Running the Road

Another element of the Somervilles' church that reminded me of God's constant hand on my life was the reading of Ephesians 4 during youth group. It is a scripture that God has brought to me time and time again since I returned from Honduras:
"In light of all this, here's what I want you to do. While I'm locked up here, a prisoner for the Master, I want you to get out there and walk--better yet, run!--on the road God called you to travel. I don't want any of you sitting around on your hands. I don't want anyone strolling off, down some path that goes nowhere. And mark that you do this with humility and discipline--not in fits and starts, but steadily, pouring yourselves out for each other in acts of love, alert at noticing differences and quick at mending fences."
This was the scripture that God delivered to me whenever I had first returned from Honduras. I struggled so much with re-entry. I was heartbroken to leave Honduras, and I felt like an alien in my own home, at my school, in my job. I didn't know how to be a human being in that place, but that was the place that God had me. Thus, because that was the road that God had called me to travel at that moment, that was the place I was called to run.

I like to run. I am by no means a serious runner, but I enjoy the motion of running, the challenge of keeping a pace and traveling a distance that my mind rejects. This scripture is true, though; running can't be done in fits and starts--complacency and energy. In reality, every time we let ourselves slip into a habit of laziness or complacency, we lose time, muscle, conditioning. This is the case in the Christian path as well. I spent a lot of last year going in fits and starts of complacency and seeking, busyness and unity with the Father. I would not consider this past year a consistent run, but the desire of my heart is that this year would be--a dedicated chase after the heart of the Father, ever closer to Him.

Another part of that passage in Ephesians 4 is the following:
And so I insist--and God backs me up on this--that there be no going along with the crowd, the empty-headed, mindless crowd. . . . we do not have excuse of ignorance, everything--and I do mean everything--connected with that old way of life has to go. It's rotten through and through. Get rid of it! And then take on an entirely different life--a God-fashioned life, a life renewed from the inside and working itself into your conduct as God accurately reproduces His character in you. . . . Don't grieve God. Don't break His heart. His Holy Spirit, moving and breathing in you, is the most intimate part of your life, making you fit for himself. Don't take such a gift for granted.

So here I am. I won't lie--the heaviness has returned. I am rather burnt out on school. They switched my class today. I'm now in a grammar class that seems to be more of a lower level, but it is also the first Spanish class I've had with other students. I think I've been spoiled by individual attention. It is still beneficial though as I'm reviewing grammar concepts that I haven't had since high school. Not having all of the attention and pressure on me makes the class go so much faster which I appreciate. I still have the same literature class which I enjoy since I am comfortable with the professor and other student, and Marielle and Sam are still my conversation class.

Meanwhile, I am homesick although not for the U.S. I don't even know what I'm really homesick for. When I experience this homesickness, my default is usually that I am homesick for Honduras, but I don't really know what it is I'm homesick for. Perhaps, it is something I've never actually had before. I long for roots and permanence, stability and fruition. But, it is all in God's time. I am here in Mexico. This is the road where God has called me at this moment, so I want to run, not walk, with the purpose God has for me here.

Meanwhile, we have two new girls that just arrived to live in our house. I enjoy having our house full with a makeshift, temporary feel of family. And now, I am off to conquer some homework.

Thanks for reading,
Sarah

El Monte

Hello All,

I'll begin with some sidenotes:
1) In addition to our cockroach family, we now have another addition to our shower. A small, black scorpion. Luckily for likely both Leigh Ann and myself, I was the one that discovered this little fellow as I was in the shower. He left me alone, though, so I left him alone too. . .much to Leigh Ann's dismay.
2) We had ice cream the other day! I had a kind called Tigre which is vanilla, chocolate, and what we believe to be nutmeg ice cream. Very good.

This past weekend went very well. Yesterday, Leigh Ann and I ventured by taxi to a store called Mega in order to meet Debbie Somerville. We stayed with Debbie and Ed Somerville and their family this weekend at El Monte. (www.elmontemexico.com) To give you a little back story of how we came across the Somervilles, let me explain that Ed and Debbie lived in Pocahontas County, West Virginia when my dad was growing up in Hillsboro. Ed was my Dad's seventh grade English teacher, and Debbie was my uncle's first grade teacher. Growing up, my father often told us of the impact that the Somervilles had on his life--mainly that they were some of the first people who showed him what true Christians looked like and how they lived. My dad somehow or another heard years ago that the Somervilles had moved to Mexico to be missionaries. Thus, when I found out that I would be going to language school in Cuernavaca, we found out where they were located, and miraculously, they were only about an hour or so away. I happen to believe that this is a God thing. (And what a small world!)

I had never met the Somervilles before, but they so kindly opened their home and shared so willingly with me and Leigh Ann. It was such a blessing to meet them and their children--Becky, Scott, Rachel, and Walter. In all, the Somervilles have eight kids. The ones that we met were the ones still around for part or all of the summer. You can look at their website for more detailed information about their mission and ministry. In short, they run a large facility that is used for Christian camps, pastor retreats, and as a missionary training school. They have an amazing testimony as to how they got there and how God provided.

Any time I'm around missionaries, I once again feel like a sponge. At that party that we went to last week, Coco introduced me as a "misionera." I think that's the first time I've ever individually been referred to as such, and although it was in an odd social context, I felt the weight of responsibility of that title. I enjoyed hearing Ed and Debbie's stories of the way that God called them and showed Himself to be faithful, and I especially enjoyed hearing the honest input from their children about the pros and cons of being a missionary kid. Leigh Ann and I went to youth group and Sunday morning church with the Somervilles, and it was lovely to spend that time with them. I was truly touched by their generosity.

I also greatly enjoyed going to church with them. I have now been to a church in every country I've been to. While this may seem normal for someone who wants to be a missionary, it's rather odd for me personally. I hesitate to explain, not because I am ashamed or because my faith in God's leading falters, but because I have grown accustomed to the topic of church bringing about judgment and well-intentioned lectures. However, truth is truth, and God knows my heart.

I haven't been "in church" since I graduated high school. I grew up in a family of avid churchgoers, and I was raised primarily in nondenominational churches (whatever that means). My parents usually were involved in children's or youth ministry and were usually part of the dedicated, "inner" circle. Our family was generally there whenever the doors were open although I will gladly say that my parents did their very best to make sure that our family came before church. For that, I am very grateful. As previously written, my own faith, aside from my parents', developed significantly whenever we moved to Barbour County from Greenbrier County, West Virginia. I began to turn to God in my time of change and loneliness, and He made himself real. Like my parents, I spent many years being very active in the church, and I went to public high school with the knowledge that I only had one chance to show the love of Jesus to my peers. I didn't want to mess it up (although I know that I did countless times). Without really knowing it, I was still unconsciously trying to earn God's love and was bound by an unacknowledged belief that God would only love me if I was doing what I was supposed to do for Him. That was my means of operation for a while, and although I was still growing as a Christian, there was an unseen wall of guilt between me and God.

My journey toward missions and also to questioning the church began with World Vision. I worked at World Vision for the summer after my junior year of high school. World Vision is an international Christian outreach program that has a base in Barbour County. During that summer, I was kind of a miscellaneous worker, helping with the work teams of campers that came in to do construction projects and vacation Bible schools. During one of those weeks, we were stationed at Camp Muffly outside of Morgantown when I heard a life-changing message from a guest speaker named Mark. To this day, I don't know his last name. He talked about the importance of world missions and gave startling statistics of how much of the world had never even heard the name of Jesus, how much of the world consisted of nominal Christians, the poverty and persecution many Christians faced, etc. I had always grown up around missions as my parents have always been avid supporters of missionaries in other countries. But, that was the first time that missions was real to me. From that point on, I felt led to go on a short-term mission trip. In the weeks leading up to going to Honduras in my senior year of high school, I did a lot of research. My mission trip to Honduras was my high school senior project, so I stumbled upon financial statistics of how much of the Western church's money (without regard to denominations) goes to foreign missions. The results were heart-breaking and made me ask questions. My intense questioning only increased after I had been to Honduras.

At the time, most of the mainstream Christian messages that I heard on TV, at church, from other Christians, etc. were about prosperity and God's blessings. "God's about ready to bless. . ." was a frequent echo in my ears. Before Honduras, I was already questioning what true worship was, why we have pastors, why we have buildings, and why we are constantly struggling to bring people into churches to "get saved." I was even questioning the use of ostracizing "Christianese." When I went to Honduras, I was exposed to a beautiful people who, by the United States' standards, had nothing, yet they worshipped God with their songs, their sacrifices, and their entire lives--not asking God to give them prosperity. They didn't hold back. They brought their needs to God, sure, but their hearts were different. They brought their needs to God with a humble attitude of dependency--not an inflated sense of entitlement. It was humbling to hear sermons in the Honduran church of serving one another, encouraging one another, and sacrificing of oneself for more of God. Simple, but they seared to the heart of my questioning. They were real Christians. The lives that they led showed true dependency on God. They were content rather than restless, and passionately seeking Him at all costs, rather than complacent. Honduras was real life.

Needless to say, I experienced great difficulty in returning to the church in the United States. Let me make clear that it wasn't just a specific church that troubled me--it was the entire attitude that I saw in the Christianity portrayed in the U.S. We went to church the following morning right after we got back from Honduras, and I spent the entire service bawling. Since that Sunday, nearly every time I go to church, I cry. I can't really explain it, and it can be for any number of reasons that I know or don't. Perhaps, that is my natural response to God. I don't know. At any rate, I struggled with anger and frustration while I was in church, and when I moved to North Carolina for the summer following my high school graduation, I left, relieved to know I wouldn't have to go to church.

I, sadly, spent that summer in a rather complacent, bitter state. To put it bluntly, what I was going through was a form of church-detox. I had to realize that my entire identity and foundation as a Christian was not Christ Himself but was the church--the appearance of innocence that being a churchgoer brought, the validation that doing things for God provided, etc. I had to understand that my entire Christian existence was less of a personal relationship and more of a fearful performance. It was a difficult realization to contend with at 18. When I went to college, although I went "church shopping" a few times, I just didn't want to have anything to do with church as an institution. I stopped going. Instead, I started spending every Sunday going to the park, taking a lunch, and reading the Bible and praying on my own. While this may not have been the best situation, God worked through that time to heal my heart and to make Himself more real to me on a personal level. It wasn't long after I stopped going to church that my family, who had also been struggling with the same questions, stopped going as well. They had been having "house church" for a while where there was no leader, everyone present was free to share whatever God was speaking, and there was no time frame or agenda. This is a practice that my family continues from time to time, although presently, my mother has found a new church that she attends with my brother and sister. Meanwhile, my dad and I are still the black sheep of the family who don't go.

I want to make clear that although there are many things about mainstream U.S. churches that I don't agree with, I have reached a place where I am no longer angry or upset with church. I have reached a place where although I don't want to be a permanent member or to serve an institutional church in the United States, I can go to any church happily. Of my own choosing, I have been to Quaker services, Assembly of God services, Methodist services, Baptist services, etc. over the past year and have participated in their services as God leads. Generally, any time I go to any church, I simply tell God, "Lord, today, I just want to worship you and be obedient. This is about me and You, and I just want to be in Your presence today." I usually close my eyes during worship and stand still and silent, crying before God. And, each time, no matter what kind of church I am in, He honors that request.

I know the stigma that goes along with not being "in church." I know it well because when I was younger, I would have been one of those people silently judging someone's absence from church. Now, though, the center of my life as a follower of Christ is Christ Himself. Jesus is our way to the Father, not a pastor. I fully believe that God wants to and can speak directly to each one of us. I fully believe that we are all on the same equal playing field. Yes, God gives each of us different gifts, but we are only at the mercy of our Father. I think He expects us to ask questions.

During my time out of church, God has made Himself unbelievably real to me. He exposed some insecurities and past guilt that I had never dealt with, and He revealed to me my own tendency to keep both Him and people at an arm's length. Since the surfacing of those deeply-rooted hurts, God has uprooted much of my past and has healed my heart. After I surrendered my preconceived notions of who He was and what He was like, He showed me who He really is. After I gave up my own plans and my own view of myself, He began to show me who I really am in Him. It is beautiful. Sometimes He speaks through the Bible, sometimes through a sunset, sometimes through a song, sometimes through a roommate, sometimes through homework, sometimes through a pastor. However He speaks, I have finally reached a place of vulnerability with Him that I am willing to listen. In short, the time that I have spent out of church was totally necessary, and I believe was God-led. Without that time, I would have continued on a spiritual foundation of sand. Without that time, I would never have dealt with the walls that held me back from truly receiving God's love because for me, church was the perfect environment to continue to try to earn God's love rather than getting real with Him. Without that time, my relationship would have stagnated and remained superficial.

I share all of this lengthy story partly because it shapes who I am but also partly because it makes me truly appreciate those times when I am in a church and feel the sincerity of the people. This was the case for me in the Somervilles' church. While there were elements of the service that were different for me, as I closed my eyes, I could feel the intense sincerity of their worship. For the first time since I walked out of the airport, I felt at home here in Mexico. He is real no matter where you go, and there is an overarching sense of family among Christians truly seeking Him. When I am in churches like these, I feel so very privileged and think, "If you only knew how rare this is. If you only knew how blessed you are to be in a worship service so pure, so free from show and hype."

I can't pretend that I know what's best for others, and I would never direct someone to stay at or leave a church. I would only ever advise that in all things, you seek God confidently for yourself, daring to believe that the Creator loves you enough to speak words of love and direction directly to you. Jesus is our way to the Father.

With love,
Sarah

Nuestros Pequeños Hermanos

Hello All,
Yesterday, I went to an orphanage called Nuestros Pequeños Hermanos (www.nph.org). I have now visited an orphanage in every country I´ve been to (except the U.S., oddly enough). That orphanage yesterday was phenomenal. It was essentially its own little town. It was founded in 1954 by a priest, Father Wasson, from the United States who was stationed in Cuernavaca. He had no intention of starting any orphanage, and he had no intention of staying in Cuernavaca. However, God had other plans in mind when a little boy was caught stealing the communion bread from Father Wasson´s church. The little boy was taken to jail, but Father Wasson decided to visit him. Upon this visitation, Father Wasson learned that the young man hadn´t eaten for a week, so he agreed to take in the child. Soon, the jailer gave Father Wasson nine more children who were in the same situation. That is where it all began. Now, NPH has orphanages in Peru, Bolivia, Haiti, the Dominican Republic, El Salvador, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Mexico, and Honduras. Father Wasson died in 2002.

The orphanage that I visited was roughly an hour from Cuernavaca and was located on land donated by the Mexican government that included an old, respected building built by Cortés himself. Over 500 orphans--most often economic orphans that have family who can´t afford to take care of them--live there. Along beautiful cobblestone paths, they have a school with standard classes required by the Mexican government, along with English and computer literacy classes. They also have their own clinic with a doctor and nurses, their own cafeteria, their own store, their own church, and their own farm. They are completely self-sustaining, maintaining crops and livestock for the children they house. Their children are divided by section and are housed there until our equivalent of ninth grade. They work with Mexican social workers to bring in orphans, and they have several psychologists who work with children who have been physically or sexually abused.

The woman who gave us the tour told us a little about a day in the life of her own section of girls: They wake up at 5 in the morning, shower, dress, and then go to the cafeteria to eat first breakfast--usually bread and milk. Next, they go to classes until second breakfast which is eaten during a recess. Then they have more classes until lunch and after lunch. After classes, they come back to their dorms, take off their uniforms and wash them immediately, hanging them out to dry to be worn the next day. All the kids of age wash their own clothes. Next, they usually have some sort of activity planned by the section caregiver--usually playing sports. Each section also has their assigned chores. They don´t use corporal punishment at the orphanage. Rather, if a child misbehaves, he or she must complete more chores. If their behavior is particularly severe, they may be assigned to miss a day of classes to complete manual labor--for boys, it is working on the farm and for girls, it is helping in the kitchen or cleaning. Following their activity time, the children do homework for one or two hours. Dinner is at 7, and the children are usually in bed by 8. On the weekends, the children have more free time, but they don´t often leave the complex. Every Saturday, they have mandatory mass, and throughout the week they have mass that students can choose to go to. While NPH is Catholic by nature, Father Wasson specifically chose not to establish NPH through the Catholic church. Thus, the Catholic church has no ties or control over NPH.

Once a child graduates ninth grade, he or she may go to NPH´s high school in Cuernavaca. Life at the high school is more independent and is less of a regimen. However, once any pequeño (that´s what they call them rather than ¨orphans¨) reaches the age of 17, he or she is free to go if they choose. If, however, after high school, the pequeño chooses to, he or she can serve for two years as a volunteer caring for younger pequeños at the main house (orphanage). Once this time of service is complete, NPH will pay for that student to go to a university--often either UNAM or one in Monterey, although they currently have a student now who is attending a college in Michigan.

A sidenote about UNAM: My conversation teacher told me that UNAM, located in Mexico City, is one of the most important international universities in the world. She believed that it was ranked at #26 on a list of best international colleges, and it has the greatest reputation of any college in Mexico or Central America. An interesting element of UNAM is their philosophy of education. They believe that every student has the right to an education. Although they are a public university, they are not funded or affiliated with the Mexican government. Any Mexican student (I´m not sure about foreign students) only has to pay 20 centavos--less than one peso--a year to go there. To put that into perspective, the exchange rate here is 12.50 pesos to one U.S. dollar. And, according to Marielle, students aren´t even required to pay that. The university has many partners that help fund their endeavors. However, the university is also incredibly selective. Because of connections between NPH and UNAM, any pequeño that can make the grades to get into UNAM, can go there for free.

The rate of pequeños that go on to university and higher education is 40%--the national average of Mexican students that go on to higher education is only 10%. Not all pequeños go on to a university. Many stay to help in various positions or choose to be tortilla makers, taxi drivers, etc.

While we were there, one woman asked our tour guide how the students are able to overcome the stigma of being ¨orphans.¨ The guide explained that while many pequeños, upon reaching high school, must grapple with the idea that their parents didn´t want them, in general the pequeños don´t face much of an ostrization because they are sharing the struggle together as a grand family. Many pequeños have biological brothers and sisters in the house, and the neighborhood around Cuernavaca actually calls the pequeños ¨fresas¨ which literally means ¨strawberries¨ but carries the connotation of ¨privileged¨ perhaps to the point of being snobs. This attitude is due to the fact that pequeños receive more opportunities and a better quality of life than many of the people in the city itself.

NPH reminded me greatly of Emmanuel Orphanage in Honduras, which I visited while I was there last summer. (www.orphanageemmanuel.com) It, too, was huge in size and was started by a couple from the U.S. The opportunities and quality of life at Emmanuel was amazing. They were self-sustaining, had wi-fi internet, had safe-to-drink tap water, and were almost like a mini-U.S. in the middle of nowhere, Honduras. The trouble that I had with Emmanuel and a bit with NPH as well was the idea of what happens when the orphans leave. At Emmanuel, they experience an amazing quality of life and become pretty accustomed to some of the luxuries and opportunities of the U.S., but when they must leave around 18-20, they don´t know how to live as Hondurans. They don´t know how to take a bus, find a job, find a place to live, etc., and they have become accustomed to a gringo life of luxury in many ways. In this regard, NPH seems better equipped because of the opportunities of higher education and remaining to help.

At every orphanage I have been to, I feel like a sponge, trying to soak in all the lessons the place has to offer, all the revelations God can show me in that space. I don´t fully know why I feel such an urgency in these places to understand and to discern. When I walk through the quarters of orphans and see the smiles and hold the hands of orphan babies, I just get a heavy sense of belonging, of purpose. A preview, perhaps. There are many words and things that God has shown me that hang in the air when I´m in these places. The best way I can describe it is to give you the words from one of my favorite songs--¨Waiting for My Real Life to Begin¨ by Colin Hay: ¨On a clear day, I can see, see for a long way.¨ Sometimes days and experiences are clear, and I get a strong sense of what God has planned for me, and other times, they are not.

One element of the orphanages--both Emmanuel and NPH--that struck me was how they both began--with obedience. None of the founders of either ever set out to start something big. They didn´t draw up blueprints. They didn´t start a building fund. They didn´t write grants for their marvelous plans. They didn´t intend to do anything big, and they likely had no idea of what they were going to be doing at all. They were just obedient. I initially struggled with the grandeur of these places because I just struggle in general with institutions and establishments on a grand scale; however, when I look at how they started, I know that it´s a God thing. God starts from the ground up. He gives us small responsibilities first and asks us to be faithful with those and to be content with being irrelevant. He typically doesn´t just smack us in the face with a huge task or a magic manifestation of big things--big buildings, big congregations, big anything. With God, there is a learning curve, and He gives more responsibility, more blessing, more tasks when we learn to be dependent on Him and obedient with what we have. It´s a simple principle that I believe in many cases the church in the U.S. does not get. We constantly expect that just because we´re God´s children that we´re meant for greatness, that we deserve prosperity, that we´re entitled to the blessings of all kinds of things. And while I do believe that God does want what is best for His children, I also believe that He has an order to it. He calls us to submit everything we have--small or large, prosperous or meager--first. Otherwise, how would learn trust and dependency in even the small things?

The people who started these orphanages are now impacting hundreds and thousands of children. The impact of Father Wasson, one man, has spread over a span of several countries! They are operating in a way that I believe blesses God´s heart. As I was walking through NPH surrounded by beautiful flowers and heart-warming architecture, I initially struggled with just how amazing it all was because sometimes, I think that I assume that God expects us to be poor and lacking. But, God reminded me that this is what He does--He brings joy to the captives, He elevates the poor, He grants a full life in the emptiest of places. It is a way of showing His glory because these people didn´t force anything. He provided it all in His way and His timing, often unbeknownst to the receivers themselves. What, however, I am also reminded is that He does still expect us to go forth, to not be complacent even in the grace of warmth and blessing. It pleases His heart most when even after He´s granted us prosperity or ease that we once again offer it up to Him, fully willing to lose it all, so that He can choose what is best for us and what gives Him the most glory.

I don´t know why I was born in the United States and was so blessed to have every need met throughout my life. I don´t know why I wasn´t born in extreme poverty, dying of starvation in Africa. I know that my birth had nothing to do with me, and because I am not entitled to anything and because I want God to have glory throughout the world, I want to willingly and gladly be obedient in surrendering all that isn´t mine anyway.

When I was in middle school after our family had just moved, I was really struggling. I didn´t have any friends. Although unseen, there was a small emptiness and a wall between me and my family, and I was very lonely. It was in that time of change and frustration that my faith became real to me. I began to read the Bible, seeking Him when I had nothing else that seemed stable. During that time, God gave me Isaiah 58, and I remember that it was my favorite chapter although I didn´t really know why and didn´t really know its significance to me at the time. As time passed, I forgot about it. Before I went to Honduras, though, my dad once again brought that section of verses to my attention, specifically 9-12:
A Full Life in the Emptiest of Places
¨If you get rid of unfair practices, quit blaming victims, quit gossiping about other people´s sins, if you are generous with the hungry and start giving yourselves to the down-and-out, your lives will begin to glow in the darkness, your shadowed lives will be bathed in sunlight. I will always show you where to go. I´ll give you a full life in the emptiest of places--firm muscles, strong bones. You´ll be like a well-watered garden, a gurgling spring that never runs dry. You´ll use the old rubble of past lives to build anew, rebuild the foundations from out of your past. You´ll be known as those who can fix anything, restore old ruins, rebuild and renovate, make the community livable again.¨
When I was in Honduras, a Christian woman and friend of Nellie Anderson, prayed for me and gave me word, telling me that I am called to leave it all behind. I am not to be afraid because God goes before me, preparing the way. I am called to rebuild the lives of many young people, and I will be looked to for advice and support, love and wisdom. I am called to be a woman of constant prayer.

I don´t know the how or the when and, in some cases, even the specific where or the why, but I do know that I am called to Honduras, that I am called to leave it all behind. And as many of the verses I´ve included in earlier posts indicate, God has given me an adoptive spirit for a reason because His words for me echo ¨many children.¨

I appreciate all of your prayers and am blessed that you read,
Sarah

Brisas and Birthday Songs

Just a quick update:
Today was my birthday, and while the overall events of the day were rather normal, I couldn't have felt more blessed. I went to class as usual, and a few funny/mildly amusing things happened:
1) I told one of my professors that I want to live in Honduras, and he lectured me about how dangerous it would be. Everywhere I go, everyone tells me that the next place I'm going will be dangerous. When I was in Honduras, someone told me that he wouldn't go to Mexico because it's so dangerous. When I left the States, everyone told me not to go to Mexico because it's so dangerous, and now that I'm in Mexico, someone is telling me it's too dangerous to live in Honduras. Hilarious. Good thing I rarely ever worry about my physical protection. I'm contently blind in security.
2) We worked on tongue twisters in conversation class. We did tongue exercises--all those things you do as a kid have a purpose! If you don't have a strong and muscular tongue, you can't roll your double r's adequately. Tomorrow I have to say:
Erre con erre cigarro, erre con erre barril, rápido corren los carros, por el ferrocarril. Say that ten times fast, rolling your double r's. Not easy.

After class, we came home and had lunch. Because it was my birthday, Coco made tortilla soup and chicken with mole. It's a celebratory food, traditionally fixed for birthdays and weddings. Absolutely delicious.

Then, before we left for the movies, I had a delightful conversation with Roy via Skype phone. He surprised me by singing "Happy Birthday" in English, and I now have a secure ride from the airport when I get to Honduras because as he said, it's un placer. Seventeen days until home, and I couldn't be more excited.

Finally, we--Leigh Ann, Lisa, and our host mother--went to the movies and saw Robin Hood, mainly because Coco likes to think of Russell Crowe as her boyfriend. She is so adorable. The movie, although not one that I was initially super excited about, was really good.

All in all, a good day. I need to finish up my neglected homework. But. . .tomorrow the orphanage!

Love love love love love love,
Sarah

The Perils of Language

Being in another country and learning to speak another language is always humbling. When you're out of your element that much, it's pretty impossible to "fake it till you make it." But, some of the funniest moments happen in the midst of embarrassing mistakes. For example, my conversation teacher, Mariel, always asks me what I had to eat the day before. It's a cultural conversation starter. Yesterday, we had meatballs. However, I didn't know the word for "meatball" in Spanish, so, using circumlocution to get around it, I just said "pelota de carne" or "ball (generally a sports ball) of meat." Mariel laughed and laughed, and naturally, I joined in. When I told my host mother the story, she also laughed heartily, explaining a common idiomatic expression here: When there is a baby who is overly pudgy with cute rolls of fat and such, people call him or her "una bola de carne," which also translates to "ball of meat." So, I more or less said that I ate a pudgy baby for dinner yesterday. Way to go, Sarah. :D

Meanwhile, today went well. It was my last day of being 20-years-old. Twenty-one isn't really that big of a deal for me--not being a big drinker and all that--but it is exciting nonetheless. Last year was truly amazing, and I had no idea all of the things that God had in store for my twentieth year. So to awkwardly do a quick memory montage, let me recount some fantastic times: Going to Honduras. Meeting some amazing people and having God truly show me that Honduras is home. Survivig re-entry. Remembering that I love to write. My last year as an RA with wonderful residents. Guacamole nights with Anthony, my best friend. Learning to depend on God in the midst of fears--knowing that truly no one can snatch me from God's hands. Going to Jamaica. Having an amazing RA staff. Having wonderful classes and professors. Painting again. Living with loving and mothering roommates who truly kept me sane. Outings with my creative writing ladies. Working for The Picket, Shepherd University's newspaper--truly a valued learning experience. Tutoring. Moments of peace and laughter with my family. New friends and old friends. This year was quite a blessed one, and I can only imagine what amazing things God has in store for this one. It is unbelievably exciting because He has orchestrated every detail of my life. Last year, I spent my birthday in Honduras, and this year I spend it in Mexico! How very blessed I am and humbled by His infinite love.

With hope for His best,
Sarah

Oh happy day. . .

The world is a beautiful place, and it is so easy to be captivated by the details when you know the One creating them. I can be so content with something that perhaps seems so stupid to someone else. Let me give you some examples of some of the things here that regularly put an immoveable smile on my face:
Horchata -- This is a drink that I had heard of while in Honduras or maybe before Honduras but never tried while I was there. I was thinking about how I'd still like to try it before I go home, and lo and behold--our mamá had it at dinner last night. It was wonderful. There are many different ways to make horchata, but the one that Coco explained to me uses rice and cinnamon. Leigh Ann described it to me as melted vanilla bean ice cream. For me, it was not quite that rich in taste, but it was lovely.
The food, in general -- Authentic Mexican food is fantastic. It's spicier than the food in Honduras. Picante. It features a frequency of beans, onions, cream, lettuce, and, of course, tortillas.
Mornings -- There is a song by Alli Rogers called "For the Morning" that I love because it echoes how I feel about mornings. In general, I'm the kind of person who is the first to wake up and the last to go to bed. I love nights as well, but there is something about mornings that is irreplaceable. It's cooler. There is a careful balance between light and dark, a freshness of new beginnings. The chirping of birds is a welcome alarm for me.
Cockroaches -- Ok, I realize that this is weird, and, perhaps, it is a little ridiculous for me to include this in things that I enjoy because I don't know that I quite enjoy them. However, I appreciate the ongoing joke that our buddies, the cockroaches, provide for me and Leigh Ann. I get up in the mornings, and there is usually a straggler from the night just chilling in our shower. Rather than starting my morning by killing something, I just start my morning by doing an awkward cockroach dance in the shower--trying to avoid my scurrying friend while lathering and such. It's an amusing way to wake up in the morning, and it makes me laugh. I named this morning's friend, Fernando.
Smells and Sounds -- There are so many fantastic smells here. Food, obviously. In general, the men here, and it would seem in Latin America in general, smell very good. One thing I have always appreciated about my roommate, Nikki, is that when someone smells good, she tells them. Anyway, Leigh Ann gladly contributed a sound that we like--the sound of the blender when Coco is making us chocolate milk at night. It's all kinds of wonderful.


Today was the first day of our second week of classes. It was lovely. They have changed my classes and my professors which I kind of like since it keeps me awake and moving. I have a new professor who is now teaching me more grammar than before which I think is more beneficial and caters more to what I actually need. The second class I have now is a literature class with one of the professors I had before. I really like him. When he smiles, it's like the sun is smiling. It makes me laugh which I try to contain but can't. I have the same native speaker for my conversation class which I am happy about, and we have a new student from North Carolina named Samuel. He's really nice, and it makes conversation easier because all the focus isn't on me. He's also been to Honduras--hearing that made my whole day. I don't know what part he's been to yet though. I was also excited today because there is an excursion to an orphanage on Thursday. I am so very excited, and Leigh Ann and I will most definitely be venturing out for orphans. I can't wait.

Meanwhile, Lisa has made friends (as we expected she would), and Leigh Ann and I laugh a little bit about how lame we are. I still don't mind that we don't really go out. I spent so much time being overscheduled to a ridiculous level this past school year that I am so content to not have plans.

Anyway, I haven't even started my homework yet, so I am off.

Ha sabido un placer,
Sarah

I love our host mother, Coco. She is a delicate creature who loves to dance, but she manages her household, daughters, and grandson with quiet strength and a servant's heart. She likes to baby us. She dishes out our food for us, and she makes us chocolate milk at night. Although I am 20-years-old, I still enjoy her spirit as she makes us food and asks us how our days went. She introduces us as her adopted daughters (although we've only been here for a week), and I find in her the qualities that I want to emulate--her openness in sharing her home and her life and her constant instinct to serve. Thus far, I would say that she is my favorite part of this experience, but then again, traveling is always about the people for me.

In that same vein, I also love Leigh Ann. We were friends before we came on this trip because we'd had some classes together, but being here together has made me feel as if she is my sister. She is quite easy to get along with, and some of my favorite moments are just when we laugh over shared stories or "argue" over who's going to kill the cockroaches with whom we share our living space. She generally doesn't wish to shower with them, and I prefer to lovingly name them than stomp them with my shoe. Overall, I can't imagine being here without her, and I know that God granted me such a friend to ease a loneliness that would have been hard to bear.

On Friday, Maricruz and Santiago, the daughter and grandson of our host mother, came to visit along with Andrea, Coco's niece. They were all quite fun. Santiago is 4, and he wants to be Spiderman. Andrea is 9, and we spent some time playing Spanish Scrabble with her. After breakfast, we retreated to our room so that Coco could visit with her family. We read and napped and just enjoyed the day. In the afternoon, Coco invited us to go to a friend's house to swim. We went rather hesitantly, but I'm glad that we did. Although we were out of our comfort zone in the vacation home of Maricruz' friends, we enjoyed seeing a Mexican "barbecue" which has the same basic feel as any such event in the U.S., just with different food. We didn't actually swim, but we relaxed by the pool. Amazingly enough, I didn't get burnt. In fact, I don't really think I got any sun although it was quite hot. We mainly kept to ourselves although we had one conversation with one of the men there who was drunk. (All of the Mexicans there were drinking all day, so they were all at least buzzed.) He was asking us questions, and we got on the subject of Honduras. When he heard that I had been there, he made a face and made a comment about it being ugly. Then he asked me which was prettier, Mexico or Honduras--I have found that that is a common question asked of me here. I smiled and said that they were both beautiful, but Honduras is my home. He scoffed a bit, not understanding. He gave us a full explanation of how Mexico has everything--that there is nothing more you could want. Being a man who said he had traveled, who had a gorgeous vacation home full of luxuries that would be foreign for my family's standard of living, I could see why he would say that. But, mentally, I also knew that I could never live an empty life of luxury. In fact, I have found in traveling that I can't really vacation easily either. I like seeing new places, meeting new people. I feel blessed when God provides ways for me to go anywhere, but I know too much. I could never fully go back to a life of ignorant enjoyment of "stuff" now that I know the reality of how the rest of the world lives. Everyone ended the night with dancing while Leigh Ann and I watched, and when we were leaving, everyone wanted pictures with us. It would seem that having a gringa show up to your party isn't an everyday thing. Who knows where those pictures will end up?

Today, we had a new girl come to live here. Her name is Lisa, and she is from Iowa. I think Leigh Ann and I (or perhaps just me) are rather intimidated by her. She clearly speaks better Spanish than the two of us, and she studied abroad for a semester in Spain. She is really nice though and likes to dance--Coco couldn't be happier, as dancing is the lifeblood of Mexico, and if you don't dance, as Leigh Ann and I don't, something is wrong with you.

Meanwhile, I have had very good days here. Friday I spent most of the day reading more from that Mother Theresa book and hidden under a staircase sitting on a bench, I found myself in tears more than a few times as I could feel an understanding of her heart--the urgency of the call, the beckoning to surrender it all no matter the cost, to love the little ones lost on the streets in the filth of humanity. The question God continually presented to her was, "Will you refuse Me?" And I know in my heart that He asks the same question of me during this time of preparation for Honduras. It is hard to think of selling everything, of truly leaving it all behind. Although I'm not as much of a packrat as I used to be, I tend to hold on to things--mementos more than anything, memories, past selves. But I know that whatever I don't surrender to Him--material or not--is a refusal. And each time I refuse, I am not just turning my back on Jesus, but also on the helpless in need of Jesus' touch. I cannot refuse, no matter the cost. There is a song by Jason Upton (if you haven't heard of his messages or his music, I highly recommend them) called "Dying Star" where he shares a revelation that God granted to his wife. It was about being chosen or selected by God in the Old Testament. He says that being selected wasn't always a very nice thing because it means being selected out of the whole, for the benefit of whole, even if that means the very destruction of your own life. I believe I have finally reached the place where I would rather be chosen by God, called by name, and lose everything than to live a life of so-called security lacking the adventure of His manifest presence and destiny. He has become the most real to me. As Jim Elliot said, "He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose."

In the midst of a kind of homesickness, I have once again turned to John 15:
"Live in Me. Make your home in Me just as I do in you. In the same way that a branch can't bear grapes by itself but only by being joined to the vine, you can't bear fruit unless you are joined with me. I am the Vine, you are the branches. When you're joined with me and I with you, the relation intimate and organic, the harvest is sure to be abundant. Separated, you can't produce a thing."
Today I was also reading Isaiah 1:
"Why this frenzy of sacrifices?" God's asking. "Don't you think I've had my fill of burnt sacrifices, rams and plump grain-fed calves? Don't you think I've had my fill of blood from bulls, lambs, and goats? When you come before me, whoever gave you the idea of acting like this, running here and there, doing this and that--all this sheer commotion in the place provided for worship?
That verse is timely for me because at times I find it difficult to be here in the stillness, seemingly idle. I am the kind of person who is constantly busy, filling every second of every day with some kind of work, some task. If I don't have one, I can generally think of one. And at times, I become aware that there is still a part of me that is trying to earn God's love with my frenzy and commotion. I act on what I think I am supposed to be doing rather than waiting on Him to reveal what He wants me to be doing. As we can see above, running is not what He wants in worship--and all of life is worship, or at least the opportunity to worship.

When I was last in Honduras, I found myself asking God what His purpose was in my being there at that time--clearly temporary although I knew at that time that I am called there. The word that He gave me came from the story of Elizabeth, the cousin of Mary, when she was pregnant with John the Baptist. In short, God told me that I was "relishing a pregnancy." An odd metaphor, I know, but it's one that He has repeatedly brought to my attention again and again. It is why Isaiah 26 is of such importance to me. And it echoes again in John 16:
When a woman gives birth, she has a hard time, there's no getting around it. But when the baby is born, there is joy in the birth. This new life in the world wipes out memory of the pain. The sadness you have right now is similar to that pain, but the coming joy is also similar. When I see you again, you'll be full of joy, and it will be a joy no one can rob from you. You'll no longer be so full of questions.
Aware of such a spiritual pregnancy, I was asking God this morning if there is a specific purpose in my being here in Mexico at this time. As I looked out our window, I became conscious that Leigh Ann and I live in the "upper room." Our room is on the third floor and overlooks the yard and the neighbor's greenhouse. It is no accident that I am living in the upper room. As I was pouring over Acts 1 and 2 today, I could see a common theme in the waiting--for His Spirit.

I cannot bear fruit unless I am joined with Him. He does not want frenzy and commotion from me. In Acts 1, Jesus says, "You don't get to know the time. Timing is the Father's business. What you'll get is the Holy Spirit. And when the Holy Spirit comes on you, you will be able to be my witnesses in Jerusalem, all over Judea and Samaria, even to the ends of the world." He was adamant, though, that they could not leave Jerusalem until they had received the Holy Spirit. In our worldly minds, don't we wonder why? They had already spent so much time with Jesus--they already knew His story, the story of the Gospel, firsthand! Why wasn't that enough? Why wasn't their knowledge and power of persuasion enough? It was because they needed His Spirit--it was not their work! It was the work of the Spirit. As it says in Zechariah, "These things only come about by my Spirit."

I believe sometimes we miss the most important part of the Great Commission. We know that we are called to evangelize as His followers. We know that He is sending us out into the world with His good news. But, we fail to wait to be joined with Him. It is rampant in churches today. We make programs. We have events. We do outreaches. We have agendas. We are a frenzy of commotion, but we lack the very God we think we're trying to worship. We have not taken the time to wait--to be joined with Him, to receive His Spirit. And as a result, it is our work, not His, although we may paste His name all over it. And yet we wonder why we fail to see a true revival, a real movement of captivated souls in love with Jesus. It's because we aren't in love with Him ourselves.

So, I treasure this time of stillness because I am in the upper room, waiting to be joined with Him. I have a heart for lost souls, but I want any movement to be His. It is only His Spirit that makes an eternal effect. It is all the work of His Spirit, merely breathing through me, His willing vessel. I cannot leave this spiritual Jerusalem until I have received His Spirit. Sometimes I wonder how I'm going to get to Honduras--how the finances will work out, where I will live, the hows, whens, and wheres. But I know that it is not my job to figure that out. I am called to be still and to actively wait in His presence. The definition of "wait" is "to remain or rest in expectation." Waiting is not a sedentary state. Expectation requires active hope and faith and a refrain from marring the emptiness with substitutes. How can God fill a space that is already occupied with something or someone else?

As the wind is whipping outside as it sounds that it is preparing to storm, I ponder what it was the Holy Spirit brought. I don't think it's any accident that I am going to language school here because there is a power in the mother tongue--using the mother tongue means meeting people where they are rather than expecting them to come to you. But that is another thought for another time.

Meanwhile, I appreciate your prayers. I am so very thankful for this journey, for the beauty of the mystery of God's plans in the midst of shedding my own.

Thanks for reading,
Sarah

Esperando. . .

It seems I have only a little to say today. All is well. I am enjoying my classes, and I only have one today. I am learning much and practicing lots of Spanish.

I am quieted by a heaviness that I have difficulty explaining. Yesterday we were talking in class about the Zapatista Revolution of 1994 and the plight of the indigenous people that still exists today. We watched a documentary called Zapatista that had me in tears, burdened with the weight of empathy and so convicted of the complacency that plagues the U.S. and seeps into my own heart and time. I can´t even really verbalize the effect it had. Because of my experiences in Honduras, I have some difficulty being here in a Spanish-speaking country, surrounded by affluent people and in an academic setting. While I am quite grateful for this education and know that I am supposed to be here at this time, it weighs heavily on me that I am going to a school that has several pools simply for landscape while there is a thirsty leper sitting outside of the main cathedral. I feel lost without the hungry touch of orphans and juvenile delinquents, and I feel so heavy with homesickness not only for Honduras but for the closeness to these wounded spirits and hungry souls that I find that I can´t even cry. I struggle to sleep at night or to even really pray because I simply cannot find the words. But in the midst of this inexplicable weight, I have peace because I know I am supposed to be here not only geographically but spiritually as well. It is a preparation, a sobering call to live life awake in His presence and dependent on His will, whatever that may mean. Many fellow students and our host mother give Leigh Ann and I a hard time because we don´t really go anywhere, but to be honest, movement at this time seems unbearable although I am open to seeing more of Mexico and experiencing more of the culture. More than anything, I get the real sense that I am not here to be entertained. Rather, the words of Isaiah keep echoing what I believe I am called to do in this place:
¨Come, my people, go home and shut yourselves in. Go into seclusion for a while. . .¨ -- from Isaiah 26
¨This is the time and place to rest, to give rest to the weary. This is the place to lay down your burden.¨ -- from Isaiah 28

I also find the words of Brennan Manning from his book, The Ragamuffin Gospel, to be a good reminder of my intended state:
¨ At different times on the journey I have tried to fill the emptiness that frequently comes with God´s presence through a variety of substitutes. . .¨
It´s odd to have our usual perception of God´s presence challenged like that. We assume that being in God´s presence always leads to fullness, an instant gratification of healing or wholeness, but it doesn´t. At times, He does call us to be empty, waiting and trusting His timing and His ways. As painful as it can be to find yourself alone with only the muttered prayer of, ¨God, I have nothing,¨ it is more painful to imagine how we betray the heart of God when we insist on receiving His blessings and fulfillment rather than waiting on Him. He truly knows best, and in this case, He knows the kind of maturation necessary for me to fulfill His purposes for His glory. In this time, I don´t doubt that He loves me although He feels rather far away--quite the contrary. I know that He has led me here, and I still look to Him with the childlike attitude of ¨What´s next, Papa?¨

Meanwhile, the theme of agriculture and land have come up numerous times this past week in class lectures, readings, and what I have been reading in Isaiah. I don´t find it to be a coincidence.
¨´At that same time, a fine vineyard will appear. There´s something to sing about! I, God, tend it. I keep it well-watered. I keep careful watch over it so that no one can damage it. I´m not angry. I care. Even if it gives me thistles and thornbushes, I´ll just pull them out and burn them up. Let that vine cling to me for safety, let it find a good and whole life with me, let it hold on for a good and whole life.´ The days are coming when Jacob shall put down roots, Israel blossom and grow fresh branches, and fill the world with its fruit.¨ -- from Isaiah 27

I am that vine clinging so desperately to the Father. I wait whole-heartedly for that good and whole life He has promised. In the past, as I suppose many women and people in general do, I have had an inner conflict between wanting to be an independent, unattached woman, able to move as a free spirit and to travel as I please and also wanting to have an established home. Having lived with no established home since high school and just from the way that God has led me, I now find myself desiring to be Jacob--able to put down roots. And I am encouraged furthermore by words from Isaiah 29:
¨And finally this, God´s Message for the family of Jacob, the same God who redeemed Abraham: ´No longer will Jacob hang his head in shame, no longer grow gaunt and pale with waiting. For he´s going to see his children, my personal gift to him--lots of children. And these children will honor me by living holy lives. In holy worship they´ll honor the Holy One of Israel. Those who got off-track will get back on-track, and complainers and whiners will learn gratitude.´¨
My roots will always be first and foremost wrapped tightly around the home I find in Him, but then there is also Honduras. While pieces of my heart have always been there, I find my commitment to that calling, to the permanence of that place in my life, being refined and solidified. 22 days until I am home.

I am comforted by the Spanish word ¨esperar¨ because it carries two meanings--to wait and to hope. And so, I gladly and patiently do both.

With love,
Sarah

The culture here and, in many cases, in Latin America in general seems so conducive to who I am in some ways. For example, during my one-on-one conversation with Mariel yesterday, we talked about how important it is that women especially make their intentions and expectations known. Although as with all human beings there are cases of shyness and the like, overall, there is a general acceptance for concretely bringing social situations into the open. I was sharing with Mariel my tendency to want concrete and open interactions and to steer clear of situations that carry vague or veiled intentions. I like that here it is expected that you be open with other people as that certainly is not the case in the States.

In the same way, I was talking with our host mother, Coco, yesterday, and we were discussing the use of the tú form versus the usted form in addressing people. For anyone not familiar with Spanish, let me explain: When addressing another person in conversation, there are two pronoun/verb forms that can be used--the tú (informal) and the usted (formal). The usted form is usually the safe way to go because it indicates respect and is a way of placing that person apart from yourself. In other words, the usted is a way to communicate with the person without intruding on them personally or becoming prematurely intimate in conversational relations. The tú form indicates a freedom to be quite personal and intimate with someone else. Initiating the use of the tú indicates not only a readiness to be more open and close to the other person but also the confidence that that person feels the same way about you. However, although it seems rather complex, I don't get the sense that it is something Spanish speakers really worry about too much, and the use of the tú form varies from country to country. In Honduras, I didn't hear the tú form used often. The usted simply seemed more convenient although I did note that the tú form was always used during prayers and when talking to God. This blessed my heart greatly as it automatically indicates an openness with God and an invitation of intimacy given to Him. Because it isn't used often in Honduras, the use of the tú form with God almost carried a greater sacredness. In Mexico, however, the tú form is used often. I was quite surprised that my host mother and my professors all used the tú form with me. It's just more widely accepted here. However, Coco told us that if someone uses the tú form with you, and you are not comfortable with that person, it's necessary to tell the person that he or she cannot use that form with you. It is expected that you indicate that the person is not close enough to you, doesn't know you well enough, or isn't someone with whom you are ready to be open. This immediate revelation is not meant to be an insult; it is only to let the person know where he or she stands. This fearlessness in social interaction amazes me because I am accustomed to a culture of vague intentions, of social games, and of fear to just be real. Thus, this culture warms my heart and expands my world. It's refreshing to say the least.

Besos y abrazos para ti,
Sarah

"El árbol que crece torcido jamás se endereza."

"The tree that grows crooked will never straighten." -- Spanish saying
In my writing class, we discussed various sayings in Spanish, and the above was one of them. I have been reminded through various conversations and observations that although many people my age imagine the great big world of growing up, we don't always recognize that the choices (however small) that we make today ultimately lead us to the directions of tomorrow. Thus, I like the above saying because I know that the days that I pass here are a step toward the promises of tomorrow. I want my everyday choices to reflect the person I hope to be.

In other thoughts, before I left, I read Isaiah 26, and I have been stuck on it ever since:
Stretch the Borders of Life
At that time, this song
will be sung in the country of Judah:
We have a strong city, Salvation City,
built and fortified with salvation.
Throw wide the gates
so good and true people can enter.
People with their minds set on you,
you keep completely whole,
Steady on their feet,
because they keep at it and don't quit.
Depend on God and keep at it
because in the Lord God you have a sure thing.
Those who lived high and mighty
he knocked off their high horse.
He used the city built on the hill
as fill for the marshes.
All the exploited and outcast peoples
build their lives on the reclaimed land.

The path of right-living people is level.
The Leveler evens the road for the right-living.
We're in no hurry, God. We're content to linger
in the path sign-posted with your decisions.
Who you are and what you've done
are all we'll ever want.
Through the night my soul longs for you.
Deep from within me my spirit reaches out to you.
When your decisions are on public display,
everyone learns how to live right.
If the wicked are shown grace,
they don't seem to get it.
In the land of right living, they persist in wrong living,
blind in the splendor of God.

You hold your hand up high, God,
but they don't see it.
Open their eyes to what you do,
to see your zealous love for your people.
Shame them. Light a fire under them.
Get the attention of these enemies of yours.
God, order a peaceful and whole life for us
because everything we've done, you've done for us.
O God, our God, we've had other masters rule us,
but you're the only Master we've ever known.
The dead don't talk,
ghosts don't walk,
Because you've said, "Enough--that's all for you."
and wiped them off the books.
But the living you make larger than life.
The more life you give, the more glory you display,
and stretch the borders to accommodate more living!

O God, they begged you for help when they were in trouble,
when your discipline was so heavy
they could barely whisper a prayer.
Like a woman having a baby,
writhing in distress, screaming her pain
as the baby is being born,
That's how we were because of you, O God.
We were pregnant full-term.
We writhed in labor but bore no baby.
We gave birth to wind.
Nothing came of our labor.
We produced nothing living.
We couldn't save the world.

But friends, your dead will live,
your corpses will get to their feet.
All you dead and buried,
wake up! Sing!
Your dew is morning dew
catching the first rays of sun,
The earth bursting with life,
giving birth to the dead.

Come, my people, go home
and shut yourselves in.
Go into seclusion for a while
until the punishing wrath is past,
Because God is sure to come from his place
to punish the wrong of the people on earth.
Earth itself will point out the bloodstains;
it will show where the murdered have been hidden away.

I don't know that I have anything profound to offer in terms of that passage, but it sticks with me throughout the day. Many of its sentiments echo the place that I find myself better than I could ever verbalize.

Our second day of classes went well although I found today to be more daunting than yesterday. I enjoy all of my classes. My professors are incredibly intelligent, and I appreciate that amidst learning more grammar and vocabulary, they are also insisting that I think critically of the texts that we use (that are often written from a European standpoint).

It's amazing to realize how much of the lives of Mexicans, and, I believe, Central Americans stems from actions or struggles of their ancestors. There is power in generational choices which, for me, relates back to the saying about the tree. My choices today don't just affect me; I want a life that creates a strong foundation to hold up future generations. I hear of the selfishness and the forceful agendas of Cortes and the other conquistadors, and I am heartbroken to see how their choices resulted in the pain, struggle, and discrimination of masses of indigenous people. I think of Alvin Anderson and the way that his life choices at the ripe age of 22 led to the help and hope of thousands of young Central Americans which will have a ripple effect on generations to come. From these examples, I know that it's not enough to live what I may think is a "good life." I'm sure in some cases, the conquistadors thought that what they were doing was right. Culturally and socially, they were doing what was expected of them from their peers and masters in Europe. They brought their own agendas of religion and "civilization." Yet, they destroyed the ways of life of thriving peoples. They carried the name of Jesus to people who had never heard of Him as they killed, stole from, and raped those that had done them no harm. Their actions triggered a ripple effect that has harmed the people they came to "save" for years, yet perhaps, in their justifications and the like, they still believed that what they were doing was good. I know that of my own understanding, I will never know what is good for another person or even truly how to love another person in the specific way that they need. I cannot see the bigger picture of what is best for myself and others. Thus, I want my heart to echo the prayer of Mother Theresa: "Ask Jesus not to allow me to refuse Him anything, however small." I know that it is only in surrendering every aspect of life to the One who sees the woven tapestry of life that I can walk accordingly in real love for others, leaving a legacy of hope with the tiny thread I carry.

I leave you with a bit from Mother Theresa that was written in the book I've been reading, Come Be My Light:
Cheerfulness is a sign of a generous and mortified person who forgetting all things, even herself, tries to please her God in all she does for souls. Cheerfulness is often a cloak which hides a life of sacrifice, continual union with God, fervor and generosity. A person who has this gift of cheerfulness very often reaches a great height of perfection. For God loves a cheerful giver and He takes close to His heart the religious He loves.

I hope as much can be said of me some day.

With Love,
Sarah

Hola Mis Amigos

The rest of yesterday was spent wandering around el zocalo or the center of the city. Cuernavaca certainly lives up to its nickname of "City of the Eternal Spring." Enchanting is an understatement to say the least. The streets are generally cobblestone, and there are many architectural beauties including El Palacio de Cortes and various cathedrals. We traveled with our host mother to various places including a large garden with innumerable fountains and art shows. Many vendors of local food, arts, and the like were set up in these areas, and they had painting classes for children. I really appreciate how much they value art. Everything is covered in plants and flowers--sunflowers are a choice decoration. The whole tone of the town is tranquil and peaceful, serene and charming. They were playing jazz in the garden, and I had a moment of teary, inexplicable joy. Just as it was when I was in Jamaica, I find myself wondering why God loves me, yet I am so very aware that He does from the overwhelming beauty of my surroundings. I am so grateful that He has allowed me to be here.

Years ago, I would have found Cuernavaca to be the kind of place I'd want to live. It just has that beauty of simplicity. But yesterday we also came across a few beggars on the streets. One man had leprosy with open sores on his foot that already lacked toes. He was old and dirty and completely forgotten. The contrast of these individuals against the glory of the city was striking. They were begging outside of a cathedral full of ornate gold art where a mass was being conducted for people wandering in and out with their shopping bags and children. And amidst the warmth of The City of Eternal Spring, my heart was captured by them, and I longed to sit with them, hold them, and look them in the eyes as the human beings they are. There is a danger of such a sleepy, gorgeous place--complacency that leads to forgetting the pain of wounded spirits. I was reminded of yet another quotation from Mother Theresa: "If I ever become a saint--I will surely be one of 'darkness.' I will continually be absent from Heaven--to light the light of those in darkness on earth."

As a side note, there are some stark differences from Honduras that I have noted thus far: The traffic here is less crazy. They actually use turn signals, and they respect traffic lights. There is also far less lane-changing on a whim. I also was struck by how respectful the people were. I was expecting to be hissed at, yelled at, stopped, etc. on the street--the joys of being a blonde woman in Latin America--but, that hasn't been the case at all. In fact, the people rarely acknowledge us as being out of the ordinary. Perhaps that is because this is a tourist area. I don't know. Meanwhile, I still catch glimpses of Honduras. A smell will pass by--fresh laundry, fragrant vegetation, some smells I can't even categorize--and I'm struck by a memory or even just a sense of Honduras. I smile every time. I really like Mexico. The people are friendly; the place is so beautiful. Yet it is not home. Mexico is a step closer to Honduras than Jamaica, and I miss Honduras more than I can express.

Today was our first day of classes at Universidad Internacional. We started the day with orientation, a placement test, and a placement interview. I have three classes a day on the advanced level of 420 (whatever that means). My first class is Advanced Writing for the Bilingual II, and today, it was only me and the professor, David Porcayo. During our conversation, he asked me where I was born. I was born in a tiny place called Winder, Georgia. I told him where it was, and we were both amazed that he knew exactly where that was because he had taught at the University of Georgia and was well acquainted with Athens and Winder, Georgia. Pretty amazing. He is a jovial guy--very funny and likes to pick on me. I can tell I will learn from him because he readily corrects me when I'm wrong.

My second class is a culture class about Mexico--also very interesting. In this class, there was only me, a professor, and one other student from the University of Arkansas. Today we talked about the political parties of Mexico as well as the government. We also discussed the indigenous people of Mexico, and the discrimination that they face. We also talked of the origin of the greatest insult in Mexico. Although I don't feel the need to actually write it out here, I will say that it translates to "son of a raped woman" and originates back to the time of Cortes. There is an interesting paradox here. Although everyone here is more or less considered a mestizo, or someone of mixed ancestry, Mexicans, in general, don't wish to claim their indigenous heritage. The Aztecs, Olmecs, Incas, etc. were phenomenal people with very sophisticated intelligence--equal to the Egyptians that built the pyramids, but the people here, in many cases, still feel ashamed to be connected to them through heritage.

My last class is actually an hour of one-on-one conversation. The person who spoke with me is named Mariel, and she is 23, studying Spanish, French, and ESL. She was a lot of fun to talk to. We discussed the culture of Mexico (and Latin America in general) in the realm of expressing care for another person. It's a very touchy-feely culture--something I'm used to because of Honduras. I think it's one of the reasons I like Latin America so much. The people are so open with their lives, and they don't hold back any emotion or affection. Our conversation after that discussion was rather stunted though, partially because I lacked the vocabulary to say what I wanted to say and partially because I'm terrible at small talk in general. As many of my friends have discovered, I am a person of few preferences. I am quite content no matter where I am, and I can find beauty in basically any type of music, food, or hobby. Thus, small talk is often one-sided. I have very few favorites.

I thoroughly enjoyed my day at the university. I love being able to feel the Spanish language part of my brain being stimulated again. I find it easier and easier to understand when Spanish is spoken, and I find myself thinking in Spanish more and more. I am so grateful that I was able to come here before going to Honduras. I'll already be in a Spanish mindset when I get there.

The social element of this experience is rather amusing. I am here with Leigh Ann, a friend and fellow Shepherd student, and both of us are home bodies. There aren't many things that frighten me socially, but I'm also not a social butterfly. While the trend here seems to be that students go out to drink and dance nightly, we are pretty content to have dinner with our host mother and spend our evenings reading and talking. I love having Leigh Ann here because although we don't have classes together, it is so nice to have someone with whom to share the everyday experience. Our host mother keeps telling us that when we make friends we'll go to this place or that place and do this thing or that thing, but we don't really expect to be doing those things. While I would like to go some places just to experience more of the culture and hear some of the local music, I don't see either of us making very many friends to be perfectly honest. I obviously don't have very many people in my classes, and I'm terrible at small talk. If it were up to me, I'd just go places with Leigh Ann and my host mother. Leigh Ann is adorable, and our host mother is so much fun. I'm not opposed to making new friends, but I'm not good at forcing social interaction. So, we shall see. Our host mother is divorced, and although she has three grown daughters, she lives alone. She seems so lonely often, and it seems that the television provides her with the comfort of presence, even if only in the form of background noise--a state I knew well this past school year. I would like to help ease some of that loneliness and hope to be more talkative, but it may take a bit of time to reach that point. The only other person who lives in the house is a man named Alex who we guess rents a room from her. Leigh Ann and I enjoy imagining what kind of techno raves he has alone because he lives on the other side of our bathroom and plays pulsating techno music day and night.

One more quick story before I sign off:
Last night, Leigh Ann and I had already brushed our teeth, changed into pajamas, and settled into our room talking when around 9:30, our host mother knocked on our door and asked if we were hungry. So, we had an unexpected, late dinner of pancakes and strawberry milk--funny surprise. Meals here are on a different time schedule than the typical US schedule (but one conducive to my college kid tendencies)--we eat breakfast at 7:30, lunch (I don't know if that's what they call it, but it's our biggest meal of the day) at 3, and dinner at 9.

Thanks for reading,
Sarah

:)

Hello All,
Well, after a terribly long flight delay, a shift of plans, and literally running so as not to miss our flight to Mexico, we are here! I was so blessed by God's provisions in the little details of the trip. On the flight, I came across this quotation:
"The traveler sees what he sees; the tourist sees what he came to see." -- G. K. Chesterton
I like that because it addresses what attitude I want to take in any of my travels--that of a quiet observer, absorbing the life around me, rather than insisting that the world around me cater to my whims.

Anyway, the best way I can describe my sentiments of being here is this: When I stepped outside of the airport and was hit with the smell of diesel fumes and the chattering of Spanish, I was home. Mexico is different than Honduras undoubtedly, but there is just something about Latin America that is home. Mexico City has an all-consuming size. It's overwhelming, but we are now settled in Cuernavaca.

Our host mother is named Coco, and she is delightful. Her house is simply amazing, and already I feel quite spoiled. We don't have classes today, so we are spending our time getting acquainted with Coco, her three dogs, and the neighborhood.

I am so excited to be here, and I still can't get over just how blessed I am that God paved the way. I started reading a book containing Mother Theresa's journals, and I was struck by what her mother said to her whenever she left her home to be a nun:
"Put your hand in His [Jesus'] and walk alone with Him. Walk ahead, because if you look back you'll go back."
I gladly take those words to heart, knowing that what stretches before me in the will of God--however far out of my comfort zone--is infinitely better that the past I'm tempted to cling to.

With love,
Sarah

Hello

Hello All,
My name is Sarah, and I am 20 years old. I am starting this blog as a means of sharing the adventures of my life--however small or insignificant--with anyone willing to listen. As I'm sure the above post indicates, one of those more important adventures for me is Honduras. I suppose that's a continuing thread of plot for my life as I plan to move there after I graduate from Shepherd University next year. I have been to Honduras three times since I was 17, and I knew from the very first time that I was there that it was home. I included the below long piece that I wrote for my Advanced Composition class at Shepherd this past semester because I think it serves as an accurate introduction to who I am and what is the most important to me. I wrote it as a feeble attempt to explain to the numerous people who ask, "What's the big deal about Honduras? Why is that place so important to you?" I never knew how to answer that question; it's not a short answer by any means. But, delving into my experiences this past summer was cathartic and answered that question concretely (at least for me). My affiliations with Honduras started through Alvin and Nellie Anderson and their non-profit ministry called Manos Extendidas. (Extended Hands) The piece below gives a bit of an overview of some of the realms of ministry with which they are involved. To find out more for yourself (including how to sponsor one of those kids at the feeding centers), you can go to http://www.mehonduras.org/.


Now, I am fast approaching a completely new adventure, and I am both excited and trying not to be anxious. I fly out tomorrow from Pittsburgh to go to Mexico for a month of Spanish language school in Cuernavaca. I will leave from there on June 12 to go back to Honduras to work with a new organization called the Global Volunteer Network. (http://www.globalvolunteernetwork.org/) I will be teaching English as a Second Language to children ages 5-12 in one of the state schools of La Esperanza . A rural area, La Esperanza, is roughly three and a half hours from where I was this past summer in Tegucigalpa, the capital. I will be in Honduras until August 11, and I will have a little less than three weeks to visit with some of my friends in Tegucigalpa as well.

I just finished my junior year of college, and I haven't even been home a week. This week has been a flurry of packing and planning, to-do lists and last-minute details. It's daunting this time around just because this trip is less planned than the last. My plans for the summer weren't finalized until April, but God has provided every step of the way in every aspect possible--including financially. I look forward to the new challenges of this summer and especially to the independence that will come from traveling on my own throughout various places in Honduras and Mexico, but I can also see how this will be a time of divine stretching and learning further dependency on God. So many elements of this trip are going to have to be God-orchestrated, but I welcome His presence in all things. Meanwhile, I would greatly appreciate your prayers. I will do my best to update this blog and keep you updated as to what new wonders God is showing me. Feel free to leave me any questions you may have. Although I will miss seeing many people over the next few months, I wish all of you an adventurous summer no matter where you may be. Life on God's terms is never boring.

Until next time,
Sarah

A Surrendered Heart: Mi Hogar en Honduras

“If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.” – C.S. Lewis

I have stopped journaling. In the past, the evasion of reflection was out of complacency, yet now I feel it is merely out of self-preservation. No words are raw enough, honest enough, to capture the heaviness of my spirit. Pressing memories snatch my breath and crowd any release that previously would have been possible. I find that most days I can’t even cry. I have become a salt composite of whimpered confessions, of wordless cries to God. I try to be present, to live in this moment, but my every other thought breathes Honduras, Honduras, Honduras.

I see their faces daily—their seeking velvet eyes, reaching hands, and hungry smiles so characteristic of my children, my orphans, my loves. Axel, my angel with a smudgy face and decaying teeth, had bumped his head on the concrete and screamed with the reckless desperation of knowing that, most often, no one cared. I scooped him into my arms and held him so close, his snot soaking my shoulder, that he was mine in those moments. I have never been a mother. I don’t know what that is like, but as a woman, I know that there was a sense that he was mine—that he had come from me and to me, a son born of my own surrender to the strained pain of real love.

Then, there was Tati, a three-year-old wonder with curly hair and a bouncing step. She crawled into my lap and showed me the marvels of her small fingers before peeing on my leg. She squealed with delight when she played with the few toys that all of the orphans of her house shared, and she led me around to introduce me to her shared bedroom.

Jasmine was the heartbreaker. Her hair was cropped short like most all of the girls to keep the lice at bay, and her face was demanding and melancholy for a six-year-old. Holding her hand, I tried to get her to play soccer with me and a few other children, but she just shook her head and sat down on the wall near the cancha. Although gangly, she crawled on top of my knees and buried her head just under my neck with all the violent persistence of a burrowing animal. The other children were swarming around me. José Luis, the little boy who never stopped smiling, was showing me a cut as his eyes danced and his lip poked forward. I gave him hugs and kissed his cut, only to look down at Jasmine staring straight into my eyes, her wrists exposed. A blood-dried cut slid across the soft flesh of each arm, and she began muttering in Spanish. She had tried to kill herself. Porque no quiero vivir sin una familia en este lugar. Six-years-old, trapped in a world of no home and no family, with nothing left to live for.
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“Come inside this heart of mine; it’s not my own. Make it home. Come and take this heart and make it all your own. Welcome home.” – Shaun Groves

The balmy day generally starts at six in the morning although the roosters start their dispirited crowing a few hours earlier. The cool smell of freshly washed laundry sloshed and slopped onto the line beneath the towering pines greets me as I emerge from the bunkhouse. There is the usual good morning ritual through the broken window of the boys’ side of the bunkhouse. I wander, smiling, into the kitchen already alive with movement from Amy and Nelanie, the two daughters of the missionaries, and Kevin and Bladimir, the two adopted sons. Mamí Nellie is still snug in bed, but Papí Alvin peers over the paper at the kitchen table as he thrusts eggs with beans and mantequilla into his mouth. Idaña, Mamí Nellie’s younger sister, uses a fork to flip the sizzling, yellow plátanos as they fry over the gas stove. Another one of the family, I help myself to the steaming black coffee and scavenge for whatever leftovers there may be for breakfast—rice and beans, last night’s spaghetti, toast, or Nicaraguan tortillas. Every morsel of food in Honduras tastes better than anything I’ve ever tasted here, but simplicity has a way of naturally leading to contentment. Even the daily cold showers offer a kind of jubilant revival.

Each morning following breakfast, I take my Bible and journal out to the front porch overlooking much of Villa Vieja and sit in a rocking chair, savoring the ever- present breeze and enjoying the noises of a house always full of people. There is the sound of Mamí’s music that fills the house from morning till night accompanied by her shrill call for Roy, another adopted son and young, live-in handyman. His gentle and faithful reply of “Mande!” echoes in return. Order me; send me.

The smell of diesel fuel and ripe mangoes, fried chicken and men’s hair gel waft to and fro as I pass through the various places of my Honduran life. The rolling white clouds against a perfectly deep blue sky and the steep mountains shadowed by trees keep me company as I wait to be told what to do for the day. Some days I take a public bus—an old U.S. school bus jam-packed with people standing, sitting, and hanging out the back doors—to the orphanage. Other days, I just tag along with Roy or Papí or the Danish volunteers.

I cradle orphans. I teach impoverished preschoolers at the feeding centers established in the mountains outside of the capital, and I visit with street kids and gang members in the worst part of the city. I pray with juvenile delinquents, help at the home for abused girls, and hand out food in the middle of the dump. And in the midst of all of this “doing,” I am humbled by the epic truth that what God is doing—how He is changing my heart—is far greater than any of my efforts. I am simply taking the time to know Him and let Him know me.

Honduras is not an easy place. By all realities and standards, Tegucigalpa, the capital, is a cavity of dust and hunger, pride and suffocating privilege, yet for those two short months, it was home. And for me, it remains home now.

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“Daddy, come get me. I want You to catch me again. I tagged You; You’re it. Daddy, play with me.” – Jason Upton

I work three jobs and spend time list-making, past-searching, future-dwelling, and waiting for sleep—all in an effort to forget and remember the weight of tears I cannot cry. It was the same in Honduras too although in a different way. The first time I ever went, ever met a child prostitute, ever had a high ten-year-old street boy jump into my arms, ever saw a boy my own age dying of AIDS on a mattress in the alley, I couldn’t cry. I was so frustrated that I couldn’t cry. Other people were, and I was ashamed because I was stunned into denial and silence. By the time I returned for a third trip, the tears found me in the middle of the dump of Tegucigalpa where 500 people lived and ate and worked in the scorching sun and decay of leather flesh, plastic waste, and rainless mud, fighting with cows, dogs, and vultures for human droppings. And there was a little girl—a soft, dirt-streaked niña shyly taking a bologna sandwich from my hand. And I broke, wondering if anyone had ever told her she was beautiful. We gave the children water, and they sucked it luxuriously, sometimes violently, from their plastic bags until they’d had their fill. With the extra, they began to play in the confetti-colored mounds of Fresca bottles, tires, and silvery discarded bags of yuca chips, squirting each other and squealing with hollowed, almost forgotten smiles. Children—just as we all are—who needed to play. Modern day Mary Magdalenes pouring out their oil of laughter, playing with Daddy.

I sat in the van as we meandered out of the abyss with ceaseless tears streaming down my face. I was angry, wondering how it was possible for God not to hate us. “How dare we live the way we do in the U.S. when there are people suffering as they are in this place?” It was too overwhelming to lie to myself about how I could help. All I could pray was, “Father, please give me a heart so willing that if You called me to live in that place as those people, loving them as You do in the midst of that struggle, that I would leave my place of comfort to live as they do and love as You do.”

I love garbage day when the Waste Management trucks open their caged mouths to feed themselves with the castoffs of college students. The sharp, sour smell pervades the air as the molecules disperse over my face and into my nose. I smile every time, reminded of home, relishing Honduras.

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“You belong to Me, and no one will ever snatch you from my hand. I have changed your name. No longer will you be called ashamed, guilt-ridden, lonely, and much-afraid. Your new name is ‘child of mine, broken and beloved, playful one and joy of my heart.’” – Brendan Manning

An ocean of lapping, seasick waves, guilt rarely destroys in bursts. Rather, with each wash over your soul and your circumstances, it erodes away at the very core of your being until grain by grain you’ve lost yourself. I nearly lost myself a couple months before going to Honduras, to a relationship that filled my world with overthinking, fear, and regret, crowding out the light of hope and independent ambition. Driven by guilt, each small decision to ignore obvious manipulation, to succumb to twisted treatment, and to quietly allow myself to be defined by another, chipped away at my sensibilities and self-worth. I escaped from my self-imposed prison just in time. Yet the remnants of unspoken protests and strongholds of control followed me to the sunny warmth of Tegus.

I had frequent nightmares. He was following me, and he was angry. I ran all over the contours of my subconscious, but he caught me, and I lost myself all over again. With each nightmare, my body responded with physical anguish—a clogged, sore throat when I woke the next morning, throbbing ears, and a crusty cough. It was as if he had followed me, still determined to possess me, yet it wasn’t him at all. I wanted to forgive him, cutting the strings of begrudged attachment, and I wanted to forgive myself. Yet all I could do was lay curled in my bed, begging God to fix me—to know me and expose the root of the wound, so He could heal it. As the weeks moved on, it became easier to breathe as the burden slowly lifted, until I was a hot air balloon no longer tied down to the ground of my past.

Still the incense of disrespect lingered, leaving me burnt and fearful. A blonde, white woman in Honduras cannot hide from machismo. It was present everyday in the hissing of the men outside of the grocery store, in the smacking of puckered lips as we drove through Comayaguela with my face visible, and in the propositions of dirty old neighbor men. Men shouted to me in English and Spanish, slowing their cars as they drove by me. One serenaded me with a James Blunt song from his truck, and another grabbed my hand on the bus. Walking alone up our road was always a test of my own will to reject unwanted attention and protect myself. Having a soft heart—or perhaps one used to guilt-induced trampling—I often failed, rescued by someone from the house. I was a china plate, admired yet ripe for crashing. Once again, I had become something someone only wanted to possess.

Too many days I returned home angry—not mad at the man who had manipulated his way into a conversation, but at myself for being kind when he was being vulgar. Yet I didn’t know how to remedy my response and once again did all I knew to do—surrendered it to the God who could search the deep recesses of my heart when I was blind, lost in the dark of self.

My favorite Spanish worship song learned during my first trip to Honduras is called, “La Niña de Tus Ojos,” “The Girl of Your Eyes.” Me viste a mí cuando nadie me vio. You saw me when no one saw me. Me amaste a mí cuando nadie me llamó. You loved me when no one called me. Y me diste nombre. And You gave me a name. Yo soy tu niña. I am Your little girl. La niña de tus ojos porque me amaste a mí. The girl of Your eyes because You loved me.

Being the firstborn daughter to my father, Joe, I have always been a daddy’s girl. There is a certain power in the realization of belonging to a father. There’s an untapped freedom that emerges when a daughter realizes that her father will protect her, embracing her with comfort and shielding her as best he can from the evils of the world. There are no worries of self-protection because of the strong father. Eventually, though, daughters grow up in the dizzying autonomy of almost adulthood, and human fathers can’t fight all the battles any more.
It was in Honduras, though, that I realized the power of being the daughter of a Heavenly Father. When you catch a glimpse of the depth of His love for you, it changes everything. You begin to see yourself through the lens of a Father beaming with pride over His small daughter, leaving the pressures of worldly beauty behind because you know that He thinks you’re worthy of His love. Liberty seeps from the acknowledgement that you don’t have to protect yourself because an omniscient, trustworthy Being is holding you. Regardless of what calamities may befall you, He is the only one fully in control, orchestrating life stories of love for His greater good.

If I belong to Him, I needn’t feel guilty when I stumble into manipulation. If I belong to Him, I don’t have to fear that another will snatch me from His hands. If I belong to Him, I can believe that I am worth more than the way I have been treated in the past. And I do belong to Him.

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“Sweet Lorraine, fiery-haired, brown-eyed schemer who came from a long line of drinkers and dreamers . . . Her father would tear out like a page of the Bible. Then he’d burn down the house to announce his arrival. Her mother was working and never was home. Lorraine carved out a little life of her own. . . . In the battle of time, in the battle of will, it’s only your hope and your heart that gets killed, and it gets harder and harder, Lorraine, to believe in magic when what came before you was so very tragic.” – Patty Griffin

Names are important. I would know; my last name is Crickenberger. I distinctly remember the tedious task of learning how to spell my last name. I also remember the frustration of politely putting up with those all-too-common nicknames of “chicken burger” and other equally unoriginal creations. My first name, on the other hand, is quite common—Sarah. If my name is said in any public place, at least three other girls are likely to turn around. I don’t even answer to it any more. I’m more likely to respond to my oddly appropriate nickname of “Cricket.” I say all of this because there is something both very foreign and very defining about a name. Sometimes, I hear someone call my name, and for just a second, I wonder who she is. That collection of sounds and syllables does not seem to signify who I am at all. It doesn’t tell the story of my soul, yet from the mouths of strangers, it’s all I have.

I met a young lady in Honduras who was 15-years-old who had learned to write her name only a week before I met her. She was a tiny thing afraid to smile most days until she was able to spend enough time to trust you. She had two younger sisters—Olga and another sister whose name bore an uncanny resemblance to her own. We had a terrible time trying to correctly identify them, especially since neither of them knew how to write their names. Their own mother, having only a second grade education, couldn’t spell their names.

For a while, they both lived at the Eagle’s Nest, a home for abused and neglected young ladies that at the time was housing four other girls. One of the other girls, Stefani, used her prior schooling and phonetic knowledge to teach the oldest daughter how to spell her name: K-E-N-D-I.

Kendi had been sexually abused by her own father daily for years. She was afraid of men yet still craved their attention desperately. She had only finished the first grade since she lived in the most impoverished area of Tegus, in the rocky hills. Alvin arranged for her to live at the Eagle’s Nest where she was cared for by Tía Sally, a 70-year-old, no-nonsense lady from Michigan who didn’t speak a word of Spanish, and Tía Sara, a boisterous Nicaraguan woman who carried the burden of communicating with all of the girls of the house.

I had difficulty with Kendi and was brokenhearted because of it. She had a habit of hanging on everyone—constant skin touching skin, arms slung over shoulders in vice grips, and relentless clingy trailing. She never stood up for herself when Kevin and Bladi picked on her, and she refused to do anything by herself or to be around new people. Realistically, she was just getting used to life. Her face lit up by the magic of the stove. She was initially confused yet blessed by indoor plumbing, taking long, luxurious showers despite the frigid water. She was a leech—thirsty for knowledge, starving for attention, and recklessly in need of love.

The harshest reality of Kendi hit me when I realized my ghastly lack of empathy for her. The conviction of our kinship opened my eyes to myself as well as to her struggles. To be blunt, the things I saw in Kendi that bothered me were the very things I didn’t want to face in myself. Her tendency to latch onto anyone willing to give her some measure of love. Her unbridled craving for human contact—to know that she was worthy of such a thing. Her inability to stand up for herself. Kendi and I were sisters of insecurity struggles, and once my heart was opened to this fact, the bond between us was inescapable. How could I not grant grace to a younger, more troubled extension of my own soul? As the week trod onward, Kendi stole ever-widening places of my heart, and whether either of us was aware of it at the time, we grew together.

It wasn’t until Alvin retrieved Kendi’s papers to gain custody of her, to save her from her abusive parents, that we finally discovered her true, legal name: Quendy. Q-U-E-N-D-Y. To her, though, that will never be her name. Her name resides in that first step toward independence when she learned to write her own representation, when she began her journey toward physical and emotional freedom, when she was finally able to choose to depict herself—aside from her past.

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“But God wants me to find my satisfaction in wells in a famished land, not the river of a fat one.” – Jim Elliot

My roommates and I just bought a Brita water pitcher—the kind that purifies the spews of the Potomac that rush from our tap. I used to drink the water here simply because I was too cheap to buy water bottles. The pitcher is a vast improvement to our lives though. I find it keeps me company in those hot nights when I’ve slept with too many layers on and wake with flushed cheeks and a prickly throat. Any foul aftertaste is only an imagined, remaining memory imprint from water tasting past.

You can’t drink the water in Honduras. Well, not the tap water anyway. They tell us gringos not to cook or brush our teeth with it either, but after a while, you get tired of toting water from the main house to the bunk house. So you learn to live like a catracho, thrusting your minty covered bristles under the faucet’s cascade.

“Honduras means ‘deep waters,’ you know. When Columbus landed on the shores of Honduras he said, ‘Thanks be to God who got us safely across these deep waters’—Honduras,” Papí Alvin had said in the van one day as we jolted along the rocky terrain they use as roads in Comayaguela.

The rain in Honduras is a resident titan. In the rainy season, you can set your watch by the torrents, and slivers of water turn into muddy rivers in the roads within a matter of minutes. With our tin roofs overhead, conversation was drowned by din and shatter, and we talked with our eyes, sipping water at the kitchen table.

I was spoiled in Honduras. We drank purified water every day from neon-colored, plastic cups. The water was sweet and the temperature of the room. When I returned, I couldn’t weather the slosh from the tap with its fecal taste and metal smell. And still, it seems, no matter how it’s sifted or strained, packaged or flavored, the water here gives no hydrating life.

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“Oh gently lay your head upon My chest, and I will comfort you like a mother while you rest. The tide can change so fast, but I will stay the same through past, same in future, same today. I am constant. I am near. I am peace that shatters all your secret fears. I am holy. I am wise. I am the only one who knows your heart’s desires.” – Jill Phillips

We entered the dingy hospital room, armed with baby blankets and diapers, onezies and socks, ready to help the new mothers of Hospital Escuela. Being the cheapest hospital in the city, women who have nothing go there to have their babies and leave with nothing but a crying bundle. The women were worn and most often alone—with no male present to hold them or help them. In Honduras, culturally, babies are only the responsibility of the mother.

Women covered themselves with ragged sheets even as many were still bleeding. Their faces were flushed in the hot rooms as rare breezes blew through the open windows, and their stringy hair stuck to their faces. Bulging breasts emerged for hungry newborns, and our small group meandered through the room visiting each proud mother. Many were teenagers. We prayed with each, giving her things for her baby. We heard beautiful names and stroked thick, silky baby hair and held tiny, supple fingers.

And, in the middle of the room, we stumbled upon her—a middle-aged woman curled on her bed that was wet with tears. The heaviness of her sorrow permeated the room. Her name was María, and she had lost her baby. After carrying her fourth child for the full pregnancy, it was still-born. The emptiness of her arms in the midst of a room full of wailing newness left us in tears. The six of us women of various ages gathered around her, holding her hands, stroking her graying hair, and speaking words of comfort, although our collective tears spoke greater volumes. We prayed for her in Spanish and English and gave her the name of one of the missionaries she could call if she needed anything.

One of the women of our group, Jamie, had also lost a child many years before. As she cried with the woman and shared her story, there was a peace that fell—not a total removal of heartache, but the lightening of a shared burden. There is a certain unspeakable power in womanhood. It resides in the ability to be unified in brokenness, surrendering pride and sharing pain. On that day, it was a nurturing power that knew no language barriers.

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“Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.’” – Matthew 9:14

A plumber and carpenter by trade, a young Alvin Anderson squatted on a bucket on the precarious hillside with sandwiches in hand. It was his lunch break from the construction job in the hills of Tegucigalpa. The children of the neighborhood pushed closer to him, to the fringes of his presence. They had desperate eyes and underdeveloped bones, and they scampered ever closer like probing sparrows. Being the kind of man who treats every child as if she is his own, he invited them to his outstretched hands, to eat of his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. This encounter, which grew in frequency, was the spark that started the feeding centers.

Now, years later, the giant pot of rice brims, and the stacks of tortillas sit neatly on the table, awaiting their homes in grimy hands and empty stomachs. The children close their long-lashed eyes and place their folded hands against their small faces as they are led in a group blessing for the food. They line up at the kitchen window with their plastic cups and makeshift bowls that siblings often share. Protective sisters make sure their baby brothers don’t spill their sausages while seated children roll their tortillas for eating. Hundreds of children are fed every Saturday at the two yellow feeding centers that tower high above the trickles of homes and jolting roads below. The centers serve as cafeterias and churches on Saturdays and trade schools and daycares on weekdays where preschool children are taught, and they, along with their sponsored older siblings, are fed.

Every Saturday, they hear a lesson from the Bible and sing songs, rejoicing for Jesus who is portrayed intimately to them through the love of Alvin Anderson. All he did was see a need and meet it, giving all that he had—all that God had provided. And through the tenderness of his heart and the obedience of his actions, he is changing the world by feeding and educating one Honduran child at a time. In a forgotten area, rampant with physical and sexual abuse as well as gang involvement, often the seed of love that Alvin and his helpers plant in each small child will be the only chance that child has for a hopeful future.

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“It’s the beauty of simplicity that brings me down to my knees . . . It’s the beauty of simplicity that fills me with eternity.” – Telecast

Hondurans, like many Latin Americans, love soccer. The whole country shuts down when the game is on and their team is playing. It seems that every Honduran—including the tiniest babies—sport blue and white jerseys to show their national pride. While I was in Honduras, the World Cup Semi-finals were taking place, and the United States and Honduras played each other a few times.

Watching the fútbol game isn’t just a family event; it is a neighborhood custom. At the Andersons’ house, we didn’t have a television that we could watch the game on, so we all piled into the car in the pouring rain to go to the house of Brenda and Geraldo. Brenda helped with cleaning, cooking, and laundry around our house while Geraldo was Alvin’s gruff and sloppy handyman. In the stuffy cement house with four rooms, concentrating on the small, grainy television screen, were Brenda and Geraldo and their five children, Nellie, Amy, Nelanie, Kevin, Bladimir, Roy, his brother Raúl, Anja and Torben (Danish volunteers), at least four neighbor kids, and me. Everyone was quiet and attentive when the game was on, and the sheer joy on the faces of the Hondurans when their team scored was enough to swallow the sun. Anja had brought two pear pies, a standard Danish dessert, to share with everyone. And as I helped her cut twenty-one neat slices so everyone would have a piece to eat out of the palm of his or her hand, I found myself overwhelmed by tears of joy, thinking, “This is how I want to spend the rest of my life.”

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"If you've ever known the love of God, you know it's nothing but reckless, and it's nothing but raging. Sometimes it hurts to be loved, and if it doesn't hurt it's probably not love, maybe infatuation. I think a lot of American people are infatuated with God, but we don't really love Him, and they don't really let Him love them. Being loved by God is one of the most painful things in the world; it's also the only thing that can bring us salvation, and it's like everything else that is really wonderful—there's a little bit of pain in it, little bit of hurt.” -- Rich Mullins

Murderers, thieves, and gang members smoothed their wrinkled skirts and wiped mascara-streaked tears from their faces. No quiero volver atrás. I don’t want to go back. Holding hands, these young women hung their heads with the silent sorrow of weary pasts. No quiero volver atrás. I don’t want to go back. They hugged each other, listening to the song that sang their hearts. No quiero volver atrás. I don’t want to go back.

From the second I stepped into their prayer and worship circle, I was one of them. A murderer, thief, and gang member. Although I wasn’t enclosed in a concrete and metal prison, I was captive in my own doubt of His love. I murdered His sacrifice by rebelliously trying to earn His love. I stole His gift of life with my own wasting of precious time. I joined the brutal ranks of the complacent. No quiero volver atrás. I don’t want to go back.

As I looked on the faces of the juvenile delinquent girls before me, I saw myself in their shining eyes, and words began to congregate in my mind. Lift up your head, My daughter. I told the girl next to me between my own quaking sobs. You are My princess, a child of the King. They were my sisters, broken yet beloved, and so in tune with my own struggle.

There is no greater pain than accepting the real love of Christ because you have to lose yourself. You can no longer hide behind fear and doubt when He makes Himself real to you. You can no longer convince yourself that you are unworthy or that your past sins are too much for Him to handle. Murderers, thieves, and gang members, suburbanites, politicians, and town drunks, are all children of the King. And when we fully discover this truth, as was inescapable that day at Sacred Heart and Rebirth Juvenile Detention Centers, there is no truly going back. No quiero volver atrás. I don’t want to go back.

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“You’re blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.” – Matthew 5:4

Victoria, my Nicaraguan roommate for a few weeks, looked at the water in the floor with the wild eyes of a frightened mare. She tugged on my sleeve and began her speech of Nicaraguan English with a rhythm reminiscent of witches standing over cauldrons reciting spells. Her voice sounded thick like bubble gum, and her gold teeth flashed with every syllable. She was quite worried about the puddle in the floor of our bathroom hallway immediately outside of our showers. I reasoned that the grout was leaky, but she swore there was some other dire problem. Tucking her frizzled gray hair behind her ears, she began mopping after promptly calling for Roy.

Although I’d been there roughly a week or so, I hadn’t really noticed him until that moment—that frightful moment that filled me with a kind of inexplicable awe. He was hunched over our shower drain, peering intently, before he reached into the filmy water with bare fingers collecting the fibrous, soapy mass of scum and human hair from its stubborn position of clogging the drain.

In Martin 201, our humble college abode, we fight over who will clean out the shower drain. It is the most shirked chore of our household. Nikki flat-out refuses to look at it. I’ve cleaned the drain once, gagging every second of every tug, and Blair, brave soul that she is, confronts the collection of blonde, brown, and reddish strands more than the rest of us. What would ever possess a man to scour a drain for total strangers—shedding females at that? Yet he did every task he was asked to do, for little or no pay, with a brimming grin of contentment and a servant’s heart so apparent it was nearly touchable.

I don’t talk about Roy often. My face and voice betray me when I do.

Our friendship began with a mínimo—an unexpectedly shared lunch thrust into my stubborn hands—and flourished to include Spanish conversations of Teddy Roosevelt and motor bikes, church and children. A miraculous chipping away at an invisible language barrier. We visited as we did our laundry. Roy bit the side of his lip every time he scrubbed his shirts against the washboard of the outdoor pila, scattering fresh, white suds onto my sweatshirt with a sideways, playful glance. We walked to the pulpería, eating homemade coconut popsicles called paletas, and he introduced me to all of his friends in Villa Vieja, our neighborhood. He taught me how to wash dusty windows with old newspapers, and I patiently taught him English phrases, syllable by syllable. Amidst the afternoon bustle of Nicaraguan ladies in the matriarchal kitchen, I made him bologna sandwiches, and he shared his deep fried pastelitos. Perched on the wall around the cancha, I watched him play fútbol with the neighborhood muchachos, and he watched me scoop up children at the feeding centers.

We did all of his mandatos together—mudding a new cement wall, carrying bags of dirt, cleaning the van, and shopping for the household. We played with orphans together, haggled over groceries together, and did dishes together. He invited me everywhere he was ordered to go, and each time I gladly accompanied him, he thanked me for my companionship. Roy quietly protected me, and despite his lack of an imposing nature, no man challenged his silent guard. When we went our separate ways, doing our daily separate tasks, we found excitement in the opportunity to share the stories of the day with each other.

We sat for hours at the kitchen table talking against the dark, breeze-blown background of the boys’ play and Mamí’s music. I voiced my frustration over being objectified and disrespected by men, and he told me about his father leaving his family when he was seven-years-old. After he’d given blood to a sick, old abuelo, we prayed together outside the bunkhouse, petitioning for the old man’s health in each of our languages.

There was a stillness between us, a communication that mocked the frailties of language, that surpassed the tickling of words. I didn’t notice it all at once—it was a mystery that unfolded without my knowledge. We’d exchange a look—a gaze of brown and blue—that made me look again, knowing I had missed something, knowing I had only seen a hint of some hidden beauty. There were smiles of unspoken words and an overwhelming richness of sweet gratitude for another person that I had never known before. In our steady serving movement, in our mutually surrendered hearts, in our daring dreams, in the pain of leaving, in the anticipation of God’s mysterious future, there was a joy of finally finding home.

In essence, we shared it all, and when we said our quick goodbyes after a month of age-old friendship, his tears were contagious, and we shared those too.

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“Come up here; come up now, My beloved. My beloved. You said, ‘Come up here; come up now, My beloved. My beloved.’ I want to fly, oh Lord, like an eagle in the sky. I want to fly, oh Lord, through that doorway in the sky. Here I come, oh Lord. Here I come, oh Lord. . . . in the midst, in the midst of heartache, oh God. In the midst, in the midst of brokenness, oh Lord.” – Jason Upton

Papí Alvin has made many friends over the years, and he remembers every name, every year that he met every person, every story. He collects each little lamb with sweeping, open arms. One such friend is Julio Ruby, a man confined to a wheelchair due to muscular dystrophy. Julio, a former singer and musician, lives in Tegus with his wife, Bessy, a fellow singer and musician. As Julio has gotten weaker over the years, it has become more and more difficult for Bessy to lift him out of bed to set him in his wheelchair. Because of this fact, Julio often had to stay in bed for days until Alvin knew of their trouble. Now, Alvin either travels every day to lift Julio out of bed, or he sends Roy to do so.

One day, when Alvin was out of town, Roy was headed to Julio’s, and since I hadn’t met them, I asked to go along. When we reached their cramped home perched along a lane of mangled concrete, I patiently waited with their yipping dogs as Roy lifted Julio out of bed and helped Bessy dress him. When he finally emerged into the poorly lit living room, we had a wonderful conversation in Spanish of his music and his past, singing and sharing God’s love with others. Roy, who is usually swamped with chores and errands, had never heard his music, so we both took the time to stay and listen to tape after tape of love songs, odes to Honduras, and worship music all in Bessy’s sweet soprano and Julio’s soulful crooning. We were both truly blessed. Before we left, they wanted to pray for me. This couple—who rarely see the light of day except through slit windows, who must rely on others for basic living, who spend their hours remembering the past before the toll of muscular dystrophy—took my hands and prayed for me. I have never been more humbled.

After that cherished encounter, I wanted to give a guitar to Bessy so that they could again make music together. My brother, Samuel, and a woman who is like a second mother to me, Cheryl, were slated to arrive toward the end of my time in Honduras, and Cheryl had a guitar she was willing to give away. When I told her of Bessy, she agreed with my ambition. The day after they arrived, Roy took us and another volunteer, Danielle, to their home.

We gave them the guitar and watched their faces melt with happiness. We were shocked when Bessy thrust the guitar into Cheryl’s hands and asked her to play. She began by playing the song “Come Up Here” by Jason Upton, which aptly talks of soaring to God to be in His presence. As she sang, we all began to feel the subtle mist of God’s presence, reflecting light in that dark, dirty place, cluttered with old pictures and old memories. Soon, one song wove into another until it was nothing more than careful strumming and soft, angelic voices singing their own hymns of worship to God. We didn’t all speak the same language, but we sang the same language of passion for His presence—a breathless hallelujah. My brother couldn’t speak. Roy held his face in his hands as tears streamed down his cheeks. The beauty of a song that wasn’t ours captured our hearts in the purest worship encounter I’ve ever been a part of.

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“And you say, ‘Be still, my love. Open up your heart. Let the light shine in. Don’t you understand, I already have a plan?’ I’m waiting for my real life to begin.” – Colin Hay

A member of a short-term mission team from South Carolina, my good friend, Beth, told me before she left Honduras, “Don’t be afraid to let yourself be loved.” I had only known her for a week, yet she seared to the very nucleus of my struggle. I had always prided myself on being an independent untouchable, a strong and self-sufficient woman, yet life had exposed my fragility, leading me to a magnificent inevitability. I fell in love in Honduras—with a dearest who knows every detail of every one of my heart’s desires, with a sweet writer who takes each of the loose strings of ink from my life story and ties together an all-encompassing mystery of benevolence. I used to say Honduras had my heart, but the truth is that I gave my heart to my Creator, to the One who already knew it best.

I didn’t want to leave Honduras. I cried every day for the last two weeks out of stubborn fear that I would lose all of the best things I had found in life. Yet I have learned that to truly walk in love and through love, moving in its fluidity, breathing in its amber sweetness, you have to surrender control. Romance is not predictable. The thrill resides in the wonder and breathless anticipation of endless possibilities driven by divine love.

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“Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?’ And I said, ‘Here am I. Send me!’” – Isaiah 6:8