hands or the one who needs more hands to carry the contents of their overflowing garage to storage?

Are you lacking?

One Fine Day

2009-08-11T09:19:00.000-07:00

Day off. Sunday. Soccer game. Muddy field.

This old man,he played FOUR; He played knick-knack on my door.

2009-08-11T08:25:00.000-07:00

I can't believe it's been FOUR weeks since I've been at the Hogar. In a sense, I feel like I've lived here forever, but if this is forever, then I guess I'm pretty old. I feel like I'm caught in a spider web, clinging to delicate threads of sanity, while the world around me spins in unpredictable chaos. I find my sanity in the simple things, like my morning walk to school.

The air is still cool, untainted by the searing heat of mid-day. I clutch my folder tightly, glancing occasionally at the narrow, rocky path beneath me. The path kind of reminds me of the one Ellen White dreamed about. Instead of worrying about falling into an abyss, I watch out for centipedes and snakes. I inhale the strong odor of burning paper from the trash pile on my left, and my ears take in the steady singing of an insect choir. Cars and trucks purr and rumble in the distance, and the sound of children's voices grows louder as I near the school. I am surrounded by green; vegetation's last stand with civilization. I glance at the sky, an intense blue that mocks Crayola's feeble attempts to capture nature in a box. Fluffy clouds dance above the coconut palms and towering green jungle. Here I escape; here I forget that in a few minutes I will be standing before a room of loud children; here I forget that I'm hundreds of miles away from the ones I love dearly; here I forget yesterday's shortcomings; but it is here that I also remember. I remember to cast my cares upon Jesus and acquire peace.

The bell rings and children tumble out of classrooms like water cascading over a precipice. My reverie is broken, but I will retain this quiet peace throughout my day.

determined to deal

2009-08-03T19:24:00.002-07:00

If life is a game of cards, then I'm determined to deal. Some days we get a great hand, and we think life's quite grand, but all too soon we stumble, and we're left feeling humble. Today was one of those days.

I'm not a big fan of change. Once I get accustomed to a situation, I don't like having to start over somewhere else. I liked my room. I enjoyed the cool breeze that blew in through the windows in the evening. I liked the colors on the wall; my books were neatly stowed on my shelves, my clothes folded in smart stacks. I even had Internet, when it was on, at my fingertips. Today everything came crashing down around me like a house of cards in a hurricane [I think this line is from a movie or song so I totally can't take credit], and I had to deal. Two of the other volunteers went back to Germany, which meant Amanda and I were to assume their duties. For me that meant I had to take care of the boys, supervise chores, clean/supervise the pool, in addition to teaching. Oh yeah, and move from my old room to a dark, hot and loud room connected to the boys'. I knew I couldn't put it off anymore, so after I finished teaching, I lugged all of my things to my new room. It was a struggle, an internal struggle. I wanted to protest, to whine, to yell, to feel sorry for myself. I admit it probably sounds ridiculous, but it was a rough day. Each day presents similar challenges as well. Some of the kids are a handful. They test my patience on a regular basis. I have to bite my tongue, or on other occasions, use it frequently to make sure things get done. I don't like telling people what to do, but that's one of my responsibilities now.

When suppertime comes, I breathe a sigh of relief. That means the day is almost at an end. After cleanup and devotions, it's time to put the boys to bed. I made a chart today with their names on it and have promised them that if they behave well, shower and do their chores, they will get a star. If they earn enough stars, they will get a prize. They all seemed pretty motivated. It's amazing what an incentive will do. So despite the fact that I had to move, that my room is hot and has no windows, that Manuel brushed my hair with a dirty comb that probably had lice on it, that I got scolded for reading the kids a bedtime story, that Marta called me a bad name in Spanish and constantly disrespects me. . . despite those things, I will deal. But, I don't want to just deal, I want to learn to play my hand well. . . or as the Bible puts it, "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest." [Ecclesiastes 9:10]. So, I'll deal, play my hand well [do everything I can, however small, to help], and I won't settle for a loss. Let me define what I mean by that. I don't mean everything will always go my way, or that I'll do everything right, get rewarded all the time, or feel like a winner. . . I'm talking about a long term win :)

rainforest ramble

2009-08-01T19:04:00.000-07:00

Thick vegetation carpets the slippery jungle slope, each green plant laden with droplets of water. The trail steepens and I find myself doubling over, traversing my way through nature's greatest obstacle course. My lungs cry out for more of the cool, fresh mountain air. I am forced to stop and catch my breath a few times but finally I reach the top. I join the others on the roof of an abandoned house and we take in the view.

I love Sabbath here. Today after lunch a group of us drove part way up one of the mountains, where we parked and then hiked the rest of the way. Thankfully it had rained and cooled things off. At times the trail was really steep and slippery, but we had some good laughs on the way up and down. A few of the kids took off their shoes and flip flops for better traction. I am definitely out of shape, but the hike was worth it. When we got to the top the view was amazing. We could see the rain clouds in the distance, and as we hiked back down, it began to pour. It felt amazing though. We all piled into the back of the truck, and lightening flashed in the distance as darkness began to fall. The girls started singing, and soon the boys joined in. At that moment I tried to think if there was somewhere else I would rather be, but I knew in my heart there wasn't. Here I was, thousands of miles from home, yet surrounded by a small family, brought together by pain and heartache, but fortified and strengthened by one Father. Their voices rose, a sweet harmony of happiness drowning out their past sorrows. It was truly beautiful and a moment I will cherish.

Now I am very tired. I'm wearing a sweatshirt, something I never thought would happen while I was in Honduras :)

TGIF

2009-07-31T08:49:00.000-07:00

Duña and Rosita, two adorable sisters at the Ihnfa.
Juan Angel and Oscar.
A double rainbow we had last week at the Hogar.

Will try to take more pictures and post soon.

Peanut Butter Bliss

2009-07-30T23:03:00.000-07:00

Hanging out with some of the kids at the Ihnfa. L to R: Oscar, Juan Angel and Toño. Toño and Oscar are brothers and two of my favorites.

Cindy and I on our way down the the Escuela for a celebration a week ago. She's one of the girls from the Hogar and in my 3rd grade class.

With Suyapa and Licha, two girls at the Ihnfa.

My little troublemakers. . .

I'm up entirely WAY later than I should be; however, while I miraculously have Internet in my room. . . and mind-bogglingly fast Internet. . . I just wanted to share what a wonderful day I've had. I've had a rough week. I have been sick since Monday, which made me feel pretty crummy. My day had all sorts of little things to make it special, and because lists are another thing I enjoy, I'm going to list them.

#1 I treated myself to a mora smoothie/slushie after finishing at the Ihnfa. Mora is a fruit that's similar to a blackberry and there happens to be a small bakery in St. Barbara that sells the most delicious mora smoothies EVER.

#2 I bought myself two jars of peanut butter. . . of the crunchy variety, which happens to be my favorite. Supper was sparse so I grabbed two rolls of bread, which was fresh out of the oven and did NOT taste of soap or have any ants on it, and headed to my room to slather it with peanut butter. Such a treat.

#3 It rained this afternoon and left things so cool, at least 10 degrees cooler, maybe more. This evening I sat outside and talked with some of the kids in the delicious evening air.

#4 I was able to purchase double the minutes for my phone today for the regular price, a special they do every now and then.

#5 I had so much fun helping to put the boys to bed tonight. I read to Elias, the youngest who is such a cutie and full of energy, from The Cat in the Hat [Spanish]. I used different voices for each character, and he loved it. I call him my little Rana, frog in Spanish, because he's always jumping all over the place and trying to get a piggyback ride.

#5 I haven't had Internet in my room for a few days, so after asking to use the really slow Internet in the library, I came back to my room to find I had Internet here. . . and it was FAST! Faster than it has been since I've been here. So fast I was finally able to upload a few pictures. . . and

#6 I was able to chat with a few friends tonight, which was such an unexpected and pleasant surprise.

#7 Tomorrow is Friday.

#8 My cold is gone. . . as of this afternoon.

#9 I feel like no matter how rough this week was at times, God kept giving me small reminders of how much He cares about me. . . and today was just full of them.

Will write more later. . . but tomorrow I will be very sorry for my late night. . . or maybe that will be my students :)

-Hannah

hope for soap-less food

2009-07-27T08:37:00.000-07:00

It's Monday, July 27, 2009 and the start to another week. I'm hungry and sick. Breakfast consisted of a roll with avocado and some watermelon. I can't wait for lunch but first I have to teach two more classes.

Mood: Sick [Cold]
Craving: PEANUT BUTTER!
Liking: Helping the older kids learn guitar and talking with them about soccer/life/school.
Hating: Soapy-tasting bread/food.
Hoping: Not to get lice.
Wishing: More staff were coming.
Thankful for: The cooler weather.

ant farm

2009-07-24T06:40:00.000-07:00

It all begins with a stinging sensation, an intense searing burn that quickly turns into an itchy welt. Ant bites. I first experienced these while hanging out laundry and have endured many more attacks since then. These aren't fire ants, in fact, they're small, black and quite harmless looking, until they bite. They're everywhere. If there's a piece of food on the floor, an army will quickly form, legions of ants devouring every crumb. They also happen to like the bread rolls they serve here. Every meal we get a bowl of bread and before eating a piece, it's wise, and actually necessary to brush off the ants. Most of the kids bang the bread on the table to shake them off. I'm not a huge fan of the bread to begin with. It's often hard or stale and tastes kind of soapy. If I do eat it, I usually put beans on it to dull the taste.

I'm very glad today is Friday. Yesterday the kids had a field trip so I didn't have to teach classes. I stayed at the Hogar to care for the younger ones who weren't able to go and watched them swim at the pool. I even put some of the smaller ones on my shoulders and threw them off, which they loved. I am now quite red from these adventures.

Things around Santa Barbara seem quite calm; however, Erika and Christy, two girls who volunteered here awhile ago and visit every year, just returned from Utila. On the way they encountered various police blocks, especially in San Pedro. They also had a very scary experience on the way back when their bus was stopped by police. The men were thrown off the bus at gunpoint, and even though the Honduran women were allowed to stay on the bus, Erika and Christy were thrown off with the men. Erika said they were very frightened, especially because they saw a policeman reload his gun without putting the safety on. Thank God they arrived back here safely and unharmed. It's hard to tell exactly how dangerous the situation is because the Hogar is located in the mountains, and seems relatively sheltered. The reality is that the country is in desperate need for peace.

This reminds me of a quote I like by Sam Adams, "It does not require a majority to prevail, but rather an irate, tireless minority keen to set brush fires in people's minds." Just like it only takes one ant to cause me extreme discomfort, so it only takes a few people to stir up strife and discord in a country. Pray for peace.

three blind lice

2009-07-22T06:49:00.000-07:00

I have a phobia of lice. I've never had them before in my life, it's just never been a priority on my to-do/to-get list. At least until I came to Honduras. Yesterday when I was working at the Infa I had an up close and personal encounter. It was time for devotional so all the kids gathered round on the floor to listen. I sat next to two girls, and one of them couldn't sit still. She kept scratching herself and wiggling everywhere. Finally I took a good look at her and noticed the poor thing was infested with lice. I mean, there were lice crawling on her head and lice eggs as well. It was gross. It was all I could do to hold in a scream and jump 20 feet in the opposite direction. I sat there for the following 15 minutes with great difficulty. I felt itchy and I was certain the lice were about to switch lanes and hitch a ride with me. I think I said a few prayers. Now, most of you are probably thinking I'm ridiculous. And you're right. The longer I sat there, the more I realized how silly I was being. This poor little girl was miserable. Not only did she have lice, she had patches of skin on her legs that had been rubbed raw from scratching. She was malnourished. She probably never got enough to eat. Her teeth were decaying. And here I sat, worried about contracting lice. And you know, I wouldn't be surprised if I have or will, but that's not the point. I'm here to share love and I have to remind myself that. Jesus often spent time with people who were considered unclean and dirty, even lepers. Of course I'm paranoid about lice, but I've got months to go. Let's face it, lice should be the least of my worries. What's more important, lice or a person's soul?

I'm still lice-a-phobic, but I'm hoping I can push past that for awhile.

Profe Ana

2009-07-20T06:57:00.000-07:00

I'm just about to go teach my first classes at the Escuela. I'm kind of nervous, but I think once I'm up there and have 30 loud children in front of me, my instincts will take over. It's a beautiful sunny and cool Monday and let's hope it's a good start to a better week.

My God is so great, so strong and so mighty there's nothing my God cannot do. . . for YOU!

Welcome to Honduras

2009-07-19T16:57:00.000-07:00

July 15: I have arrived safely. I feel like I am in another world. When I got here last night I was so exhausted that my brain felt like a glazed donut. I didn’t sleep the night before and after getting to the airport and waiting for my bags and struggling to make my way out, I probably could have slept a day; however, sleep was not the first item on the agenda. After I was met at the airport by some people from the Hogar, we went to eat and then moved a family, which took the entire afternoon. The poverty has not surprised me, but the contrast is so stark from what I have just left, that it awes me. The family we moved fit all of their belongings in a few boxes, and their bed and table on the roof of the truck. The bed frame was made of wood and hay twine that had been tied together and stretched from one end to the other. While we waited to leave, stray dogs and a few chickens meandered in the street and children came to watch. The roads to this house, which was located a few minute’s drive from the main streets of San Pedro, were like riding rocky swells. One minute we were high and the next we were plunging into a giant hole and bouncing out again. We all packed into the truck, all eight of us, and headed to Santa Barbara, where the Hogar is and where we were moving the family to. I had to struggle to keep my eyes open on the two hour ride. When we arrived and I got out of the car, I was apprehensive. Kids lay sprawled on the steps and others sat on the porch. I felt like I was the new kid at school. A few of them immediately ran to hug me and help me bring in my bags. The rest was a blur. Names and ages and faces all fused together and before I knew it, I had a girl clinging to me. After a hasty tour by Amanda, we went to evening devotion. I met quite a few of the kids, but there are still many who I do not know. Finally after unpacking and chatting for a while with Amanda, I was able to take a shower. Showers here are cold, but it was so refreshing I wouldn’t have settled for hot. I think I am paranoid, but I already felt like I might have contracted lice, and so I practically saturated my hair with tea tree oil and some kind of repellent that my mom sent with me. It made for a greasy mess this morning, but I’d rather look like I have poor hygiene than have bugs crawling around in my hair.
When I finally lay down to sleep, I couldn’t. The fan sounded like chattering teeth, which of course is a ridiculous sound in this heat, but it kept me awake for awhile. Lizards chirped outside and eventually after some tossing and turning, I finally slept. This morning I woke up at 5:30, which gave me just enough time to wash up and get ready before devotions at 6. After singing and a story, we made our way to breakfast. Breakfast consisted of sweet and milky oatmeal, watermelon and rolls with jam. After that I played my guitar for awhile and then decided to take a short nap because it was still early and I was tired. The kids head off to school at 6:45. The other helpers are all or mostly gone during the morning teaching, but so far I have not been given any clear responsibilities. I am going to the Infa, a daycare downtown, soon to see what it’s like and learn how to take the buses. It is going to be quite an experience. The kids here need so much love and attention. There are some that love to hug and be close to you, but there are others who are distant and come from emotionally or physically abusive backgrounds.

July 19 [Today]: The weekend has been a welcome break. We get to sleep in, which means getting up at 7 instead of 5:30. Today we washed clothes, supervised chores and had some time to relax. I'm still working on learning everyone's name. Tomorrow I teach my first classes. I'm going to be teaching 1st through 3rd grade as well as Kindergarten. I need to make my lesson plans. I'll try to write more soon but I need to get some stuff done before bed.

Anyone seen the plunger?

2009-07-10T18:54:00.000-07:00

I had an epiphany while cleaning the bathroom today.

The towels hang neatly from the holder, and you happen to notice that they match the shower curtain, the mats, the soap dish and even the window curtains. Ugly bathroom items have been hidden from sight in cabinets and cupboards. A sweet scent is wafting from a candle on the counter. Outside the spirited chatter of friends and the occasional burst of laughter meets your ears. That's when panic grips you like a strong wind. You feel your insides lurch to the top of your throat and your mind starts racing at lightening speeds, speeds you wish it could reach when studying or taking a test. You start sorting through your options in your head, but none of them seem feasible. Again and again you desperately try to flush the toilet, but for some reason, it won't budge. Why me? You ask yourself. You contemplate fleeing the scene, hoping no one is waiting outside the door. Lists of excuses enter your mind. You're no longer thinking logically. Instead of looking for a plunger or just waiting a few minutes and flushing again, your heart palpitates at an unhealthy rate. Finally you admit defeat and seek out your host; with a look of shame stealing over your face, you quietly mumble that there seems to be a problem in the bathroom. Before they can ask questions, you're gone. You may as well be on your way to India because if anyone comes looking for you, you don't know what happened.

I think everyone has been in this situation before. I have. I'll be the first to admit it. It's funny that we often do the same thing in bigger and more important life situations. Instead of just admitting that we made the mess, we try to sneak our way out of the situation, or give up before we try all of our options. We panic. We seek to blame others. We don't get rid of the mess, we avoid it. The problem is that if it's not taken care of, it builds up and soon overflows into other areas of our life, creating a smelly and dirty living situation.

It may seem gross or a little comical, but think on it.

Good news. I leave for Honduras this coming Tuesday!

What's love got to do with it - Part deux

2009-07-08T15:13:00.000-07:00

I picked up the latest Time magazine today, expecting the usual political fodder laced with a syrupy dose of celebrity news, but instead, found one of the the best articles I have ever read. "Why Marriage Matters," an essay by Caitlin Flanagan, was on point. There was never a moment where I stopped to rest my eyes or skim to a more interesting part of the four page article. From beginning to end, she built her case with solid research, examples and punchy writing that allowed the article to end with a loud and convincing bang.

Among many interesting points, Flanagan says the poor and middle class differ in the way they have forsaken marriage; the poor uncouple parenthood from it and the financially secure blast apart their unions if they lose their flavor.

Here are some of my favorite quotes:

1. No single force is causing as much measurable hardship in this country as the collapse of marriage.

2. [Marriage is] An increasingly fragile construct depending less and less on notions of sacrifice and obligation than on the ephemera of romance and happiness as defined by and for its adult principals, the intact, two-parent family remains our cultural ideal, but it exists under constant assault.

3. Barack Obama - "We need fathers to step up, to realize that their job does not end at conception; that what makes you a man is not the ability to have a child but the courage to raise one." <--- Love that quote

4. Meanwhile, the middle class has spent 2 1/2 decades-during which the divorce culture became a fact of life-turning weddings into overwrought exercises in consumer spending, as if by just plunking down enough cash for the flower girls' dresses and tissue-lined envelopes for the RSVP cards, we can somehow improve our chance of going the distance.

5. America's obsession with high-profile marriage flameouts-the Gosselins and Sanfords and Edwardses-reflects a collective ambivalence toward the institution: our wish that we could land ourselves in a lasting union, mixed with our feelings of vindication, or even relief, when a standard bearer for the "traditional family" fails to pull it off. . . It is time instead to come to terms with both our unrealistic expectations for a happy marriage and our equally unrealistic beliefs about the consequences of walking away from the families we build.

Stellar article. If you have the chance to read it in its entirety, please do [June 13 issue]. I am at the age where most of my friends and acquaintances are embarking on the journey of marriage. It seems like almost every month at least another person is engaged.I sometimes wonder how many of them will still be married in 10 years, 20, 30. One day I hope I too will find someone to share my life with, but I am content to wait. Marriage really is a serious commitment, one that cannot and should not be taken lightly. Like Flanagan says, marriage in America has lost its importance; it's become merely an excuse to splurge on lavish weddings and expensive honeymoons. What Flanagan fails to mention is the secret ingredient to making a marriage last: God.

Enough is enough

2009-07-08T09:06:00.000-07:00

Silvia Mencillas is comforted by relatives after her son was shot to death Sunday by army troops during a demonstration. (Rodrigo Abd/ Associated Press)

When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.
-Jimi Hendrix

What's love got to do with it?

2009-07-06T18:15:00.000-07:00

Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war, love is growing up, a challange, a journey, a triumph. Love is a fire, but whether it is going to warm your heart or burn down your house you can never tell. Love is life, and if you miss love . . . you miss life. [unknown]

I think I was 6 years old when I had my first crush. His name was Tim, and he was my best friend's older brother. He was five years older than me, but in my childish mind that didn't matter. He was funny, and I still remember the day he won me over.

It was a warm summer day. The barn reeked of musty hay and horses. The three of us were climbing in the rafters and hay bales when suddenly I felt a stab of pain in my finger. I looked down and noticed a sharp piece of glass protruding from a bale. My finger throbbed and the blood was quickly running down my hand in scarlet streams. I looked around for help, and Tim was quickly at my side, tearing off a piece of his shirt and wrapping my hand to stop the bleeding. I thought he was my knight in shining armor. Of course many other childish crushes followed. My view of love changed and morphed as I grew older. Oh, what is love? For a long time I thought love was the way two people looked at each other or the butterflies in my stomach, but soon realized this was a shallow view of love. Love is a steady devotion that stands strong in the face of life's storms and challenges. It is long suffering, humble, compromising, tender. Love is a serious commitment.

I generally do not read books about love, especially ones that my mom recommends; however, due to an overabundance of time and a bit of curiosity, I picked this one up. It's called Serious About Love: Straight Talk to Single Adults by Dr. Kay Kuzma. I cannot express the blessings I have received from reading this book and feel impressed to share some of the most potent statements.

1. It is possible to be madly in love with the wrong person. And being in love is not reason enough to marry. Marriages based on love alone may make it through the fall of a relationship as passion begins to cool, but when love settles down for a long winter's night-and rationality returns-too many discover that they have made a long-term investment in a short-term interest.

2. The secret to a successful marriage is to find someone who complements you, not competes with you. You should only marry when each of you feels so comfortable with your own talents that you can help the other become the very best he or she can be. You want a marriage partner who will help you reach your potential, not sabotage your efforts.

3. True love draws a couple closer to their families, friends, and God. Infatuation causes a couple to pull away from others.

4. There is no problem so difficult that two people willing to compromise can't solve. The key is that both people in a relationship must be willing to compromise. Solutions are rare when one person consistently must give in to the other in order for problems to be solved.

5. Dialogue is more than your giving me space to say my words, and my giving you space to say yours. It involves our listening. We are all different. We cannot have dialogue unless we honor the differences. How can I build a bridge across the gulf between me and you unless I am aware of the gulf? How can I communicate with you unless I see how things look from your side?
Dialogue demands that I leave the place where I dwell-the landscape of feelings and thoughts that are important to me-in order to dwell for a time with your thoughts, feelings perceptions, fears, hopes. I must deny myself-forsake the familiar, give up my life-in order to experience your life.
The purpose of dialogue is never to persuade another person to accept our opinions, or values, or view of the world; rather it is to create an understanding-a climate where communion takes place. He who has lost himself finds himself. The deepest craving of every heart is to be laid bare, to be known, to be understood...

6. Romantic love is merely an illusion that fades all too quickly. True love has the beautiful blend of passion and accountability,spontaneity and design, tenderness and strength, innocence and reason. This is the kind of love that can last a lifetime

7. Love is something you do. It's the words of respect you speak, even when you feel resentful. It's the kind things you do for each other, even though you feel like playing dirty. It's going the extra mile, even when you don't feel like it or feel you're being taken advantage of. It's choosing to see the positive in the negative. It's anticipating new opportunities for growth that hurt, pain, or suffering might bring.

So, I highly recommend the book. Those were just some of the points I found especially powerful.
What's love got to do with it? Not everything. . . at least not what most people define as love. We must look to Christ for the embodiment of HIS love, and then work on emulating it in our own relationships. That is love.

"Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth."
1 John 3:18

Stop, drop and. . .pray

2009-06-29T19:01:00.000-07:00

I was supposed to leave for Honduras tomorrow, but I guess things don't always work out as planned. On Sunday, June 28, 2009, the president of Honduras, Manuel Zelaya, was taken by force from his home by soldiers in the first military coup since the Cold War. Roberto Michelett was named as interim president, and since the coup, protesters have taken to the streets and other countries, including the U.S., say they will not recognize any president other than Zelaya unless they are elected democratically. I have no idea how long I will have to wait before I leave. I know I have to trust God's timing, but it's hard not to be impatient and frustrated. I was all packed and ready to go, but sometimes God asks us to wait.

Before any of this happened and I had any idea I wouldn't be able to go as planned, I heard an amazing sermon on Sabbath. And now in retrospect, the sermon was just what I needed, and would need, to hear. Barry Black, the chaplain of the U.S. Senate, spoke at our campmeeting. I'd only heard him speak once before, but I was definitely more impressed this time than the first. He spoke about prayer. This man has the ability to captivate an audience. I think part of it is his deep voice, but he's funny too. He said something that really made a lot of sense. He said most of the time when we pray, we are OK when God says 'yes,' and even when He says 'no.' However, when God doesn't say anything, that's when we struggle. His message was for Christians to let love be their motivation for prayer and to keep trusting even when He doesn't answer right away. Well, God seems to be saying 'no,' right now, but I am not going to get discouraged. My prayers are with those in Honduras now, especially Amanda who is already at the orphanage.

I hope this is resolved soon.

And so it begins. . .

2009-06-26T14:24:00.000-07:00

All it takes is a split decision. Mine happened in a world religions class. Most mornings it was difficult to focus, my mind slowly adjusting to new ideas and cultures at a time before many people even roll out of bed or drink their morning coffee. But that day was different. The video was about Tibetan Buddhism, and in one scene a worshipper prostrated himself before an idol. I snapped awake as the narrator said, “There are still many people who have never heard the name of Jesus.”

I guess you could say that’s where it all started. I’d thought about being a student missionary before, but never considered it, seriously that is. Growing up I'd heard what seemed like millions of mission stories, whether they were on tapes at bedtime or presentations at church. I had always known that many, many people around the world didn't know about Jesus, but up until that point I don't think I'd really cared. I can't say I had this huge change of heart or anything like that, but I know that day in class God put a small burden on my mind.

A few of my other friends apparently felt it too, because we went to the Student Missions Expo and started looking into the various places we could go. I picked Honduras, mostly because I wanted to use my Spanish. I started paperwork and fundraising around December 2008. One of the most amazing blessings was how my first money came in. I hadn't even sent out my letters at that point, but when I returned to school after Christmas vacation, a letter was waiting for me that contained more than 75 percent of what I needed to raise, which was a really big amount. I couldn't believe it. I was ecstatic! It seemed like a pretty big sign that this was what God did want for me.

I finished up at Southern and graduated in May. God blessed me with an amazing senior year. Two of my good friends have also chosen to serve God this coming year. Michelle will be going to Chad to work as a nurse and Aldo will be teaching in Palau. So, I have had some time to relax and prepare myself at home, but the time has come to leave. I will be leaving for Honduras this Tuesday, June 30, and plan to keep this blog to share my adventures, struggles and triumphs with everyone back home. In Honduras I will be working at the Hogar de Ninos Orphanage in Santa Barbara.

I just want to make one disclaimer. Don't expect to read about miracles. Let me explain. I feel that even though no one would ever admit to it, many people secretly relish in reading mission blogs. Why? Because they expect to hear about the mighty things God is doing. They expect to hear stories about how God has parted the sea, healed the sick and saved the lost, all through one, little missionary. I am not going to Honduras to do any of those things. My aim and purpose is to sow seeds of love, kindness and peace. My one desire is to make a difference, no matter how small, in the lives of those I come into contact with. I do not expect God to raise the dead or heal the sick, but I have faith He will use the seeds I sow to bring to life a desire for salvation and cure souls diseased with sin. If you are expecting to read stories about visible miracles, you might not find them here. I believe one of the greatest miracles is invisible, the change of heart that only God can see, and that is my mission and aim for this year. I also hope He will work changes in my own heart.

Oh yeah, I'm human. I'm going to be homesick, tired and frustrated. I need prayer every day. So as you read my blog, please remember to pray for me. And don't forget, you don't need to go to another country to be a missionary. . .

-Hannah

A walk down memory lane

2009-06-15T22:49:00.000-07:00

So, I used to blog a lot. I had a Xanga in high school and wrote an entry almost every day. I decided to go back and read some of my blogs, just for old time's sake. . . I found this one particular entry that I really enjoyed reading and will post it here. It was written a few weeks before I graduated high school in 2005.

Man, it seems like such a long time ago. It WAS a long time ago. Many of my thoughts from that year are still so similar to what I feel now, yet I have changed so much. . .

Here is my entry:

I've just been really stressed out lately. . .the last day or so, and it's all my own fault. I am a master procrastinator, and I wait until the last minute to do things. . .bad idea. Today was horrrible. I am failing my Physics test, and I don't even care as much as I should. Right now I'm putting off studying for Precalc, and I'm not even worried. It's bad, but I think I'm letting go of high school. I'm letting go of the people there, the classes, the homework, the hours spent in its winding sessions of drama. . .all gone. My life is like an unfinished rope. There are so many different pieces to it, and some of them are fraying, some are unique and pointless, and others just hold it together. Each new person I meet, I add a piece to the rope, and together we hold on. . .on and on and on. We walk through life, we make memories, we dance, we laugh, we sing, we talk. . .but sometimes we hold on too tight or too loose, and we get tangled up and confused. There comes a point to where there are so many people holding on to me, that I feel warm and happy. There are those who make me stronger, those who make me happier, and those who give me more love then I deserve. Why would I ever let go of my rope. . .of their rope. . .of his or her rope. . .why? Sometimes it's necessary to let go because holding on is fraying the rope and cutting off my air supply. I just have to let go, to break free. I think I've finally let go. . .but yet there are still pieces left, threads that remind me of the good times, the bad times, and the memories. Even if I'm no longer holding on, I can still walk. . .

Please walk with me. . .down memory lane

Remember me when the sun fades and flowers die

Take my hand, it's cold as ice

Believe me, I really did try

~Han

Here is another similar post about leaving high school behind:

These pictures evoke emotions from me. They evoke feelings and ideas, memories and speculation of the future, but they cannot sum up in words what my heart feels as I near the end of the beginning. I have traveled through time to this very moment, and what have I seen and felt in those fleeting years which are my wake of fluid travel? I am about to graduate. I am about to leave all of what I have worked for behind, but yet I am not fully leaving it behind. I am using it as stepping stones to bring myself closer to the sun, closer to knowledge and light. I will miss so much about my years in high school. I will miss the carefree and immature actions that brightened my days. I will miss the faces, the smiles, the laughter of so many. I feel as though I am closing a door behind on a room filled with memories. Each memory is sweeter and more precious then the last, and each is filled with hollow echos of those I have held so dear. I began high school timid, unsure, and self-conscious. I like to think that I am leaving it confident, happy, and with no regrets. Where I will go to achieve my dreams is yet to be seen. Will I find them all in one place, or will I travel the world in search of the answers? I cannot search for happiness, because that is found only in one place, and that is right here within me. What creates this happiness is the thing to be found, and I know that moments are fleeting. . .that things change from one moment to another. I am content for now it seems. I only know that as sun turns to rain, that life is filled with necessary pains. The rain is miserable, but it nurtures and strengthens each plant, and when the sun comes out again, they reach yet higher toward the light and joy of life. I guess you could say this is me wording how I feel about these chapters of my life. I've made my choices and dealt with them, and now the cake is made. All I am asking for is the cherry to go on top. . . .

Inquisitive

2009-06-14T19:39:00.000-07:00

The things that come out of kids' mouths. . .

"Hannah, do we have to get all our giggling out before heaven," asked Justin, my 7-year-old nephew, at the dinner table.

I stifled a laugh because it would have been hurtful to his inquisitive heart, but it was difficult because laughing comes very naturally to me. In fact, I hope I will have even more reasons to laugh in heaven than I do here.

I promptly told him that there would be plenty of laughing in heaven. Jesus wants us to be happy, here and there.

My niece and two of my nephew's are here staying with us for a few days and they continue to amaze me with their intelligence and progress. They are definitely not angels, but they have gone through much in their young lives, and I praise God for the joy and happiness He is instilling in their minds as they learn and grow more each day. They are smart, talented, driven kids. Sometimes they're loud and rambunctious and have a hard time doing what they're told, but at the end of the day, their innocence and heartfelt affection are what I remember most. They grow up while I am away, and when I return for a fleeting visit, they rush back into my arms with eager smiles and I realize sadly that they've grown even taller and won't be little much longer.

Oh, beautiful youth. Its innocence. Joy. Exhuberance.
You grow up in a few years, but grow old for a lifetime.
Can't fight age, wrinkles, time.
Each day brings more knowledge, more burdens, more problems.
I've been fighting growing up and growing old.
I want to be forever young.
Away from me, vile age and worry. I cling to the innocence of a child.

Please remind me next time. . .

2009-06-12T13:53:00.000-07:00

Last week I went on a dueling 8-mile bike ride with my mother. I swore I would never do it again as I panted my way up the over-sized hill to my house, streams of sweat trickling down my spine and beading above my brow.

Somehow it happened again.

It was hard to resist. The sun had finally broken free from the dark chains of clouds that hung over the mountains for the past few days, and a bike ride seemed like a good idea. Well, if my mom, who just broke her back at the end of February and turned 63 in May, could do it, well, I darn well SHOULD be able to at 22. So, we set off. The first part of our bike rides are always deceiving because they're all down hill. I inhaled the sweet air as it rushed past me, trees and light blurring together in a symphony of summer greenery. The way back is always a different story though. I hopped off my bike to begin the climb, holding tightly to my newly acquired Uncle Henry's [a magazine containing ads of things for sale in the area]. Half-way up I had to stop, panting and swatting at the persistent mosquitoes that were basking in my discomfort. Why? Why do I always put myself through this, I pondered. Is it really worth it? I doubled over my bike and continued to heave myself toward home.

Next time, please remind me. . . and maybe I'll skip the shower first too. However, leaving my cool comfort zone to risk the sweat of the outdoors is always worth it. I'm about to leave my cool comfort zone of a home in a few weeks to brave the sweaty outdoors of another country. Honduras is going to test my endurance. I know there will be plenty of emotional and physical sweat involved, but I will press forward toward the goal/home. . . Not my earthly home, but the one in the sky where I will one day see my Saviour and the lives I, by the grace of God, have impacted along my travels.

Philippians 3:14
I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.

I baked a cake last night for my dad. Below is the finished product.

Land O' Lakes

2009-06-10T21:32:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: This post isn't about butter. Sorry for the misleading title :)

To me water is almost as important as air. I don't particularly like to drink water, which isn't a good thing because one day I will probably forget and dehydrate into a shrivled prune. I don't relish water in a glass. I yearn for the unbridled and untamed; sparkling and pure liquid crashing over the precipice of a waterfall or lapping along the shores of the sea. What I love the most are lakes. There is a quaint charm about lakes that I can't quite put into words. I was born in the landlocked state of West Virginia, but there was always a hidden desire within me for water, even if it was just a creek or pond. When my family moved to New York I was able to go to Camp Cherokee and indulge in the heartstopping beauty of Lake Saranac. I have fond memories of boat rides and canoe trips across that lake, discovering the picturesque islands. I remember camp fires at the edge of its clean and mysterious shoreline, singing camp songs and watching the sparks of the fire leap and frolic in the chilly night air. There is something so magical about a lake. During the day they are often crowded with boats, but when the sun begins to set and shadows tangle and mesh with fading rays of sunlight, a calmness enshrowds them that gives peace to the soul. One of my favorite things to do is sit on a dock at dusk and breathe in the scent of trees and campfires, listening to the tiny waves lapping the rocks and sand along the shore.

Today I drove with my mom to take our animals to the vet. Maine is such a beautiful state. We passed at least four lakes, and even though I was unable to stop and enjoy their beauty, I still felt the tug at my heart. I think there is some kind of magnetic field in every lake that pulls me to it, whispering my name in hushed tones that only I can hear. I love the water. I love skimming across its surface on a wakeboard or watching the silvery drops fall off my paddle as it breaks the serene surface next to my canoe. I have many beautiful memories on lakes. They will always be apart of me, and whenever I see one I will always long to drop whatever I am doing and embark on another adventure in its welcoming depths. I dream of one day owning a small cabin on a lake somewhere. Maybe just a dream, but then again, a lake to me is more dream than reality, an escape into the perfection of nature. . .

lesson in needlework

2009-06-03T22:43:00.000-07:00

I wish it were socially acceptable for a 22-year-old to cry at the doctor's.

I've always had a big fear of needles. I'm not sure when it started, but it goes back a very long time. I think it might have something to do with the nurse who told me, as an inquisitive 5-year-old, that the shot wouldn't hurt. . . and we all know the ending to that story. I felt lied to. And from then on, I hated nurses, doctors and needles. I was usually a healthy child and didn't need to visit the doctor much. In fact, after I got most of the required shots, I don't think I went much at all. However, the times I did go, my parents actually bribed me. Now, that probably sounds ridiculous to most people, who by the age of maybe 8 have grown up enough to understand proper etiquette at the doctor's office, but it's true, I was bribed. When my parents decided they wanted to spend a year in Romania as missionaries I had to get more shots. The bribe? American Doll books I'd been wanting for quite some time.

My most embarrassing doctor's moment occurred at the age of 12. My parents wanted me to get blood work done to see if I had Celiac's Disease, something my mom had been diagnosed with. Needless to say, I wasn't enthused about the visit, but somehow found myself in the office. Please let me explain exactly why I do not like needles or blood work. Even though the actual pain is minimal, there is logic to my fear and loathing. First of all it's the prep work that begins the frightening process. The snapping of that terrible little armband that proceeds to cut off your circulation and make your veins juicy for the pricking. Then there is that quick swipe of alcohol, and before you know it, they're asking you silly questions that are supposed to distract you but don't, and you feel that sickening stab and all you can think about is that there is a giant needle in your arm and it shouldn't be there.

Back to my embarrassing moment. Of course they began to prep my arm for the savage injection, and fear began to overwhelm me. Most kids would probably have whined or asked how much it would hurt, but I responded in a much more direct manner: screaming and kicking. I wish I was making this up, but I'm not. I can't remember all of the details, probably because I have tried to erase the memory, but I do remember that my parents actually had to come into the room and hold me down while they took my blood. Yes, at 12 years old. The doctor asked my parents, and I quote, to 'Please control your daughter.' I'm quite sure he had much more to say, but I've also long since forgotten.

Fast forward 10 years. I've decided to spend some time in Honduras working as a missionary at an orphanage. There are of course medical precautions to my stay, including the consumption of malaria and typhoid pills, as well as shots and blood work. Yesterday I got my blood work done. I had been dreading the appointment ever since it was made, but knew it was essential and was determined to suck it up. I sat down in the chair, my body feeling a bit weak and my mind spinning at top speed. The nurse began pulling vials off of a small shelf, not one or two, FIVE. I wasn't sure if that meant I'd have to fill all five of them with my blood. . . I was hoping not. I waited. . . the dreadful prep work began and my arm throbbed beneath the arm band. Of course the questions began too and I felt the sickening jab of the needle and tried to concentrate on the fact that it would be over soon. I didn't even answer half of the questions because I was so intent on getting out of there. And I did, of course, without much damage, except that my arm did hurt.

I'm glad I've learned to suck it up when I have to. It would have been a bit silly to cry and scream, especially at 22. I've learned, and continue to do so, that life isn't always pleasant. That doesn't mean we have to make a big deal about it though. Really it means somethings are painful and difficult, but that's just part of living and in order to live life to the fullest, we have to take the bad with the good. I don't have to enjoy getting blood taken or shots, but I do have to do it, without a fuss. It's for my benefit anyway.

-Hannah

God's mercies are new every morning

2009-05-11T23:40:00.000-07:00

A dark, stone steeple looms over the decaying city, a reminder of the grandeur of times gone by. I stare out my window, thoughts and worries mingling together as we drive by empty lots and ugly apartment buildings. I’m in Paterson, NJ, part of an impromptu visit to a friend from Southern. We’ve just spent a few hours at a park, which was a peaceful escape from the loud rap music and shouting that characterize other parts of the city. Her friends chatter in Dominican Spanish {I add Dominican because it means I struggle to understand the jokes or the words}. It’s been a crazy week and I can barely remember what’s happened, but I’ll try to recap for the sake of this blog.

Last Sunday: I graduated. It’s already a week ago, but it seems like it never happened. I remember waiting to hear my name and walking across the stage, and after that it was a blur of photos and goodbyes. My high school friend Di had flown in from Boston for the weekend, and my parents and aunt and uncle were also there.
My middle name should be nostalgia. I hold onto the precious memories of the past, clinging to them with determined fingers, hoping to at least retain shreds of what once was. I’m a spontaneous person, but change often fills me with sadness. My four years of college had come to a close. I wasn’t a freshman anymore, in fact, I was an alumna, which Southern kindly reminded me of with a silver key chain placed on my chair at graduation practice. Couldn’t they at least wait until I’d shaken hands and received my diploma? After graduation I headed home to pack. I say home because that is what Collegedale has become for me. Poplar #3. We’d had countless potlucks, game nights, late nights, study nights, friend nights . . . the memories were so sweet.

Post-graduation plans have included a trip to China to visit my friend Lu. I’d booked my ticket and been naive enough to think I could get a visa once I arrived in China. However, I soon realized the ridiculousness of that thought and found out I’d have to go to Washington, D.C. to apply for one at the embassy there. So I added yet another thing to my to-do list. Thursday came. My car was packed and I was ready to head home. I hung out with Michelle and Ana all day, with a few quick goodbyes here and there. The plan was to drive all night and arrive in D.C. in the morning.

Why do all good things come to an end? I got in my car, said my last goodbyes and hugged people I wouldn’t see for a year, and started the long drive. A strange sadness crept through my body as I drove away from so many happy memories. That night was horrible. I was so tired, and even though I tried to play upbeat music to stay awake, my eyes were heavy and dry. I had to pull over and nap at least three times, but I finally made it to D.C.
Let me just say that GPS saved my life that day. The Chinese embassy had relocated so I drove to the new location, in traffic that might have once frightened me and would still give my mother a heart attack. As I crossed the road, excitement filled me, and I said a quick prayer that God would work out all of this visa nonsense. After a long night of driving and little sleep, I was in a surprisingly good mood; however, the door to the embassy was shut and on it was a note saying they were closed for the day. I wanted to laugh, but that emotion was short lived because I quickly felt discouragement overwhelming me.
So, a quick phone call led me to Paterson where I’ve been spending the weekend with my friend Shirley and her family.

LATER: Monday I took a bus into NYC to give it one last shot. I got to the embassy at 11:30 and the lines were quite long. I found the express line after some confusion, and realized they were actually giving out same-day rush service visas, even though I’d heard it would take at least 4-6 days. I was afraid to get my hopes up, but I immediately began to pray that if it was God’s will, that He would enable me to get a visa. I quickly made friends with the man in front of my and the girl behind me. The hours in line went by quickly and I forgot my hungry stomach and tired feet. I kept praying. Someone told us they would probably make us come back the next day, but I kept hoping God would work a miracle. Finally it was my turn and I crossed my fingers as I explained that my flight was supposed to leave the next day. The lady didn’t even seem to hear me. She signed a receipt and I asked her incredulously if she’d given me a same-day visa. It was too good to be true. I high-fived my friend, taking one last look at her in her tan hat, aviators and purple streaked hair.
God is good.
I’m in my friend’s apartment in Boston and my flight leaves in eight hours. I’m going to get some sleep.
China here I come.

no escape

2009-04-09T22:48:00.000-07:00

There is no way to escape the thoughts of a troubled heart.

But there is someone who longs to take our troubles and give us a peace that passeth all understanding.

If I spent all of my time worrying about tomorrow, about 10 days from now, about a year from now, I would miss out on these beautiful moments of the present.

I love listening to music. I let each note wash over me like the waves of the sea. I savor each sweet melody until it fades away. . . .

away. . .

away. .

away.

my unspoken plea

2009-03-29T09:17:00.000-07:00

A poem I wrote in high school.

Shall I wish on a star?

Or chase the leaves of a tree

Will my brain take me far?

Will I ever be free?

I aim to be happy and young

For many a year to come

But there’s a song that’s still unsung

That remind’s me where I’m from

So here I hang

Suspended on useless thought

Kept alive by every pang

Of what I’ve seen and sought

I’m beautiful and wasting

With empty palms at my side

It’s what’s to come that I’m tasting

But I’ll never sacrifice my pride

Look to my blue eyes and see

That there is still an empty place

Listen to my unspoken plea

And lend me some of your elegant grace.

defective coding

2009-03-27T21:11:00.000-07:00

I wanted to. . .

a: run
b: go back to sleep
c: pretend I'd lost my mind
d: strangle the inventor of CSS

Mostly all of the above, with a strong emphasis on the last one.
It was a rainy Thursday and I came to class prepared. I hate Web design. Most of my Web design experience comes from manipulating MySpace layouts, not creating something from scratch. However on the exam we had to look at a picture and then recreate it in Dreamweaver, styling it with CSS. I didn't even know where to start. I heard people saying they wanted to barf and cry, but honestly I felt so at peace. I decided I was going to do the best I could. I started piecing things together, and yet all of my styles [coding in CSS] were not showing up in my pages. I tried everything I could think of and nothing was working. There was one point where I felt panicky and my heart somersaulted and skidded to a grinding halt.

And all of a sudden I found the piece of missing code. I hadn't linked my CSS and my HTML sites together and so even though I was typing the right code, no one else could see it because I wasn't linked or connected to the source code.

I think this can apply to the way I live my life. I can do and say all the right things, and even have all of the pieces of my life in the right order, but if I'm not linked and connected to Jesus, my source [code] of peace, joy and love, people will only see me, a broken link, not the radiance of my Creator.

Coding is a very time consuming process, especially for someone like me who is just learning. Each piece of the page can take hours, especially if a tiny piece of the coding is wrong. Even a missed period or a bracket can throw everything off. We may think we have our lives together, especially if we do all the "right" things, but if one piece is missing, Jesus, the code will not work.

As humans we are born with defective coding, thanks to sin. Jesus is the master coder and designer who wants so desperately to repair our broken links and defective coding so we can become more connected to Him. I thank God for His patience. Just like I had to have patience and spend hours working on my test, trying countless ways to make things work, He spends a lifetime on us. He even spent His own lifetime, coming to earth to bring us the best gift we could possibly receive, salvation and life everlasting.

. . .

I did finish. It wasn't perfect, but I was proud of myself for persevering and finishing as much as I could. The rain continued outside. Friday afternoon. A load off my shoulders, accomplishment at my fingertips and a light heart.

[Hannah]

nostalgia

2009-03-23T18:49:00.000-07:00

The heat rolled off the thick, parched pavement in slivers of black and silver. My father, who doesn't enjoy temperatures above or below 62 degrees, was facing his worst nightmare: A broiling southern afternoon in mid-August. We were crammed into my '93 Chevy Cavalier, my mother in the backseat and my father and I in the front. This was it; this was my grand entrance to college, and I was making it drenched in sweat. My dad was full of surprises, including a bold and desperate decision to use the AC, and just 21 hours later, we were here.

First thought: Huge. The campus that is. The heat was unbearable. Thatcher #381.
And it all began in a heatwave,a heartbeat. I had no idea those were the first days of a love affair. Oh, I complained about worships, Campus Safety, Sabbath morning check. I whined about the cafe food, which is still exactly the same as it was four years ago, only the mashed potatoes are a little creamier. I stumbled out of bed at 2 a.m. because someone had decided to straighten their hair, burn lampshades, incinerate popcorn and scald five course meals. I knew all the soccer teams, Fluffy, Furia, Hot Boys. . . soccer fights, broken legs, red cards. I'd fallen in and out of like with Besst Wraps. Eaten in the old KR's. I'd watched the leaves change, rain dance and flowers open. I'd changed majors. I'd learned the distinct smell of buildings and dorm hallways. I'd inhaled the scent of sugary blueberry muffins on crisp, winter mornings. I'd spent hours on homework and semesters on memories. Little by little I was falling in love, but all too soon it was time to say goodbye. He left, I cried. I found friends that were strong, a God who was stronger and a love that was longer. I lifted my voice to the heavens with fellow students at vespers-the best part of my week. I played softball, hockey, soccer. Two years, three years, it was my last year. Graduation? I saw new faces in familiar places. Time was drawing closer. Leaving was the plan, with more than I came with. Here I am, so close to the end; a beginning just around the bend. Honduras for mission work, yet I'm leaving so much behind. I'm clinging to these weeks, hours, minutes, moments. Southern has become my second home. Pull out my hair, papers to write, classes to hate, boys not to date. I've learned a trade, friends I've made, and I've found me. For now I'll be leaving, leaving behind college, a life I've learned to love. Days are growing warmer, another heatwave, a million heartbeats. I'm letting go, hanging on.

I'll be back.

[Hannah]

Traveling with a purpose

2009-01-04T16:39:00.000-08:00

I wrote this after a recent trip to Roatan, Honduras.

The shop is crowded. Bags, belts and hammocks sway softly in the rhythm of the balmy Roatán breeze. I step inside out of the sunny afternoon, my eyes adjusting to the dim light and my nose taking in the smell of leather, fabric and creamy coconuts. I gaze around, overwhelmed by the huge selection of colorful souvenirs.

¡Hola! ¿Cómo está? I ask politely, my parents trailing behind me.

¿Tú puedes hablar español?

The question is more of a surprised statement. A big grin flashes across the girl’s face, revealing braces. A native with braces? I muse. Weird, I mean it’s just something I’d never seen before. At first she’s businesslike. She watches me intently as my eyes wander around. I hate shopping with someone breathing down my neck so I try to walk away politely, asking if I can look around. I hope she’ll get the hint I’ll let her know if I need anything. She doesn’t. Instead she follows me around the store, but she’s so sweet I can’t stay mad long. Two other girls appear and start talking to my parents. My mom buys a tablecloth; a brilliant burst of blue highlighting a traditional Guatemalan pattern. We bargain with them, and soon our pile of purchases grows. I feel them warming up to us. I ask questions about where they’re from, their names, how they weave. Even though they’re Guatemalan, they spend most of their time here in Honduras selling souvenirs on the island. Who knew that my struggles to learn Spanish would be used in this way? I suddenly realize I’m not just a customer anymore; I’m someone who’s taken an interest in their lives. I come to the hasty and justified conclusion that knowing a person’s language enables you to topple the barriers of culture, to make a friend in minutes instead of years. My interest melts their façade. I’m no longer a haughty American gringo, I’m a friend. And then the biggest surprise comes. As we prepare to leave, Evelyn, the owner of the shop who can’t be much older than her twenties, looks at my mom and tells her she reminds her of her own mother who passed away just six months ago. The tears begin to spill out of her dark eyes and she can’t wipe them away. One tear turns into a salty waterfall. We don’t know what to do, but I do the only thing that seems right—I throw my arms around her, my own eyes beginning to fill. We ask her if she knows she has the promise she’ll see her mother again at the resurrection. She nods. We leave them then, but it’s not the end, it’s the beginning—the beginning of a friendship that transcends language and distance. Traveling with a purpose can lead to more than Kodak moments and a sun tan—you might change perceptions or plant seeds for eternity.

Before we left I made them cupcakes and we exchanged emails. Evelyn told me that if I ever visit Guatemala that I will always be welcome in her home. My dad left her a Steps to Christ in Spanish. Who knows if I’ll ever see them again on this earth, but I pray that I will hug her again beneath the shining gates of Heaven.

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. Therefore, as we have opportunity, let us do good to all people, especially to those who belong to the family of believers. Galatians 6:9,10 NIV

Why [not]

2008-11-12T19:54:00.000-08:00

You see things; and you say, "Why?" But I dream things that never were; and I say, "Why not?"

[George Bernard Shaw]

It does not require a majority to prevail, but rather an irate, tireless minority keen to set brush fires in people's minds.

[Samual Adams]

2008-11-11T19:10:00.000-08:00

I write because that is who I am. I write because words on paper often sound more intelligent than words in thin air. There is a reassuring permanence of the written word. I write because I have a soul full of feeling, a heart full of yearning and a mind full of dreaming. So who am I?

I'm a senior print journalism major at Southern Adventist University. I live a pretty average life, but that's when you leave all the blessings out of the picture. I love life. I'm random. I find joy in making people laugh. I'm sensitive, but as the years go by, I'm learning to use that sensitivity in a constructive way, rather than in frequent displays of emotion (FDE). I love having people over. I am content to stand alone, yet I am happiest when I am surrounded by friends. I could describe myself with many words and in many ways, but if a person was to peel away all the layers of who I am, I wonder what they would find. I'm stubborn and independent. I almost always say what is on my mind. I've lost my fear of people or of the fleeting opinions they often form. I firmly believe that life is worth living, and not just living, but enjoying. Cliche? Yes. Overused? No.

So, now that you know about me in a small paragraph. . . maybe what I say will make more sense (but most likely not).