This title is more of a fact than an explanation of this blog, fyi.
Honduras is weird. Like, in very unexpected ways. Sometimes it feels like normal life, but the next moment the security guard at the bank will tell me he is in love with me, or the garbage-truck driver will follow me around the block so he can ask me out once more as I try to drive away and not acknowledge his question. Some days I wake up and I’m sweating before I make it out of the house, and others I’m freezing my butt off, using my pillows as supplemental blankets. I chase a three year old with her face covered in toothpaste around her house then get caught in the path of the security guards chasing a possum around with their flashlights, and there is rarely a moment where someone isn’t missing something and asking me where it should be. It really is incredible how this place has taught me to be a special ed and kindergarten teacher-accountant-child sponsorship program coordinator-women’s group leader-nanny- chef for a dozen-house keeper- plumber-maintenance man-catequisis teacher-finder of lost things, all before 10am. Can I make you some coffee while I fix the faucet and audit our checking account? There is never a dull moment.
Have you heard the saying “this too shall pass”? I remember thinking in middle school that it meant the bad would always come to an end and be followed by the good, but eventually someone pointed out to me that life is a two-way street. The good will pass as well and be overshadowed by the bad, which will pass and be soothed by the good. The cycle will continue as long as we live, which makes me wonder now if the correct way to classify things isn’t by some other, less black and white, matter. I have seen so much beauty here, and so much destruction. Destruction of the spirit, of communities functioning in their old ways in favor of a change for the better. I’ve been part of giving a child a home, a family, and the chance at a new life, and I’ve been a part of telling two young brothers we could no longer love and serve them here. I have been more formed and shaped by this place than I ever thought possible, and I give thanks for that every day.
There is no “normal day” here, and things are constantly in flux, but as I pause to look out over the horizon I realize the place we call home today is vastly different from the place I came to make my home two years ago. For these reasons and several others, I will be finishing my term of service at the Farm of the Child with a heavy but hopeful heart on July 26th 2014.
The kids ask me “Why can’t you just stay? Are you sad? Do you hate it here? Do you have another job or another mission you are leaving for? Are you in love? Will you still love me when you’re gone?” and a host of other questions that I can’t seem to answer with anything but a broken heart. Each and every time my answer has been and will be “I will always love you. I will not forget you. I am not leaving because of you. You could never do anything to lose my love or support. This goodbye is not forever.” Some days pass where I’m trying to convince them, and others where I’m trying to convince myself, but each one ends with me peacefully proclaiming that my decision has been made and will bring glory to God. I can ask for nothing more.