Bored

The day I got back from Florida the tasks hit me like a hurricane. I had to complete planning for an ESL class, formulate a 3-day Bible study, make thorough lesson plans for my substitute, and continue teaching my classes. Long nights were spent at a friend’s house at the nearby missionary hospital compound to take advantage of fast internet. I was losing hope, losing patience, and losing my mind. 

The day came too soon and not soon enough to fly to Tegucigalpa and meet the team. I lugged myself through the airport and went to the eating area to wait for them and take advantage of more fast internet in preparation. 

After many hours of getting to know new people, taking tours of facilities I know pretty well, and riding in lots of buses and Land Cruisers, the day finally came to execute the material. 

The ESL was a no-brainer. It’s nice to know there’s something in my life that I’ve now done enough to feel comfortable, at-ease, and good at. And that that something doesn’t have to do with serving coffee. 

If the ESL was a no-brainer, I guess I could call the Bible study and “all-brainer”. It took all my efforts, brain cells, and focus to communicate spiritual truths to a stuffy, kindergarten room full of teenagers who are pretty honest about their disinterest in committing their lives to Christ. I was originally supposed to teach on purity and abstinence but it only took about 10 minutes into the first day to realize that: 
a. more than half of my class were already parents
and,
b. people who aren’t interested in committing to a hope in Christ because it’s not “fun” certainly wouldn’t be interested in abstaining from sex for any reason that really matters

So I changed the whole plan. God spoke. They listened. Hungry eyes followed me around the room. Sweaty, uncomfortable, nervous me walked around waving her arms, doing visuals, and writing notes on a whiteboard. Why? Hope. Hope I have for the hungry eyes. Hope that is within me. Hope that speaks and does visuals and writes notes. A communicating hope? Hope. 

I’ve started exercising and “dieting” with some girls in Río Esteban. Dieting is… difficult here. Grease, carbs, more grease, some rice, and then some fried chicken, and then some soda. As in the States, it’s pretty common to just stop eating if you want to diet. I got a couple questions as to why one shouldn’t do that and I explained it to them as it was explained to me: the body thinks it’s starving and when you start to eat, the body holds on to what you’re eating and stores even more. 

I think the young people in San Antonio had been on this kind of spiritual diet. If we starve ourselves spiritually, we will be more appealing and have more fun. Starve they have. The results? A lot of people paying a lot of attention for three days. Taking notes, soaking things up. Every day when reviewing the day before, they remembered every point I had made, every concept presented. Okay, so, my analogy is faulty, I’ll admit that. But, I felt like they gained rapidly in those couple of days. 

It doesn’t make me feel better, the fact that they “fattened up” spiritually. I didn’t run home patting myself on the back, thinking I had just turned a bunch of converts over into God’s hands. Feeling like a good and faithful servant. I felt like I had been a vessel for a very small and short snippet of their lives. I think I communicated some important truths but really that’s no good until someone gets on a healthy diet of the Word. 

I came back from that whole deal feeling good about the trip, good about my experiences, good about what I shared. Everything turned real boring suddenly. I took a couple of finals and POOF, I have a lot of free time on my hands all the time it seems. This is something I haven’t experienced in years. 

My Jesus diet was faulty. I hate making these cheesy Christian analogies, truly, it pains me. But, sometimes, the truth is the truth and it didn’t take me long to realize that I wasn’t really “eating”, I was picking here and there at whatever I could fit into my schedule, whatever I could fit into my life. 

I want to be done with this post because I feel like a bad writer right now. I’m doing things that I hate to do. So let me draw you a picture of my current life of free time with my words real quick and we can all go back to what we were doing: 

I get up at 5:40am every morning and walk about 2 minutes to the shoreline. Me and whoever comes that morning start running in the sand. I’m barefoot and I get tired fast, sometimes I push through and sometimes I give up. I pray, for strength, for my loved ones, for my day. At 3:30pm, I finish my lessons with Delmy and have been home for school for some hours. I sit in bed, read some books. Then, I sit in a hammock in sometimes sweltering heat and sometimes a cool breeze and, I pray. 

It’s been a long time since I’ve spent my days praying. It feels good, healthy. It’s been a long time since I’ve spent time exercising. Also feels good. 

I’ll let you know what happens with my boredom that’s constantly changing faces. 

Day 1-Tradition

I guess it’s time to start writing. I promised myself (and others) I would write everything down. There’s something about writing that makes your thoughts so real. It’s as if, our thoughts, without escaping through tongue or ink, are merely dreams that may or may not come true. Dreams that, if they don’t come to pass, are really nothing but a self-entertaining consciousness.

It’s amazing the energy I wake up with when my subconscious knows that arousing me from sleep will mean getting on a plane, sitting in an airport, arriving to a desired destination. This tells me that it’s not only my heart and spirit that love to travel; my body and brain must love it, too. I woke up with a 10am energy at 5am.

Getting ready and packing the last of my belongings was a no-brainer. This packing process (aside from the laptop fiasco) has been surprisingly chaos free. Am I learning? Probably not, it’s probably just the luck of the draw.

Monica had Juanes playing when we got in the car to leave. I fooled myself into thinking that because I remember the lyrics and their meaning, my Spanish isn’t rusty. We’ll see about that. We heard a Paul Simon song on the way. He gave his girl permission to call him “Hal”. Or was it, “Al”?

Check-in (despite the first impression of an eternally long line caused by a cancelled flight) was also a no-brainer. I, of course, as tradition calls for, went upstairs for Starbucks between check-in and security. I remember thinking how funny it is that I have a tradition no one partakes in and that, outside of my traveling patterns, I don’t have too many traditions, at all, if any. Maybe having no traditions can be a tradition. No, that doesn’t make sense.

When I reached Gate B17 I strategically placed myself next to two Asian men. Yes, it was strategy. No one else can be trusted. I’ll explain later.

As soon as I sat down and starting making phone calls to American Airlines to get credit for my miles, the cold drowsiness hit me like the wind on your face when you go sledding. Unavoidable, unbreakable, shocking. What happened to my tall caramel macchiato? I feel cheated.

The plane begins to board. Yes! This plane is one of the teeny tiny, grown-men-hit-their-heads-on-the-roof ones. Do you know what that means? It means boarding does not entail walking through a tunnel with airline advertisements and getting herded like cattle onto the auto-orb. It means we will all walk, freely, concrete under our feet, a straight line only if it’s what we choose, to our transportation. Yes, transportation. It’s not magical or unattainable. It’s simple as a bus and I know this because I walked out to it and climbed the stairs and boarded it of my own free will and fancy.

The plane I have chosen and I are now going down the runway. I think I’d like to nap, I’m tired again.

Day 1-Flight

I took a nice, long nap where I dreamed about birthday parties and boys that have crushes on me. I’m a child.

I woke up right on time to get my traditional cranberry juice. Again with the tradition. I considered breaking tradition when I saw the stewardess pouring a Sprite. The can popped, the beverage fizzed. As she poured it rose and swelled and I was just close enough to see the carbonation pop and explode only inches above the rim of the cup and to smell the sweet, sugary aroma.

“And for you, sweetie?”

“Cranberry juice.”

“Orange juice?”

I raise my voice, “Cranberry juice.”

“Cran-apple, all I have is cran-apple.”

“That’s fine.”

The truth is, all they hardly ever have is cran-apple. I’m not generally a purist but when it comes to my cranberry juice, I like it plain. Cran-apple is fine, though. So that’s what I told her. “That’s fine.” Those words define my outlook on life. Everything, when it comes down to it, is absolutely fine. Because making it something more dramatic or acting like it doesn’t matter at all, will never change the fact that, at the end of the day, it’s actually fine. Philosophy at it’s finest, pardon the pun.

I considered offering cookies to the teenage boys next to me. I talked myself out of it for fear of an awkward decline. I’ll probably offer, eventually. Let’s hope they don’t watch the news.

I’m in a single seat on the left aisle which earlier I heard someone describe as the “best of both worlds because you have an aisle seat and a window seat.” They’re absolutely right.

As soon as I talked myself out of offering cookies to the boys across the aisle, I looked to my left and there, out the window of my window/aisle seat, was a breathtaking view. The first person to tell me about the view from an airplane was my dad. He said it looks almost like heaven. I’m sorry, Dad, but I usually disagree. Mostly because I’m hoping for a LOT more color in heaven. White, yellow, gray, blue, that’s all I really see when I’m up in the clouds.

But, today, it’s different. Today the lack of color doesn’t bother me. There is a sheet of fluffy white that stretches from right under our wings to the farthest reach of the horizon. On the surface, it’s fluffy but the vastness of it makes it seem as solid as concrete. Today I think if we fell, the clouds would catch us. They might even throw us back up in the sky like a child on a trampoline. Maybe Dad was kind of right. Maybe he beheld something similar and that’s what made him say that.

I whipped out my camera in a sad attempt at capturing a wordless beauty and was slapped with those two fateful words that no one wants to see on their first day of a trip, “BATTERY EXHAUSTED”. And so now I’ve attempted to weave and blend my words like oil paints that might explain a beauty that can only be expressed through light and color on the retina. And it’ll probably be fine because, even though it’s a different beauty, letters and punctuation can be blended, too.

Day 1-Peachy

Well, I didn’t offer the boys any cookies. It’s not like I took them out and ate them without offering. I still haven’t had a cookie myself. Plus, I think if they had known at all that I had cookies to offer and why I didn’t, I think they’d understand completely.

When I wasn’t sharing and caring it’s merely because I was enraptured in themes of war, love, soldiers, death, hope, and honor. Louis de Berniêres had me fully engaged in the story of Cephalonia, a beautiful Greek island that Italians ignorantly occupied and Germans maliciously tried to conquer. The story, on all accounts, was at its climax. I don’t think anyone would disagree when I say it would have been an injustice to pull away when so invested in accordance with the author’s intentions. And so, the stars (or clouds) aligned and when I came to a good stopping place, I put my bookmark (a boarding pass) in its place, just as the passengers moved forward to exit the plane.

I don’t like the Miami airport, I prefer Atlanta. It’s easier and more familiar. But, lo, I arrived at my gate on time and even had time to grab a cup of water and a Cuban sandwich at an establishment inappropriately named, “Cafe Versailles” where all of the employees speak Spanish. Then, who am I kidding? This is Miami, after all. Call a spade a spade.

As I was standing in line to board, I found Louis. More appropriately, he found me and walked up behind me, his first words: “Rachel Paul.” He has always been one for eloquence!

People say my name sometimes as though it explains everything. I’ve been told that, for that reason, I shouldn’t get married. Because if I’m not Rachel Paul, who am I? I would love to have a different last name. I imagine that will be, if my day does come, the easiest transition to make into married life.

Louis came with his sister, Hannah. Who I know, thus far, is a better packer than I, very sweet, and, based on my first impression, will fare beautifully in the land of Honduras.

He also came with a couple from his church, the Peaches. They introduced themselves with their first names but, because of my previous knowledge of their name, combined with my love for that glorious fruit (fruit, in general), I don’t plan on remembering the names they gave me.

Mr. & Mrs. Peach first came to Honduras to help with Hurricane Mitch relief. This translates into another kind of relief for me. Someone who comes back to Honduras is someone with whom I can find common ground on at least one account.

They are coming to see about putting an air strip near Hospital Loma de Luz. It seems to me, like so many missionaries, they know more about why they’re doing what they’re doing than what they’re actually doing. Take it how you want, it’s not an insult.

I hope that half of a Cuban sandwich doesn’t make me sick.

…later

The Cuban sandwich was, in fact, quite nauseating. My stomach is turning and until I threw it away, it was leaving a grotesque smell in our row.

I offered cookies to two people but have only given away one cookie so far. Naturally, I don’t want to eat more cookies than I give away so I only ate one myself.

The plane is landing. I’ve slept the majority of this flight as well. By dictations of tradition, I awoke for my cran-apple juice and filled out my immigration forms. Bleh, I can still smell that stinky Cuban sandwich.

Angus & Julia Stone, As Tall as Lions, and Baby Walrus have been keeping me company as I ponder and approach more pondering.

I’m stuck with this thought, “Am I a coward for loving something deeply and not wanting to commit to it?” As things become more serious and concrete I find my inner bird pulling back and wondering where her freedom will land her.

WANT-should I want to stay in Honduras? Or, is the point of being called that it is something separate from desire?

I wrote that and then I picked up my book. Somewhere mid-sentence, I glanced out the window. I’m reconsidering. Not much can pull me away from a good book. But, when I look out my window, do you know what I see? Land, vast & green. I see potential. I see all the hope, adventure, and lust of the world wrapped in luscious trees and grass. Is this what I want? How will I ever know?

The desires of a woman’s heart are fickle. She desires freedom and captivity in the same breath.

Is this place real? Have I a different set of eyes? Has love cleared my vision? These colors are those that I attempt to put on canvas and they give me words that I exhale in a poem.

I lost a suitcase in San Pedro, which means I missed getting to see the man waiting with a sign that said, “Lunsford”. Even though it’s not my name, I have very big dreams of one day landing in an airport and having someone waiting for me like that, a sign, with my name. But, I missed out on it because I was talking with an American Airlines representatives (in Spanish?) about my lost bag.

We got on a taxi and headed to La Ceiba. I slept nearly the whole way.

…later

We have navigated our way through La Ceiba and are on our way down the road that seems to never end but in itself feels like a destination. I wish I could travel this road everyday and that it would never take me anywhere. The chicken, street vendors, dust, crops, and curves all have a story to tell, an endless story filled with suspense, romance, family, and, if you look closely enough, hope. A redefined hope.

A hope I cannot know because it is hope that inhabits the soul, shines through the eyes, but never communicates itself. Stuck in the dreams of its captor.

I am filled with a peaceful suspense as we pass acres and acres of banana trees. Louis slows down for herds of cows in the road and the farther we go, the more familiar things get. I’ve gone from one home to another.

I am lost in my thoughts and hardly realize we have reached San Luis and are parking behind the car in front of us. We are at Christine’s house and, at 5pm, 12 hours after I woke up, it’s hard to believe my travel has come to a close.

Day 1-Family

When I am with Lindy’s family and see Christine’s interaction with them I ask myself, “What more could I want?”

After having a gringa dinner of spaghetti and chicken, she takes me to meet her family. We spent a lot of time at Lindy’s cousin, Iris’, house, teasing Christine, mostly, while Iris and Lindy buzzed about in the kitchen making plates full of plátanos, guajada (a white, salty Honduran cheese), avacado, sausage, and, of course, tortillas. As we sat and chatted and laughed I saw each man being delivered a feast. And I shamefully admit my mouth watered a little bit. Except for the tiny baleada I had eaten earlier, my tongue hadn’t indulged itself in Honduran cuisine in what felt like ages but was really only about four months.

One of Christine’s many suitors came over and educated us on horses. He was nice enough but I thought him somewhat proud when he kind of dissed Jaimi’s barrio in Roatán. And then again when Kevin, wide-eyed and exhilarated, described how huge the feet of a show horse he once saw were and the suitor, Aryan, made sure to correct him saying, “No, that’s all hair.” But, like I said, he was nice enough and so… it’s fine.

The topic of horses’ feet didn’t hold my attention for too long so I went inside to see what Iris and Lindy were doing in the kitchen. I like Iris a lot. She’s extremely fun-loving and treated me like their own. Plus, she said I had the hair of a princess and after rolling out of bed at 5am, and getting dragged through airports and dusty roads, well, let’s just say that comment alone was enough to win my heart forever.

Lindy’s cousin, Edwin, who I had met earlier, was feeling sick so we prepared him a plate, bottled up juice, grabbed a giant bottle of hot sauce, and Lindy & I set off to make the delivery. We made small talk on the way about my visit, the work in Rio Esteban, living with Christine, etc.

Finally, we reached Edwin’s house. Can you say bachelor pad? It was an incredible contrast going from Iris’ house with its pink walls, gaudy curtains, and shiny dining table, to Edwin’s house. Beige walls, cushions missing, two guitars with broken strings, a desk in the living room; it was definitely missing the caring hands of a woman.

We sat and talked with Edwin for a while about where I come from, what I’m doing, what I’m studying, Christine’s suitor (Aryan), and the deadly baby snake Aryan had caught with his bare hands only minutes earlier. Christine had told me about Edwin, one of her other suitors, and so it makes sense why he took interest in all of this and why he was so delighted to hear I found Aryan boring and proud.

Edwin is studying business in La Ceiba. In my opinion, he doesn’t have much to worry about. He’s kinder and more handsome than Aryan. What will make him lose in the game of love will, at the end of the day, be his jealousy. What a conundrum.

When Lindy and I walked outside to leave we hadn’t stepped more than ten strides from the gate when she started to squeal and go in reverse. I, ignorant of what was going on but startled by the potential danger, started stepping lightly, squealing, and making my way back through the gate. Edwin had already come out and Lindy started saying she thinks she saw a snake. The fear was fresh in our minds after Aryan had caught the coral snake not long ago. Edwin went to investigate. I was right behind him and Lindy several steps back. She pointed out what had scared her and even though Edwin and I both agreed it was a stick, he approached it with caution and did a fake out to scare me. I jumped. In the end, it was just a fat stick stuck in a crevice, not the mother of the baby coral. Edwin removed it from the path and Lindy and I cautiously made our way up the dark path and into the subtle light of the main road.

When we were walking back, Aryan, Kevin, and Jaimi had decided to get in Aryan’s truck to go see the horses. I don’t know what they were expecting to see in the pitch black night but boys never have made much sense to me, anyway. We sat through a couple of minutes of Christine-harassment (of which I am not at all innocent) and retired to Lindy’s house to go to bed.

Christine and I reviewed the plans of the next day and she expressed her frustration with her suitors before I dozed off into the sleep of a dead woman. I dreamt again of crushes and group events. I remember a humiliating feeling and traces of English and Spanish before I woke up to Christine at 6:30.

Day 2-Passing Through

Waking up early here is not much of an option but more of a necessity if you don’t want to roll around in your own sweat and if you want to feel those first hours of cool air before the heat and humidity wake up and take their throne.

I had cereal for breakfast and took a “bucket shower” to be properly introduced to my new surroundings. Even though it’s no good for rinsing, at least I get to feel cool water on my skin rinse away the dirt, dust, sweat, and stale air of yesterday. I feel like a snake molting all the dead with young and alive skin making its appearance.

I gave some of Lindy’s family the cookies. They are now a crumbly mess in the Tupperware but taste just as sweet and delicious. There was only one whole one left which I insisted the mother of the house, Doña Tela, take. After I had offered it to Don Enrique, of course.

Christine has a scooter, the lucky duck. On her scooter every morning she gets to pass the Caribbean Sea.

Yes, I saw it! For the first time in seven months I said “Hello” to that ol’ love of mine. The Caribbean is so many things. I don’t worship nature or anything but the beauty of the sea is like a distant lover, a funny uncle, and a close sister all at the same time. Passing it this morning it was a cousin I had nearly forgotten but knew I’d never forget.

The baby cow broke my gaze. Christine said tenderly, “Move out of the way, baby cow.” She slowed down and when we got close enough, it scampered away toward its mother.

Those gates. We passed through the hospital gates. The gates that held me hostage and protected me. The gates that separated me. The gates that, when I left Honduras, contained all that I remember and, to the Hondurans, were more familiar than my face. They do so much good, and yet are so toxic. But, I felt good passing through those gates again. Knowing I am only a visitor when I’m behind them, and I’m at home outside of them now.

My first priority when we got to the hospital: COFFEE. I stepped over to the kitchen area and asked the mean-lady-who-doesn’t-move for coffee. Thankfully, Argentina, my former housekeeper (for staff housing, that is), was there and asked me if I wanted coffee.

“Sí, porfa.”

“Con crema o negro?”

“Negro está bien.”

She brought me a mug of black coffee in one hand and a tub of sugar in the other. I slurped, and pleasantly surprised, declined the sugar. Obviously someone has been teaching them to make coffee! Or, teaching me how to drink it.

I went to the hospital with my mug and did some greetings, finished my coffee, and returned the mug to Argentina.

Now, I sit in staff housing, in a worn-out hammock that I’ve read in, Skyped in, and “hung out” (literally) in many times before. Ironically enough, Mrs. Peach just shared with me the one luxury that she allows herself during travel, hazelnut instant coffee. Not wanting to ruin a good thing, I declined. I’m going to offer her some cookies.

Today I will read, visit, deliver Diana’s computer, think too much, go to Rio Esteban, and change my mind a million times about moving to Honduras.

Day 2-Time

The cookies are almost gone! I only have crumbly remains left in the large Tupperware of oatmeal butterscotch.

I made some visits on the hill at Loma de Luz.

After reading for a long time, I went up the hill to Trish’s house because I always know a cold beverage and all the latest awaits me there. Trish gave me the low-down and I was slightly shocked that she-who-knows-all knew very little of my plans. That means I’m doing something right!

I made plans with Sammey to go get her new friend, Eryn, and Eryn’s little brother, Benton, to come down to the portón [gate-turned-cafeteria] and eat lunch with me. Trish and Brad were leaving for La Ceiba so Brad gave us a ride up the hill while Trish waited at the house so that the AC would be cool when he picked her up on his way back down. Priorities become defined here and luxury is shameless, bless her heart.

Shortly after greeting Benton and Eryn at the Aldens, Penny came charging through on her lunch break. As I filled her in on my plans for this visit, the topic of conversation turned to the school and things changed for me. She began explaining the needs and I felt myself tiptoeing out of the country. The needs are great and the workers few, it would seem. And, unfortunately, a proper foundation has not been built upon which we can start adding to. Renovation is the word of the year, I guess. It was during this conversation that I began planting the “six month” seed. I don’t know what has gotten into me.

After a very helpful talk with Penny, I gathered the troops, made other arrangements to get Diana’s computer to her, and started down the hill. Somehow we ended up with a party of about seven at the portón. Lo and behold, China was not there, only her son, Reynieri, and no food. We spent a long time begging, collaborating, and then pleading when Reynieri told us his mom will come back with more food to cook. We didn’t eat until 2pm.

After food, I called Diana and Mrs. Marinajo came to pick me up and bring me up the hill to see Diana. It was great to see an old friend who I owe so much for all my friendships bridged by my ability to speak Spanish. But who only wants to be repaid in friendship. She made me one of the best iced coffees I’ve ever had (the deadly heat probably helped it make the list) and we spoke about everything. My plans, her plans, what has been going on since I left, our love lives, mutual friends, their love lives… you get the picture.

While we were catching up, the sky was mixing a deceiving concoction. As we started down the hill (are you getting dizzy yet?) toward staff housing, I got a call from Christine saying we missed the 4:30 bus (an odd call to receive at 4:08 but… that’s life in Honduras). When I got to staff housing Christine and I decided to catch the last bus going out at 5:45pm, supposedly. We spent some time with Deibyn, Louis, and Hannah at staff housing while dark clouds covered the sun and made the air smell like rain. I figured I had better get my suitcase down the hill and to the gate before it gets soaked. Deibyn carried my big suitcase to the but stop for me and we waited… and waited… and waited.

As people made their way past the gate to get to fellowship, the sky started clearing up and clouds were outlined with golden sunshine. Down the dirt road I saw two young ladies start running toward us, giggling. I couldn’t believe my eyes when an adolescent Andrea and a baby-fatless Sameli started wrapping their arms around me. They’re not little girls anymore. I wondered if Andrea would still want to scramble up mango trees for me or jump endlessly on the trampoline laughing at nothing. Would this thinner, shapely version of Sameli be impressed still if I handed her dry beans as a prize for saying a verse in English? Maybe their childlike spirits will mature slower than their childlike bodies did. I hope so.

Seeing them brought back so many memories. Standing at that gate did, too. Memories of them, mostly. But in all I do here there is a trace of memories left behind by someone else. I haven’t been back to the Children’s Center yet, but I wonder how they get along without him. He was a stern older brother and playmate to them all.

Doña Nora had told me earlier while we were waiting for lunch that he left July 16th. She begged him not to go. He said he didn’t want to study anymore and would go back to his parents’ house. She said he had been drinking and doing drugs. Maybe the kids had lost their Alexander long before July 16th. Maybe they lost him when I did.

Delmy asked me last night if I think it’s my fault. I don’t blame myself at all but there is a part of me that wonders. Could I revive Alexander Pacheco? I know the answer is no but love sometimes makes us feel so powerful. It’s a false power, I know. But it seemed real.

I would give something small to have him walk me home again, to stand so close there’s negative space between us, to hold his hand, sit with him, go to the beach, a stolen look, a stolen kiss. I smell him here and it brings everything back as if it were yesterday.

I have no regrets with Alexander. More than my desire to be foolish again, I desire a love that is right and real. A touch that only outwardly signifies a much deeper intimacy and a kiss that demonstrates spiritual oneness. My passion with him was lovely but it was a child’s passion that dies over time.

Day 2-Harmony

Andrea reported that there was a red alert in Ceiba and the bus would not be coming. She says she knows because Doña Dehlia had to get a ride back with Brad and Trish because the bus wasn’t coming.

We shared our newfound news with the vigilantes [guards] and were severely mocked. One commented, “Yes, the red alert in this heat is the sun!”
Okay, no red alert. However, the tires on the bus coming from Ceiba were reportedly bad and, for that reason, the bus would not be passing until after 7pm.

Christine and I decided to try our chances on the scooter. In the middle of the waiting area at the gate I opened up my big suitcase and transferred enough clothes for two nights in Rio Esteban, knowing I would be passing through [San Luis] again this weekend. We started trudging up the hill and asked one of the vigilantes to help us carry [my suitcase] up. We had to hurry because it was getting dark and after her accident Christine no longer drove the moto in the dark. I grabbed her helmet and went back to the gate to wait with our bags while she got the scooter out and took a potty break.

I felt exhilarated on that moto. My butt cheeks were numb, my thighs sore, but, my spirit was alive. The air smelled like adventure. The bleary sun was setting. And, every firefly that hit us only highlighted this feeling of broken plans and spontaneous decisions that is so characteristic of life in Honduras. Free at last!

Darkness welcomed us to Rio Esteban. In one town we passed through there was a huge crowd in the street. As we approached, not one of them so much as turned their head. It was obviously some kind of music in the middle of the road because we heard drums. I began thinking through our options:
We could try to keep moving and trust that they move out of the way. Then, we risk bumping someone and either hurting them or angering them… or both.
We could stop the moto, get off, and split up the crowd. Then, we risk our white skin getting us into more trouble than we bargained for.

As these thoughts are running their marathon through my mind, I suddenly realized that instead of making a list, Christine has gone ahead and made her decision. And so, suddenly, we are off the dirt road, weaving our way between sand, people, and a street light.

We’re so close to the crowd I swear I could reach out without fully extending my arm and be brushing my hand along backs and arms. Maybe then they would notice us!

We made our way around and spent the rest of the time praising Christine’s awesome moto skills (praise-worthy for sure!). And, finally we arrived to Delmy’s house. She, Deyni, Christine, and I had some good laughs over the story while Doña Bictelia served us a feast.

It felt good to be back with my Honduran family. I love when the two Garcia sisters and the two gringas are together. We are harmonious in every way. Deyni and Christine are the petite, older sisters. Delmy and I are the thick, younger ones. Deyni and I have the same outgoing, extroverted personalities, always wanting to talk, listen, interact. And, though both are outgoing, Delmy and Christine’s personalities are more of the strong, cautious, and completely hilarious ones. Then, of course, there are our skin colors. But, I guess that’s a given. The point is the four of us make a beautiful harmony together and whenever we walk somewhere together it’s inevitable that the older walk ahead of the younger, making less noise. It’s good because with the four of us, no one goes without a partner.

After eating, we went to church. I wore one of Delmy’s dresses that made me look pregnant so I don’t remember much from that night except a preacher yelling so loud into his microphone that I couldn’t hear him and the whole time I was trying to sit straight as a board to keep my belly from poking out.

Day 3-Color

The next morning Delmy took the bus and Christine took me on her scooter to the school. As soon as we got there, Doña Bictelia wanted to talk to me about my plans.

I cursed my dumb self for not bringing the list of questions. She and I sat down and she asked me what my plans were. I’m a little ashamed to say it but, six months came out of my mouth. She gave the impression of having no idea how long I was planning to stay and so, out of fear or divine providence, I spoke from the heart. She said she’s grateful for any and all the time I can spend with them. She said the last girl, Mackenzie, only was here three or four months and she made a huge impact on the school and some of the things she advised/implemented have changed the school forever. Good. Six months. More if I want, but no obligation. I feel… free, at peace, and cowardly. I hope everyone at home doesn’t make me regret this with their weighted questions, plans, and judgement.

The conversation went  logistic after that. Doña Bictelia shared with me her vision for the school, what she’ll have me do, their curriculum, etc.

After we ran out of school topics, she started asking my expectations for payment and said she could give me whatever minimum wage is in the States. I told her that for the initial six months pay would not be necessary. I said all I needed from her was a place to sleep and food to eat. She was so grateful and started getting teary eyed. I told her this is, for me, a privilege to help a great school. I didn’t want to see her get too grateful because I know what I’m doing has nothing to do with my character. It only means that maybe I’ve gotten rid of enough of my character to allow someone else’s to make an impact on my actions. She knew that, too, because she kept saying, in between thank you’s, that God is so good.

I had fun at the school despite the pressure I felt to memorize every name only to forget them in the next six months. I took a list of the textbooks and prices to see if they might be cheaper in the States. Delmy engaged her kids in a game that I participated in. I tutored three kids with their math, in English. THAT was a doozy.

And, I observed a spelling class. The teacher was displaying a strange mixture of trying to impress me with her English but not so much with her teaching. She’s obviously a smart chick to sense that I know more about English than teaching! She got so frustrated with those kids and by the end decided to just sit down as she told them they aren’t leaving and she’s not even going to write what the homework is on the board. I was surprised she would let me see her get so defeated, or maybe she saw it as a sign of strength. Probably the latter because if I know one thing about Hondurans, it’s that they “save face”. The good news is, she did actually let the children leave after class. So, taking hostages is not a valid disciplinary action. I took note of that.

By the time we got back to the house I was 100% exhausted. I collapsed on the bed after making plans with Bictelia and let my body, and mind, rest. I’m not sure what it was that made me so tired. Maybe heat, maybe sickness, maybe travel. 

I finally got up and Doña Bictelia and I went to the local high school to see the Garifuna dancers shake their tail ends in colorful outfits and beaded hair.

The whole event was very similar to events at local high school in the States. There was an entry fee, and they stamped people’s hands as they passed through. Of course they were too [place adjective here] to ask for my hand so they merely pecked my arm with the stamp as I passed through.

The place was full of people, color, and music. The field is in the middle of four strips of classrooms that surround it in a square. Bictelia and I stood on a ledge perpendicular to the field. You couldn’t see the bottom half of the dancers because the crowd in front was so close to them. But, you could see their arms waving, chests thumping, and beads flying as they danced to mainstream pop songs that we hear on 100.5 back in Chesapeake. Some of the songs were redone by other artists either in Spanish or with a Caribbean flare. Bictelia had conversations with adults, teens, and children alike, and though they mostly didn’t acknowledge me, I was glad to be associated with someone who is obviously respected in the community. 

We left after all the groups had danced and went to Delmy’s half-sister’s house. Delmy’s half-sister lives in New York and has been gone for a year. There is a guy that stays at the house but he is a Honduran male so the house has collected dust, dirt, and trash as if it were abandoned for a year. 

The New Yorkian half-sister asked Delmy and her aunt to go over and clean up before she arrived with her boyfriend and two children. So, I stopped at the house and spent some time cleaning, the rest just waiting with Meylin while Delmy and her aunt cleaned the place from top to bottom. 

It rained hard that night. I loved the tropical thunder and lightning and the cool breeze that followed. 

Still feeling exhausted, I went to bed early that night. I had told Delmy that my throat was hurting and all I remember is her bringing me medicine. I swallowed a spoonful of something and passed out again.

Day 4-Trash and Treasure

I woke up in the morning fully clothed and feeling like if I stand up, my bladder will burst. After getting to the bathroom, though, I started feeling refreshed. I took another bucket shower, this time in the pitch black, and began feeling revived. Especially after putting on a white shirt and my overalls. By that time I was invincible.

Delmy and I took the bus to the hospital that morning where we awaited Lisa to take us to the Dump. Nestor and Umberto were there. It was good to see them. I tried to imitate the dancers I saw the day before in Rio Esteban and even tried to dance “punta”. I love when they think I’m ridiculous.

After they left, Deibyn came to say goodbye to Louis who would be leaving from Ceiba. Soon, Lisa arrived to pick us up. We went up the hill to get Eryn and then to the Children’s Center to pick up two pieces of my heart, Jason and German.

Those boys are so stinking guapo. I missed them without realizing it. Jason sat right next to me and, to be cool, German tried to act like he wasn’t excited to see me. Man, I love those boys. I want to spoil them all the days of my life and their adolescent rejection of my affection only fuels the fire! When we stopped at the gas station and everyone got water, I had to get them ice cream. Their hesitation and sweet voices when they said “gracias” was worth all the money in the world!

On the way to the Dump, Lisa asked us to pray. It did my heart good to see those boys bow their heart and close their eyes every time someone prayed. I can see, especially with German, that some rough edges have been chiseled away. She also told us about “treasure hunting” and stories she had from that. I admire Lisa. If I choose this path, I hope I become like her. In tune with the Spirit, loving, a true servant.

For a while, things at the Dump were chaotic. Well, things at the Dump are always chaotic. But, I seem to remember a time when all the kids were seated listening to Wilson. Wilson is a young boy who lives at the Dump. He recently chose Christ and now Lisa has him trying to lead a little with the ministry.

I don’t know how to feel about Wilson. Lisa was right when she said he’s rough around the edges. He definitely wasn’t sweet or gentle. But, oddly enough, I thought he was gay. He spoke in a high voice with a bit of a lisp, kept playing with rings on his fingers. I don’t know. How could I know? It’s hard to discern cross-cultural character traits (if you can call it that…). But, all I know, is what my instincts told me. Maybe gay isn’t the right word. Maybe it is.

After devotionals and handing out baleadas, (Lisa brought 100 because there are usually 50 kids. Apparently, the kids thought Lisa was gone somewhere so a lot didn’t come.) we took the kids down the hill. They jumped off the car like little fleas as we passed their “houses”.

We parked the car and started doing visitations. The first was with a man who had hurt his knee. I can hardly bear to think about it, let alone write about it. The hospital/clinic he went to told him to take stitches out too early. The rest you can decipher for yourself.

Lisa advised him to go somewhere else for medical care. She called someone else who ministers at the Dump and told them to come by the following day, take a look at the cut, and take him somewhere for treatment. Delmy prayed for the man and I, along with some others, stepped out of the house early to drink of fresh air.

We continued our way through the heaps of trash that these people call home and saw two boys playing firemen. There was a little fire on the side of the path and they were using a ball pump to put it out. One held the air container and pumped while the other directed the end of the hose near the fire. Aside from the potential danger, it was a cute sight to behold. Especially when one got bored and ran off and the other kept at it on his own. As we turned up the path to the right, Lisa began talking to a man she obviously knew. I wasn’t paying much attention until she turned to me and said,

“How do you say hemo________ in Spanish?”

“I’m not sure I know what that means in English.”

She kept talking, asking the man if we could go to the house, now directing her questions to him and his wife. We started following them and Lisa filled us in. This woman had lost two children to a disease that doesn’t allow liquid to drain from the brain. Her current son with this disease had fallen down a week ago and now couldn’t hear or walk. We climbed an impossible amount of stairs suspended in dirt on the side of a hill, really only the frame of a staircase, and reached their house.

We walked inside and I was surprised when I recognized this boy. When I had gone to the Dump with Julia he was always the boy with quiet eyes, obviously some abnormality causing an enlarged head, and a gentle spirit. There are a few kids at the Dump that are easy to handle, he is one of them. But, the quietness of his eyes had turned to fear and confusion.

Delmy uttered prayers. We asked questions in Spanish to the mother. And then, as if grasping for an answer in any language, to each other in English. We offered our condolences, and words of faith. The mother expressed her faith, knowing that God is faithful. It’s funny how we use that phrase when we’re not sure what’s going to happen. Only that, whatever it is, it will be God’s will.

It’s also funny that we are supposed to be the one’s with something to “offer” and we have stepped into the house of a woman whose faith far surpasses my own. She is a missionary. The world (Dare I say the church?) has twisted the definition of that word. I am glad God has shown me the truth and continues to humble me.

I was the last person to hug her, kiss her son, and leave. It’s hard to imagine that all of the words that had circled and buzzed through that room translated for him into several kisses from strange lips and touches that I hope gave him hope and, more than anything, love.

Day 4-Our Skin

It’s another stark Honduran contrast moving from the Dump in La Ceiba to the mall. We went there for lunch.

I lost Delmy and that’s when Lisa told me that this was always the hardest part for her. She said she thinks she was embarrassed when Lisa used to pay for her lunch and that Delmy got quiet at the mall. I imagine it would be hard to go from a place where people have less to where they have much more than you. To me, they all have less, it’s only a matter of how much less.

But, as it turns out, Delmy had merely left her feminine products on the bed that morning and had to buy more. So simple.

We ate and some went grocery shopping. I tried to soak up the presence of those precious boys before we headed back. After the mall, we went to the airport. I had lost my suitcase full of bubbles and chalk in San Pedro Sula so they sent it to the La Ceiba airport. Getting the bag took me all of two minutes and I wonder why Honduras gives everyone else so much trouble.

Lisa took us all the way back to Rio Esteban. Eryn talked the whole way and even yelled at cows. I didn’t enjoy it, per say. But I didn’t mind, either, because Lisa was getting a kick out of it and I think Lisa deserves to get a kick out of things every once in a while.

Luis (Delmy’s brother) and Yeny (his wife) came with their baby to Bictelia’s house last night. He is so cute and so white that it paved the way for some good gringo jokes. Delmy and I went to the beach but didn’t last long in El Caribe because she spotted a jellyfish and I have no patience for them.

We walked on the beach and talked about how much her English has improved and how gringos never say what’s on their mind.

She thinks Lisa is mad at her for having stopped going to the Dump regularly. We also had the inevitable talk about why they didn’t go to the feria [a village's yearly, month-long celebration of their saint] and how my friends drink, smoke, and play pool. But, we don’t dance…

Instead of partaking in feria, they go to church. To church we went! I felt beautiful with my beach hair and favorite dress. They asked people to come sing songs and a girl who lives in New York but has family in Rio Esteban sang,
“I love you Lord
And I lift my voice
To worship you”
Her name is Beverly, we met after the service.

I don’t like the men that preach at Delmy’s church. They yell. The one last night said, “mmmm” in between rants and rolled his r’s like crazy.

While we were singing beforehand a small, big-eyed angel caught my eye. He was staring at me with a huge grin on his face and wouldn’t stop smiling. I remember him from when I helped Delmy with the kids for the New Years Eve service. I motioned for him to come to me.

Somewhere during worship a young, beautiful black man came in and the little boy ran to him, wrapped his arms around him, and got swung in the air for a giant hug before the young man got on stage to play the drums. After that Daniel came and sat with me for the rest of the service. The beautiful black boy sat next to Beverly.

When they played the songs after the service I danced like I was born in Jamaica, with Daniel in my arms the whole time. I was full of joy.

After the service, Beverly invited me to go preaching. Some gringo from Funavid brought two of his disciples to church in Rio Esteban and afterward they walked around with a megaphone and a video camera preaching the gospel like the village people who hunted the beast. Delmy, Bictelia, and I went to a pulpería to get licuados (milk shakes). We shared a piece of bread pastry and looked strangely at the evangelists, making jokes about the camera. I gave that camera my best posture and sweetest smile, you better believe!

What I would give to see that footage, where I’m on the opposite side of gringo idiosyncrasies and in-sensitivities.

We walked home and shared our licuados after trying to hide the treats, to no avail. Bictelia told me about her life and we talked about the moon. She told me a joke about the moon whose moral was that, after time, the spark of love is gone. At least the joke was funny.

Day 5-Suspended

This morning I caught the bus out to the hospital. Christine and I are going boating with her family today and after that horrible bus ride, it better be worth it! I should see if I haven’t missed church yet. Then again, I have gone twice already this week.

….later

I went over to the cabildo where the missionaries have their church services. After taking a shower where the water moves over me effortlessly and grooming myself, I figured I have nothing better to do. And, it’d be good to go ahead and see them all to make arrangements for when I’m back in San Luis. So, I went.

It was good to see my girls again and I even got the treat of seeing Darwincito. My gosh, if I don’t go to the Children’s Center before I leave, I’ll die.

It was the normal, stale, awkward service that we always have. The Rumbaugh women led and between songs gave us tips on how to minister to Muslims… I don’t get it.

Christine showed up before the end of the video sermon they were watching (which was actually awesome) and we got on her moto and left. On the ride back, she got a call from the hospital so we turned around because there was a critical patient and they needed labs.

So, I had Benny buy me a grape soda and I went back to the service. I saw everyone as they trickled out. It’s so funny to me that this is the only time I’ll see most of them and some of them didn’t really know I was here. Not a single one knew when I came or when I’m leaving. I’m a horrible person for taking pleasure in this.

The Younts talked to me most and, in the typical manner, Sharon talked to me about school and wanted me to come up and chat. Shaw, of course, asked about my dad and wanted to make plans for me to come another time. I found out earlier this week that he had cancer and yet, even though Sharon made a comment about his being in Virginia a lot, none of them showed it.

Sharon went to the lab to ask Christine if she could have me for lunch. Christine said no, she’d be finished soon. Deibyn wanted attention and stole my purse so, while Christine finished, I called him and told him to bring it to the hospital. He did.

Peanut butter and jelly was a relief for me after so many redundant feasts out here in Rio Esteban. But, after lunch, I felt less and less relieved. I became exhausted and nauseous so I laid down for a nap while we waited for Edwin and Kevin to get back from Ceiba and take us out in the lancha (motor boat).

I felt a little better until we got to the beach. I thought for sure I would throw up or my stomach would just fall out. I sat down and explained ti to Lindy. She was sweet. The rest of them, out of ignorance not apathy, cheered me on to come help them pull the boat out.

I got up, pushed, felt nauseated, sat, repeat.

I was so scared that I would vomit when we got in the lancha but when it was zipping through the waves, I felt great.

Of course, the boys parked it by some rocks and got out with the spear gun and while we sat there and teetered I started strategizing where to chuck so it wouldn’t scare away the sea life.

The girls nagged enough and we were off again. Lindy didn’t really like the waves so we went to the coast and dropped her and some little ones off. We left again and now that Lindy was gone we were free to fly, and fly we did!

I couldn’t help but smile with all the wind and waves lifting us up, everyone bouncing and sliding and laughing.

The sickness left me so this time the Caribbean was my doctor, or my medicine. Either way, I told you it changes every time. It’s good to have a relationship like this because when you don’t know what to expect, you leave behind your expectations. And, when you have no expectations, things are either fine, or they’re great. They’ll at least be fine.

We flew over to the Balfate coastline and picked up two girls who were swimming in a group of about eight women. We went deeper and then jumped in the water.

I love swimming in deep water. It’s more like dangling or being suspended except you don’t have to be afraid of falling.

We put our greatest efforts into pushing that lancha out of the water, unsuccessfully. She didn’t budge. Edwin decided to use the car to pull it out. I joked about being able to drive. He double-checked and I was assigned to drive the truck while they all stood back and pushed the lancha.

Yes. A stick-shift. A challenge. An adventure. At times I was lucky enough to feel the boat pulling me back. The rope broke twice but, even on an incline, we were able to get it out on about the third try.

Day 5-Dancing

Christine has apparently taught all of Lindy’s family how to cook. Which is funny for someone who came claiming she doesn’t know how to cook. I always admire her and Joelle for taking the bull by the horns with that one. We all cooked but those two came with the least experience and now will both undoubtedly make the best wives.

Anyhow, Christine taught Iris how to make pizza and tres leches so that’s what Iris made that night. I would die a thousand deaths to make tres leches a health food. I am of the belief that one of the milks in tres leches comes from a holy cow. Because HOLY COW it’s good!

After we had eaten and discussed the happenings of the day, how old everyone is, and , of course, marriage, we decided to walk down to the park in Balfate.

It was a beautiful night with beautiful company.

At first, it was just us girls and little David so in the darkness, we decided to turn on some sinful music and dance. Because, here in Honduras, if you’re dancing in the light then it’s because you love darkness.

The girls loved when Christine and I danced. Of course, Iris and Mabel wouldn’t dance (Iris says she’s too old and Mabel said she had to control the music). So dance we did! [I love that expression, apparently.]

I love that they think I’m a good dancer. Little do they know,t he width of my hips wouldn’t allow me to be a bad dancer in Honduras. They probably think I’m dancing when I walk down the street.

Kevin and Aryan came walking on the path and once they arrived there was a lot of discussion about who would dance and little dancing. Of course no one there was my suitor and I didn’t much care what they thought about sin at this point so I could’ve just kept right on without any feeling of shame.

When we got back to the house I was 100% beat. I laid on the couch a while, then kissed all my sisters good night and went to bed.

Day 6-Teacher

I woke up in the morning and took the school bus back out to Rio Esteban. That bus. I still haven’t worked up the nerve to take pictures on the bus but I really have to. It’s something else, that bus.

The 2nd grade teacher didn’t come that day so Hannah and I taught the 2nd graders.

It was a challenge because I was trying to implement an American discipline in a Honduran classroom. I thankfully know enough of this culture to have recognized and adapted instead of frustrating everyone involved. Ew, that sounded so conceited. Typical.

Anyhow, they were 2nd graders so there was frustration involved but also a lot of cuteness and a rewarding feeling when they understood or enjoyed anything. One of them took my heart and it shows in the photos.

When I’m outside of a classroom I never think of myself as a teacher but once I’m in I realize why it’s what I chose. I truly enjoy it and feel content teaching. Like time passes more quickly. It’s good to sow seeds that were once sewn in you and that you’ve seen the fruit of. Especially when a bunch of adorable, dark faces fill the room.

[written 08/30:

Looking back, Deyni taught me a lot about being a teacher outside of the classroom. I tend to just want to be friends with kids when I'm not in front teaching them.

But, Deyni, she takes advantage of every opportunity to turn their hearts toward aspirations and more of Jesus. I want to be like that. She brought a teeny little [probably] 5-year-old girl to the youth group one of the nights I was with her and, on the way, she explained to the little girl everything that was going to happen and how important it is to listen to everything that the preacher says because he’s going to tell us about Jesus. She somehow made that little girl understand and every time I looked over at her, she was smiling sweetly and had her ears open. Amazing.

Then, there were the countless occasions that young kids from the neighborhood would stop by and ask for help with their homework. Whether they went to public school or Bictelia’s private school, they received the help that they sought after. And, anytime that Deyni or Delmy saw neighborhood kids they always asked if they had done their homework. If they hadn’t, they were gently and firmly scolded and exhorted to desire more from life and put forth their best effort.

Last night, when I was babysitting, I saw some of that in me. Every time I found myself gently scolding the kids, I also took the opportunity to explain to them what it means to respect authority. Then, when Douglas wanted me to sit down and go through a list of all the countries I’ve been to and every word I know in a different language, I started to take it a step further by showing him the countries on a globe and telling him how to say the languages in Spanish. Yes, a teacher. It suits me, sometimes. More and more, it suits me.]

Day 6-Church

The rest of my time in Rio Esteban followed the basic pattern of: school, food, more food, church.

There were some slight variations.

On Monday, we played basketball with some of the guys in the village. It feels good to have Hondurans think you’re good at a sport. They don’t know my own flaquita [skinny chick] of a sister can whoop my butt. And as far as I’m concerned, they don’t need to know. I’ve suffered enough on the soccer field in Honduras that a little victory on the basketball court doesn’t hurt.

Deyni and I went to the youth group at her church and they were studying Revelation. Someone brought up a microchip and the pastor seemed to like that topic. He said the microchip can only go on your forehead or your right hand and the microchip has some combination of 666 and people are already buying the microchip and watch out for the microchip.

After talking about the microchip, he called up all the kids in the group who hadn’t accepted Christ and had us stand around them to pray for them. Everyone started praying emotionally and I kept looking at those young girls having prayers thrown at them, hands reaching out to them but, as if there were some invisible barrier, not touching them. NOT. TOUCHING. THEM.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let them think they were untouchable, much less that Christ wouldn’t have touched them. I went in the circle, grabbed the hand of one of the girls and held it, put my other hand on her shoulder, held her close, and smiled at her.

Delmy’s cousin, Brayan, came over to me and started shouting prayers. Delmy told me he had wanted to meet me and thought I was beautiful. Now here he is praying for my salvation. I wonder if this is how he gets all the ladies. I shouldn’t say that, I know they all had the best of intentions.

I would rather all the saints pray for my salvation than have all the sinners thinking it’s unattainable for them. And that if they don’t have it they’re, well, untouchable. It was one of those rare moments that I felt like a missionary. I felt like God wanted me there to be Christ, to touch the leper, to put mud on the eyes of the blind and let him see.

It’s too bad that when I felt like I was being Christ to those girls I was doing something the church members didn’t want to do. I hate this. I hate feeling separate from my family, the body of Christ. Why is it that when I try to be most like Christ I feel like I’m being proud or judgemental toward the church? I wish things were different.

Day 7-Arrival

Bictelia and I covered a lot of ground in those next two days at school. For someone who doesn’t like to be very curious, I’m proud to say I got all of my questions answered in my time there… and then some.

I think it helped Bictelia, too, to have someone asking those questions. I think it made her feel less like I was giving her a handout and more like she was making a decision for her school that could benefit it.

We also came up with a list of phrases she could use in the meantime. Things like:
“Don’t eat in class.” and
“That doesn’t please God.” and
“Awesome!”

I kept doing some tutoring and sat in on Delmy’s class. During recess, I let a sixth grader beat me at a game of one-on-one but it doesn’t really count because he was taller than me.

My last night in Rio Esteban was Tuesday night. After we got back from school and ate lunch, I took some pictures of Delmy’s room [my future half-room] and laid in the hammock watching Deyni play mini-soccer with some of the boys.

I tried to suck in the aroma of that moment and enclose it in my brain to be released in February when I’m saying my good byes. There was a strong breeze and palm trees were swaying. I saw a hummingbird fly over to a hibiscus flower and take a sip. The boys were shouting in Spanish, kicking up dust with their bare feet, and celebrating mini-victories in their mini-soccer game.

Maybe I’m lustful for wanting to remember Honduras for these things. Maybe I should let the Lord’s call on my life be enough. My flesh is weak. I believe, help my unbelief.

That night at church was the culto de adoración [adoration service]. It’s mostly just worship and Brayan gave a brief message. I remember it being good, I just wish I could remember what it was about.

After church, Delmy and I went to her friend [and fellow teacher], Deslinn’s, house so I could check out the internet speed on the Tigo modem.

Deslinn is very sweet and extremely bubbly and scattered. She served us dinner and after I had finished on Facebook (it only took me about three minutes to get sick of it) she started chatting with an American girl who had been teaching at the bilingual school before. She would say something to us, look at the computer, crack up, say the girl’s name a million times, and then say she’s getting off.

Delmy and I were falling asleep. I guess Deslinn could tell because she eventually released us. Delmy and I walked home in the pitch black and quiet streets of Rio Esteban arm-in-arm and she told me she didn’t want me to leave. I said halfheartedly that I don’t want to leave either.

My problem is that I never want to leave anywhere. There’s just always somewhere I want to arrive. 

Day 8-Pulse

After school on Wednesday, I took the school bus out to the hospital. After practically dragging my 50lb. suitcase up to staff housing, I ate the lunch Delmy’s tía [aunt] sent with me, talked with Argentina, and shaved my legs in one of the showers upstairs.

I went to Trish’s house where Hannah is house sitting to use Hannah’s computer. Facebook and e-mails overwhelmed me but made me excited about seeing familiar faces.

There were so many messages about Savannah. I got a call earlier in the week. Savannah died while I was gone and thus far, it has left me speechless and tearless. I want to do Savannah justice by sitting in my house where she has left an empty spot and filling it with tears and all the mourning I can muster.

When I walked out of Trish’s house I saw Heidi’s car parked outside so I figured she’s probably at Mrs. Zina’s. Sure enough, she was. I sat and talked with both of them and then Heidi and I got in her car and went up the hill for the date we had planned.

Heidi is a true missionary and so I try to make sure to see her when I can so she’ll rub off on me. She gave me what she referred to as “unsolicited advice”. I probably should’ve written it down but I remember most of it. She said I should write down my fears about moving to Honduras and strategize on how I’ll face each one. She also suggested I start collecting devotionals books to have there with me. Both good ideas! Like a true missionary would give, I guess.

Have I said yet that Honduras is beautiful? It has to be the most beautiful place in the world. And when you’re up that hill looking over the Caribbean it’s obvious that there is a God in heaven who lives, breathes, and moves in the fullness of everything real, true, and profound.

I went to the Fields’ house to get the money from Diana for her computer. We talked about my time in Rio Esteban, one of many conversations I’ll have about my time in Rio Esteban. Maybe I should write myself out a script. Better yet, pass around my journal.

You know who didn’t ask me much about Rio Esteban? The Younts. That night, Christine and I had dinner at the Yount’s house (basil chicken). I felt natural with them. Like seeing distant family members. The jokes and memories are never too old and any sour feelings have long since faded because family is family. Well, the Younts aren’t family. But you know what I mean.

As we were leaving I, kind of in passing, confided to Christine that my stomach was a little upset. Oh my, if only I knew what that comment had in store for me in the next 24 hours. [more like 78!]

Dr. Shaw dropped us off in San Louis and, of course, we went to Iris’ house. By this time my stomach was turning upside down and I could hardly sit up straight. So, I went and laid on Iris’ couch. People came in and out. Lights went on and off. And I vaguely remember Christine telling me she was leaving. I couldn’t move or I knew I would fall or vomit or my head would fall off. I eventually realized I couldn’t very well sleep on half of Iris’ couch all night. I knew the best thing to do would be to just get into my own bed and stay there until I felt alive again.

They were on the porch as I was leaving and offered for me to sit down. I told them I wasn’t feeling very well probably for having changed my diet so much lately. And Doña Tela, in a motherly fashion, agreed that it would be best for me to go get some rest. And, rest I did! As soon as I got in bed I was asleep.

But, I wasn’t asleep for long before my stomach turned inside out and emptied itself on the side of my bed. I had tried to get up and find a bucket first but as soon as I moved there was no hope. I felt horrible. Not only physically, but for having woken up poor Christine who now, after hours, had her own personal patient living in her room and ruining her sheets.

Christine and I took the sheets to the pila and tried to wash them. What a stench. We eventually realized it wasn’t working too well and Christine said she’d take them to Iris’ washing machine while I put the new sheets on the bed. I threw the new sheets on and, exhausted, immediately fell asleep. I remember at some point all the women in Lindy’s family leaning over my bed offering me alka-seltzer and then again opening my eyes to a fizzing cup of it.

Until 12pm the next day, I was in that room like a bear in a cave. My body was burning. My head was heavy. My heart was racing. And my mind had nearly gone delirious.

Day 9-Resurrected

I woke up to a text from Christine and I told her I wanted to go to the hospital.

She and Norma came and got me. Sonya hooked me up to an IV, Christine drew my blood, and Dr. Joel asked me questions and made me laugh against my will about the huge barf bucket I had brought.

After the first liter of IV fluid, I started feeling alive again. The fever stuck until, well, until I left Honduras. But, with a little medicine and plenty of water, it didn’t interrupt things too much.

Christine took me home because my IV finished around the time she was done with work.

A shower has never felt so good.

It’s like I had forgotten for a day that I had a body and when I poured cold water over my burning head, I started to remember how to use my fingers and toes.

Christine and I went to a pulpería to get some soda crackers. I was craving peanut butter and crackers. I bought six packs of crackers but could hardly finish the first.

Dr. Joel gave me packets of electrolyte solution to put in water. So gross. After trying to make it bearable I decided to just go back to the pulpería and get some Gatorade.

Mike and Peggy Yost picked us up to go to fellowship. Fellowship was weird for me. I really only wanted to be around Jason, or any other Honduran. I wasn’t sure how to interact with the missionaries because if I hadn’t already made plans with them, it was too late now.

[It's ironic. Today (08/30) I got an e-mail from one of the missionaries discussing my behavior at fellowship that night. Ask me, I'll show it to ya. It was humbling. Humiliating? Both?]

Not to mention, the thought that I hadn’t gone to the Children’s Center killed me and I thought if I could squeeze the few of them that were there hard enough, maybe the rest would feel it.

I love Jason. I know I’m not supposed to have favorites or whatever and I’m not even saying that Jason is my favorite. I’m just saying that I love him.

I want him to have the best of everything and I never want to lose track of him. That is love, right?

He and Umberto came to me and said goodbye before they left. I know it seems normal but, for two adolescent Honduran boys, it means something. It meant something to me.

While they were doing fellowship I was on the computer familiarizing myself with the itinerary, and my Facebook. I’m excited to see my family and friends.

After fellowship we went to Iris’ house. Edwin’s papi was there. He led us in a devotional during which Christine let a little gas slip and produced for all of us a night full of entertainment.

But before I get into that, Don Victor (Edwin’s dad) mesmerizes me. He plays the guitar in a somewhat classical Latino fashion and it reminded me of the 4th of July when Christian’s aunt played the guitar for us. He sings beautifully, too, and with conviction. Then he spoke to us about Jesus turning water to wine. I wish Don Victor was my uncle.

He’s so respectable but not unattainable. Less like a refined wine and more like the perfect cup of coffee.

After having gone to church every day during this trip, it would be the devotional with Don Victor and my last night in La Ceiba that I enjoyed most. They’re different in a lot of ways but, at the heart, so irresistibly sincere. I can’t ask for anything more from the church right now. Thank you, Don Victor, for being sincere on the porch with your guitar, your family, and  your Bible.

So sincere that he didn’t even notice Christine’s trumpet sound until he looked up from his Bible and saw us all resisting an irresistible laughter. Edwin had me in stitches for the rest of the night. Aryan came over and Edwin started dropping hints about what happened during our devotional so we decided to leave Christine and Aryan alone so Christine could explain what was going on (knowing full well she would never).

Edwin, Iris, Marialis, David, and I went to the park. While Marialis and David played the three of us sat on a bench talking about life.

Lindy’s family is a good fit for me and I’m glad to have met them. Edwin, Iris, and I I think could talk forever–the three of us. We’re different enough to keep things interesting but I think what we have in common is that we know we don’t know and we know there’s not just one way. One way to live, to love, to joke.

Edwin told me later that Iris likes me a lot and he thinks it’s because I’m the same as them. Whatever that means, I’m glad. I want to be the same as people. Even after having gone back to Iris’ house (Aryan had left before we got back) and harassing Christine so much that she left, I sat on the porch with Edwin, Iris, Lindy, and Kevin until midnight, talking and joking.

I was glad I hadn’t made plans for the next day before I left. It’s nothing short of an honor to have spent my last day in town with them.

Day 10-Clear Water and A Glimpse

The next morning was Friday and I woke up very early feeling feverish. I escaped to the kitchen and took some medicine and went back to bed until Christine woke up and we had breakfast and talked about the events of last night. After Christine left for work I slept a little longer until I made myself get up at 9am and felt better after a shower.

That morning I packed and Iris and I went to the beach.

A tropical storm was coming [Irene!] so the beach looked beautiful with the white sky looming about the clear water. You could see the islands so clearly that one might have thought they could swim to them. Right at the shoreline the water was washing over pebbles that were all the colors of the rainbow and when we looked behind us Iris pointed out to me where they took Christine once to get beans.

Iris’ husband is 50+ years old and works on cargo ships. He is gone most of the time and Iris said he’d be back in September. I asked if he’d only stay for two months and she said he’d stay until February, or March, maybe April, or maybe he’d decide to stay, but probably not. Her husband owns the land where they get beans and I would love to meet him. Iris says so much good about him and if he’s anything like the man I would choose for Iris, he must be amazing.

But, the fact of the matter is that in Honduras marriages are almost never so simple that an amazing man marries an amazing woman and they live happily ever after. He was married before and has three grown daughters. Iris has never met his ex-wife, they’ve only seen one another from a distance. She says, “these are things that happen in life.” I agree and she asks me about my parents.

I’m not sure why but without a doubt Iris and I are kindred spirits. And, for her sake, I hope her husband comes back, and stays. A flower like Iris shouldn’t be left to wilt. It’s a crime against all things good and natural.

Marialis and her friend gathered beach fruits in buckets and bags and we went back to the house.

The guys wanted me to see the shop so I went over there and Don Victor gave me a thorough walk-through. The furniture they make is so beautiful. It’s actually funny that the first time I walked into Iris’ house I remember looking at her table and thinking to myself that it was a work of art [see Day 1-Family]. Maybe it’s because most Hondurans keep tablecloths on their tables but even if that’s all, that says something.

Come to find out, Don Victor and the boys made that beautiful, dark, shiny table with its luster and thick glazed surface. Don Victor offered to make furniture for my house when I marry a Honduran. That’s a relief, I have furniture. What else? Oh yeah… I’ll need a husband, a house… a job. Sweet of you, Don Victor. You’re the only one that’s got me on my way so far.

God, are you sure you don’t want to give me a glimpse at that whole, big picture that we’re supposedly only being shown a part of? I don’t need to know everything, just, some hints would be nice. Let me know.

Day 10-Edwin

Today is 09/04/2011.

This has been an edifying project and I couldn’t be happier that I decided to do it. If you’re all the way down here, reading the last days’ entries, then all I want to express to you is my utmost gratitude. It means the world. Please let me know that you’ve read this and give me your feedback and your insight.

After Iris and I went to the beach on that last day I was in San Luis, I ate soup with her family and packed my things.

My plan was this: get to La Ceiba, spend the night at Sharon’s house, take the bus to San Pedro the next morning, fly out of San Pedro, and arrive to Norfolk at 11:55pm on the 20th.

Today is 09/07/2011.

Edwin drove me to La Ceiba. I felt different with Edwin. It’s a different feeling.
We know that we get along and see eye-to-eye on many things. We enjoy one another’s company. We have good conversations. But, the fact of the matter is that we are still strangers. It’s likely that the moment Edwin dropped me off at Sharon’s house was the last moment we’ll share together in this life. Truthfully, I’ve had a lot of relationships in my life similar to this one. It’s an odd beauty-like abstract art. I kind of love it.

So we had a lot of meaningless meaningful conversation. I shared with Edwin my conflict about Honduras. The country that tortures me with its beauty and abuses me with its affection. I wrote this on the plane about Honduras:

What have I loved more than you?
What have I sacrificed more for than you?
And yet, you haunt me.
Your affection is abuse.
Your embraces torment me.
You taunt me endlessly.
Why must you persist?
Free me.

A tad dramatic, if you ask me.

Edwin asked me if I would live on the coast in Colón forever. For some reason all of my romance with Honduras disappears when Edwin talks to me about it. He’s very practical. Plus, he doesn’t want to live on the coast much longer. He has plans to move back to Roatán as soon as possible. I started talking about staying for a while and maybe looking for a place to teach where I can get paid more. Edwin told me that on Roatán I would get paid better money than anywhere on the mainland.

Why did I act like money matters? Surely I must know that if money mattered, I would choose to teach in the States.

Edwin and I stopped at the gas station and he bought me a grape soda. When I’m with Edwin I feel like I’m with a friend from the States. It’s so weird.

He started mentioning that he has to drive back to San Luis only to drive to La Ceiba again the next day. I asked why he didn’t just stay the night in La Ceiba and he said it’s because his friend is out-of-town and he doesn’t want to stay alone in a hotel. I felt awkward. Did he want me to offer for him to stay with us? I guess I could have but… it would’ve looked a little too strange if I showed up to Sharon and Marvin’s house with some guy and asked if he could spend the night. He probably didn’t want me to offer. I doubt he would ever take me up on it. He’s not the type to accept favors. He was probably just lamenting.

I got him a little lost on the way to Sharon’s house and I’m glad that I did because it gave us a chance to spend our last minutes together teasing about being directionally-challenged rather than conversing.

He brought my bags into Sharon’s house for me and I introduced everyone. Awkward pause. Edwin interjects that he should go. I give him a friendly, Honduran kiss on the cheek and say, “Nos vemos!” (We’ll see each other!). Edwin exits stage left.

Day 10-He Knows

Sharon Lopez is a powerful American woman of God who married a sweet, and equally powerful man of God who happens to be Honduran. Sharon’s parents worked at the hospital before I came and when I met Marvin it was before I met Sharon and they were in the midst of their long distance relationship that soon resulted in an engagement, and, not long after, their matrimony.

I don’t know Sharon extremely well but when we’ve met we always hit it off and when I was dating Alexander I used to correspond with her for advice over Facebook. Advice on how to date a Honduran and how to date long distance and how to date in Spanish and how to love the Lord and how to date someone who doesn’t seem to love Him as much as I do and then, eventually, how to break up long distance. Needless to say, even though I haven’t spent heaps of time with Sharon physically, I feel like we have a strong enough friendship for me to ask to stay with her my last night in town. It sure beats a young, white girl staying alone in a hotel in La Ceiba.

My time with Sharon and Marvin was amazing. As soon as I got there we started the longest stream of conversation. What did we talk about? What didn’t we talk about? More than anything, we talked about cultural differences since they play such a pivotal role in all of our lives.

The way Sharon speaks Spanish makes me to want to gather a bunch of sticks together, light a fire, climb on top of it, float up to the clouds, jump on all of them, and then swing from lightning bolts like a little crazed monkey.

It’s FLUID. It’s so stinking FLUID. I wonder. I wonder. If there were a guarantee out there that if I locked myself in a cupboard full of tortillas for three months and I would be able to speak exactly like her, I wonder if I wouldn’t just go ahead and do it.  I wonder if I would just sit in a cupboard that smells like flour for three whole months just to speak Spanish like Sharon Lopez.

The three of us spoke mostly Spanish except for the times when Marvin was off and away somewhere and I would rush forward, somewhat relieved to let my heart spill its guts a little in its first language. I was so glad I could keep up with them, though! Spanish was kind to me on this trip. I discovered that I am not rusty really at all. If anything, I’ve gotten slightly more advanced and aside from the first couple awkward stumbles, Spanish might be just like riding a bike. Not like how everyone tells you playing the piano is like riding a bike. But, truly. At first your feet feel rickety on the pedals but once they pick up speed, you’re rolling.

We went to Sharon and Marvin’s church that night and as I’ve mentioned earlier, it was one of two of my favorite services that I partook in. The pastor also spoke a flawless, clean Spanish; unlike the muddled version that I had become accustomed to out in the campo (country).

He spoke about outward appearances and that the only real way a Christian can view people in a Christlike manner is by examining their fruits. (Hence, the title of this blog: of the fruits=de los frutos.)  I believe this wholeheartedly.
Mr. CleanSpanishMan ended the sermon with the last two verses from Psalm 139.

Examíname, oh Dios, y conoce mi corazón;
Pruébame y conoce mis pensamientos;
Y ve si hay en mí camino de perversidad,
Y guíame en el camino eterno.
Examine me, Oh God, and know my heart;
Try me and know my thoughts;
And see if there is in me any evil way,
And guide me in the eternal way.

It was his use of that passage in the sermon that inspired me to begin one of my latest memorization projects. I have started memorizing Psalm 139. I haven’t gotten incredibly far but I’m in no rush. I take it day by day and let those words flow through my arteries and speak to my soul and it has been eye-opening and nurturing. Every day I begin by declaring that the God of the universe has searched me and that He knows me. He knows when I sit and when I rise… when I go out and when I lie down. Before a word is on my blog, He knows it completely.

Sharon cut my hair that night and I equate it to the story where Jesus washed the disciples’ feet. Here I am, a homeless vagabond wandering aimlessly trying to figure out every step in my life and journaling every day hoping to learn what it is that I really feel. Here she is, a woman who has searched God and who knows Him, living in the prime of her life. Living as a woman ought, loving a man and being Christ to the world. I show up dusty and disheveled and she takes me into her mini-salon. (Sharon has a home salon. She went to beauty school in the States before she married Marvin in 2010.) She gathers up my hair and lays it gently in the sink and begins to wash it and it feels so much better than the bucket tosses I’ve been serving to my locks. She snips away and by the time she’s done I feel like I maybe have somehow gotten closer to home through the process.

End-Faces

It rained furiously that night. Irene (of course, at the time I didn’t know her name) was knocking at Honduras’ door. She must love Honduras like I do because all she did was just give it all the water it needed for crops and ushered in the rainy season before wreaking havoc in other locations. I slept tranquilly while Irene was pounding on the roof.

I had to wake up extremely early and was a zombie for the remainder of the day. Fading in and out of buses, airports, shops, coffee stops, gates, boarding passes. Just waiting and waiting and waiting for a door to open where everything would look familiar and kind.

Wynter, Kari, Jojo, and Emily came to pick me up at the airport. So good to see faces. So good to be at an airport with faces. Faces that mean something to me. Faces that hold memories. Faces that don’t let me think too much. Faces that don’t let me analyze. I don’t have to write about these faces in my journal. All there is to do is remember the past, treasure the present, and create the future. That’s what those faces mean to me. They said to me that everything’s… just fine.

Their presence and love filled me with energy and I insisted that we never separate. Kari, Elisa, and I went to Adam Jones’ house and they all let me be ludicrous. We talked about some meaningless stuff and they let me share about my trip. Thanks, guys. They let me share about my trip. They took interest. I must be extremely blessed to have friends like them. They let me share about my trip until 4 in the morning. I must be extremely blessed.

Conclusion

How do I conclude this incredible journey? Is there something I should end this last entry with? I don’t want to conclude. I won’t give you a general synopsis. I’m going to cover a few of these last items that I didn’t resolve in my writings and then I’m going to let the content that you’ve already raced through (or maybe you just dragged through it to let me know that you read it all) speak for itself. Either way, whether you sprinted or snailed, it’s something only the shiniest of gems would do. Thank you, gems.

Asian men-I made a comment about how I strategically placed myself next to two Asian men and that I would “explain later”. This is the thing… it was strategy. Asians in general do not require of us any interaction. Like, you don’t even have to feel obligated to feel awkward about not glancing at them or mumbling “Hi” or whatever. With everyone else I feel like I should eavesdrop or make eye contact or avoid eye contact. It makes sense in my head.

Tradition-I didn’t drink cranberry juice on the way home! ¡Qué barbaridad! I was so stinking sick that I could only mentally (I’m not even sure about physically) handle water. Oh, tradition. Oh, traditions. Oh, the silliness of it all.

Children’s Center-I didn’t ever end up going to the Children’s Center. Can you believe that? When I lived in Honduras I easily spent 98% of my time and DEFINITELY at least 300% of my energy and affection at the Children’s Center. I love those kids, just with every ounce of my being. And, I have a deep-rooted affection for all the Honduran women who work there and welcomed me and loved me and treated me like a princess. Half of me feels wilted at the thought of not having gone during this trip. The other half trusts that there was a reason.

Pictures on the bus-Lastly, I never did get up the courage to take pictures on that darn circus of a bus. Next time. There will be plenty more opportunities I’m sure.

At the end of the day, I’m just a bird that floats to Honduras and wishes she would cage me up forever without making me stay.

Pebblogue

I want the rainbow pebbles to be God’s will and for waves of clear water to wash over them. Each part of his will smooth, shiny, and sparkling. I would gather them up in my hands, brush sand off of them and spread them over every surface of my room. Examining them one-by-one knowing that each part has its flaws and sharp edges but when they’re all together in one big mountain of mineral, His whole will, it’s only just perfection.