Gap Year Video

Here is the link to the video I presented at my church. It covers a lot of what I learned during my gap year and also has lots of pictures. The file was too big to upload directly to my blog, so you can view it on youtube.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=LU3cfAYZQTc

Eight months. Four projects. Three countries. One adventure.

There is no feeling like knowing you have made an impact on a person’s life, however small. To leave your footprint, your mark, or even the tiniest piece of your heart in another place is to truly make the most of life. To walk along a dusty road and find the local kids sharing a game you taught them with their friends at school. To see little boys, teenage girls, and grown women weeping as you wave goodbye. To hear a four year old say, “I’ll never forget your name.” It makes every miserable plane ride, every grossly large spider, and every heartbroken tear one hundred and ten percent worth it.

I can’t claim to have changed these people’s lives. They live just as they did before I came. Their clothes are just as dirty, their houses just as ramshackle, and their lives just as difficult. But if I brought them one smile, one laugh, or one necessity they didn’t have before, I made a difference. And when you add up a hundred little differences, maybe three hundred or a thousand, you see an impact. And is not an impact the first step on the road to a greater change?

Who am I kidding, though? I can’t even pretend to think that I influenced these people half as much as they influenced me. I gave them shoes or some new English vocabulary or a glow stick, but they gave me passion. Purpose. Life. How do I even begin to reflect on what I’ve learned?

It started in Peru. My first adventure. A world of new experiences from flying alone to leaving the country to riding in a taxi. My first real look at poverty and my first broken heart.

There is some small part of me that got off that bus in Huancayo and never made it back home. Whether it was a sliver of my heart or a piece of my innocence, my naivety, I feel its absence. I feel it when I wake up from a dream about the kids there, and I feel it at the mall when guilt wraps its arms around my ankles as I walk to the register.

In Peru, I saw that my life MATTERS. Those kids -- those precious, amazing, hilarious kids that love Hannah Montana and Justin Beiber and soccer and the Titanic-- loved ME. I had something to offer them. And not just my language but my culture, my hobbies, and my childhood favorite everythings.

To them, I was rich in a million ways. I, a graduated high school student with no job, had more money than any of them probably ever would. My life was full; I had two parents, a house, an education, a future. But I believe the kids saw that I was willing and eager to share my possessions, material and otherwise, with each and every one of them. And today, as they wear my shirt or play with the teddy bear I bought them, I hope they remember me.

For three months, I lived with a Peruvian family. I ate their food, experienced their culture, and painted their fingernails. I despised their lack of punctuality and planning, but I saw that it led to a comparatively stress free life. I befriended volunteers from Australia, England, Utah, and Florida and made a lifelong friend in my polar opposite. I rode a horse through the actual Middle of Nowhere and climbed waterfalls in the Amazon. I roasted marshmallows over tea candles and had a blast playing Capture the Flag with a bunch of little kids. I spun kindergartners around until I was beyond dizzy, taught kids the Chicken Dance, and directed my class’ theatrical rendition of Shrek2. I made memories that will last FOR.EVER.

And them? They begged me not to leave. They gave me bracelets and necklaces and random little ornaments. They wrote me letters, drew me pictures, and cried on my shoulder. They made me promise to return. And I did. I will.

Although I may have been depressed after leaving Peru, working with the Hoss Foundation Gift Project kept me too busy to dwell on it. It was my first “real” job (or as real as you can get without being paid). I worked in an office and took a lunch break just like a grown up (though I can’t deny that my heart is still trapped in Never Never Land). I reviewed applications for Christmas aid that were heart wrenching and found that poverty was not merely a distant issue but also a problem in my own community.

After New Year’s, I headed off on my second trip. I expected Honduras to be like Peru, but it was a totally different world. The Spanish was different. The culture was different. And the “city” I stayed in was beyond different. Ojojona redefined my definition of “rural.” We got homemade tortillas from the neighbor across the street. We bought eggs from Karla whose chickens laid their eggs all over her house. Oscar cut the knee-high grass with a machete, and deadly poisonous snakes lived in the backyard. I even found myself out in the field with big rubber galoshes feeding the goats like a good ‘ole farm girl.

Although I taught Sunday school, recorder, Bible study, art, and English in Honduras, I learned much more than I taught. Lesson number 1: The world does not revolve around Josy Tarantini. Of course, I’ve always known this to be true, but it didn’t carry real meaning until I spent three months living with two and four year old girls and a baby. I saw that having a family is a lot harder than it looks and that it involves a great deal of self-sacrifice. I learned so much about being a servant and putting others’ needs above my own. And this led to lesson number 2: Life is better if the world DOESN’T revolve around Josy Tarantini. In being a servant, I found that selflessness actually brought more satisfaction and happiness than doing things my own way. For the first time, I began to understood Jesus’ whole “first will be last and last will be first” paradox.

Throughout my three months in Honduras, I met a lot of people who live HARD lives. I befriended a single mom who lived with her whole extended family and only got paid every 3 months. I taught little boys that would work on a chicken farm (cutting their beaks off or something awful like that) to make extra money for their families. I talked to a guy who believed he was possessed by demons. I went to church with a family that spent their “free time” picking coffee (a job considered to be the lowest of lows) to support themselves. Not to mention that I lived with a family who works harder every day than I work in a week at home. This led to gratefulness for a million and one things I’d always taken for granted.

Honduras being my first real mission trip, it was definitely an eye opening experience. Spiritual warfare always seemed to be throwing a wrench in our plans and hopes. Isolation led to a constant hunger for fellowship. Finances were always high on our prayer list, and we had to explain the most important things in the world–salvation, faith, repentance – in another language! I saw that starting a ministry is a long process that can be slow to yield fruit. It’s tough. But serving God with all you are and all you do is certainly worth that and more!


Coming back home was difficult in a lot of ways. Even now I feel restless, eager to get back out there and do what I was made to do. Keeping busy has helped me ease my adjustment to normalcy. When I first got back, I worked with WVU Upward Bound. Once again, I found myself in an office doing administrative work but this time to help low income high school students who want to be first generation college students. I spent a lot of time requesting food donations for their summer program. This might sound like a tedious task, but it was good for me. At a time in my life where it was easy to judge the world, to stereotype Americans as rich, greedy, and selfish, it was helpful to see tons of businesses around Morgantown donate food and gift cards to help these kids. Seeing their generosity was a reminder that I am not alone in wanting to make a difference.

Now, though, even my internship with Upward Bound is over. It’s hard sometimes, knowing that this gap year has come to an end and that four years of books and exams lie ahead. It’s hard to be a world away from the children who first captured my heart and to move from the house of missionaries to a college dorm. But I suppose it’s just time for a new adventure. Although I may not find 21 people living in a mud house in Lexington, Virginia, who’s to say that a homeless man with no family is in any less need of Christ’s love? After all, it’s not location that makes me who I am but the hands of the Potter. And He has made me many things.

I am a dreamer. I believe that I have the power to change people, to change lives, and to change the world.

I am a realist. I don’t seek to do the impossible. I simply follow God and leave those things to Him.

I am a rebel. I am not satisfied with conforming to what everyone else does. I choose the narrow way.

I am a follower. I pursue Jesus Christ and His plan for my life.

I am a warrior. I seek to fight poverty: to loose the chains of injustice, feed the hungry, shelter the wanderer, and clothe the naked (Is 58).

I am a peacemaker. I aim to heal broken relationships and bring unity among friends.

I am a missionary. I take the message of salvation wherever I go.

I am a daughter, a sister, a friend, a student, a teenager, a Christian.

I am a piece of clay that is slowly becoming a holy vessel.

I am shaped by everything. Shaped by God.

Isaiah 64:8 “Yet, O Lord, you are our Father. We are the clay; you are the potter. We are all the work of your hand.”

A Sword and a Dream

This is a revised compilation of some essays I wrote for an application.

To many people, service is about “giving back to the community” or “doing something worthwhile.” Those things are true. Serving does benefit the community, and it is worthwhile. But that is not what serving is to me. I do not serve to be a better person or to satisfy my conscience. I do not serve to justify the things I do solely for myself. Instead, I serve because I have seen people trapped within the walls of their circumstances and have learned that I have the power to hand them a key. I serve because, in doing so, people have changed the world. And so can I.

My desire to serve, though, goes way beyond wanting to leave my mark on this world. More than anything, my heart to serve is rooted in my faith. The Bible defines religion as “looking after orphans and widows in their distress.” Isaiah says to “spend yourselves on behalf of the needy.” Jesus calls us to be a servant of all, and James says, “Faith without deeds is dead.” I believe obeying God means serving others.

However, while I consider serving my duty, I also consider it my joy. Some describe the joy of serving as “warm and fuzzy.” I disagree. Puppies and kittens are warm and fuzzy. Serving is a different feeling altogether. When I hand a piece of bread to a hungry child, I feel a million things at once. My eyes fill. My lips smile. My heart breaks. My hand shakes. My soul sings. The feeling is a perfect paradox: heart wrenching, yet ecstatic. But joy nonetheless.

There is other joy as well -- joy that does not inspire tears but fits of laughter and toothy grins. For me, this unadulterated happiness is found among children. To carry them into an imaginary place far from the troubles of this world is a priceless entity. To be their hero and friend is an honor. To earn their love is a privilege.

In other words, although I serve to bless others and honor God, I also serve for myself. Because it makes me happy.

Most of the service that I have done addresses poverty, and I hope to fight poverty throughout my life, especially among children. To me, poverty is not just pictures of malnourished children in Africa or stories of families living in garbage dumps. It is children that I have known. Children with names. It is Araceli devouring the food I brought her every morning and crying when it was gone. It is Nexer’s toes poking out the front of his brown school shoes. It is Mauricio living in a tiny mud house with twenty other relatives and Jaime being raised by his twelve year old sister. I have seen poverty. I have hated it. And I have fought it.

I have fought it, but I have also seen how hard it is to make a lasting stand against it. Yes, I gave Araceli food, but when her family left the area, she was just as hungry. Yes, I bought Nexer new shoes, but his feet will keep growing, and I will not always be there to buy a new pair. It is easy to touch the lives of those in poverty, but changing them is a challenge.

For this reason, I want to learn as much as I can to make a difference in as many lives as possible. I dream of taking my passion, creating a vision, and changing the world. I want to care for these people, but I also want to learn from them. I hope that, by learning more about poverty, I can go beyond touching lives and start changing them. I want to fight the dragon that is poverty, but I also want to rescue children like Araceli, Nexer, Mauricio, and Jaime. To see them support their own families. To help them achieve a new life. And to hand them a sword of their own.

I do not yet know what form this will take, but I believe education is the key. In Honduras, I saw children “finishing” school after sixth grade. These children walked in the footsteps of their parents, right on track to make tortillas or dig ditches for the rest of their lives, unaware of the options outside their snow globe of a world. I saw lives wrecked by preventable diseases, solely because no one had ever taught them healthy eating and living habits. Distressed by what I saw, I hope to show these people a way to a better future, one that lies above the poverty line.

My passion for serving has become one of the driving forces in my life, and I believe serving is a huge part of who I am and who I want to be. Some might say I’m forsaking my potential—opportunities to be a doctor, a lawyer, or a scientist — and perhaps I am forsaking the American dream. But if so, I’m taking up the dreams of every child born into a life of poverty, and hopefully, one by one, making them come true. So I’d say it’s worth it.

Vemos

I watched my calendar as the day approached. Suns rose. Suns set. And it drew ever closer. Knowing that my heart was still held together by mere threads after leaving Peru, I feared it would break again on April 7th. It did.

The thing is…goodbyes are hard in every language. Vemos is no easier than farewell or chau or adios, and each one has the power to instantly invade my brave façade with a flood of tears. Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing, though. Because those tears represent everything that I’ve loved and everything that I’ll miss. They testify that my life has been touched. And I wouldn’t trade them for anything. So, with the tear stains fresh on my face and my heart bleeding once again, I have stories to tell. Stories not of goodbye, but of vemos.

The first time it hit me that I was leaving was on my last Sunday in Honduras. As I played my recorder during worship, I looked around at the faces in front of me. But it wasn’t what I saw that caused my heart to stop and my mind to freeze. It was what I heard. Yes, I heard my recorder, Cesar’s recorder, and especially Nexer’s, which, as usual, was somewhat off. And yes, I heard Jon and his guitar and the clapping that was never on beat. But the sound that soared above them all was the voices. Children praising God at the tops of their lungs. Women belting it out for all to hear. And it was a beautiful sound. One that I will never forget. It was that sound that made me realize just how hard the next four days would be.

Sunday school was fairly normal, but after church, I was surprised with a Minnie mouse piñata- Honduran style. Not only was I blindfolded, but the piñata was manned by Oscar, who would pull the string up and down to make it even HARDER to hit. The kids went CRAZY. They SCREAMED directions (“¡Arriba!” “¡Directo!” “¡Abajo!”) as I beat the air frantically with the stick. Finally, after my period of embarrassment was over, they swarmed Jon to request the next turn. The kids swung that stick as if they were trying to kill someone. Occasionally, they’d get too close to the crowd of onlookers, and kids would have to jump out of the way to avoid a concussion. When the piñata finally broke open (which took a while because Oscar was being a bully) they chased after the fallen candy as if their lives depended on it. It was quite a sight to behold.

Afterwards, the women prayed for me. And with that came my first tears over leaving. But they would certainly not be the last.

Wednesday was even harder. It was my last day with the kids. Several of them brought me notes or cards or drawings. Mili showed up in her nicest dress to take a picture with me. Crisna gave me a bracelet. I held back my tears, though, in order to enjoy our last art class. I reviewed with them all that we had learned about the fruits of the spirit and helped them to decorate the paper mache piñatas I’d made that morning. But then, in the middle of class, Mare asked me to come inside and help with laundry. I tried not to be angry, to serve in love. But why on earth did we need to fold laundry NOW? In the middle of my last class with these kids! I shut my mouth to keep in a thousand protests and worked as fast as I could. Finally, I finished and dashed outside. Before I made it to the church, though, Doña Rosa had her hand over my eyes and was leading me inside. She opened my eyes to reveal a table set with dishes, silverware, and a homemade meal. My hand flew to my mouth as Doña Rosa smiled at Idalia and Marine, two other women from church.

I was so excited to receive a thank you according to their culture. But I had no idea what to do. Was I supposed to sit down and eat it in the middle of class, while they all watched? Was I supposed to eat it later with the family? I looked at the women hoping for a clue. Nothing. So I asked. They said they didn’t mind if I ate it later. However, as I looked more closely at the carefully arranged tablecloth and silverware, I realized they had meant for me to eat it then and there. I made sure the girls were doing okay on their projects and sat down at the table. The women just smiled at me, thrilled with the chance to bless me in such a way. They had made tajo (chunks of beef) with vegetables and homemade tortillas. It was good, but the best part was their thoughtfulness and careful planning to make it special.

As we wrapped things up with the craft and meal, I passed out glowsticks, poprocks, and notes. There was no time for tears as the kids swarmed me to collect their goodies, hugged me goodbye, and dashed out to the bus. The women stayed behind, though, and proceeded to thank me yet again. Finally I couldn’t hold back the tears. This time, though, with tissues in both pockets, I was prepared. Ilsy, the woman that I’d been giving English lessons, was the last to say goodbye. She had been my closest friend among the Hondurans, and her little speech was the sweetest of all. As she poured out her heart to me, I was so FRUSTRATED. Frustrated that I simply could not express my emotions. The Spanish just wouldn’t come. So I stood there speechless and cried, hoping that she somehow understood.

The next morning, I took some pictures with the family, loaded up my luggage (which somehow STILL weighed 50 pounds even though I left half my stuff there), and got into the car. The ride to Teguc. was long and mostly spent willing my eyes to stay dry. When we got to the airport, I hugged everybody and hurried away before I lost control, or worse, before the girls finally grasped what was going on and started crying.

Sitting in the airport, it was hard not to be miserable. I had just said goodbye to the people who had been my family for the last three months, and I wouldn’t be home with my actual family for over 24 hours. I felt much like my Minnie Mouse piñata, like I’d been beaten with a stick. And as I reflected on that, I realized that Minnie and I weren’t so different. You see, Minnie was a nice piñata, pretty and smiley. However, it wasn’t until she was beaten with a stick, OVER and OVER that her purpose was fulfilled. After enough hits, the candy was released, and she did what she was made to do -- bring joy (and lots of it) to children. In the same way, even though it hurt to say goodbye, I knew that this particular "beating" was putting me one step closer to fulfilling God’s purpose for my life.

My thoughts carried me from Tegucigalpa to Miami and finally to Pittsburgh. And as I walked towards the baggage claim, I hoped that this would not be the end of my adventures, but merely the beginning. After all, I did say *vemos.*

*Vemos is the Honduran way of saying goodbye; however, it translated literally to “we’ll see you.”

A Twisted, Backwards, Upside Down Cinderella Story

Inspired by the true words of Tabitha Beard, who while sitting on the toilet proclaimed, “I’m done, Cinderella!”

Everyone knows the story of Cinderella: endless chores, evil stepmother and stepsisters, fairy godmother, charming prince, and glittering glass slipper. While I can’t promise you’ll find all of these things in this particular story, just bear with me. Because this version of Cinderella, though at times slightly embellished for your entertainment, is true…

As the sun slowly began rising above the horizon, Cinderella struggled to open her eyes. Her stepsisters were up early this morning, screaming her name. She groaned and rolled over in bed, hoping that if she didn’t respond, they would give up and leave her alone. “Cinderella! Cinderella!” they yelled.

I know it’s early in the story, but I’m going to go ahead and change things up on you. You see, while the sisters in this story could be demanding at times, they were not your stereotypical evil stepsisters.

Cinderella pulled the covers over her head and tried to ignore them until a single question shattered her resistance. “Can we come in and snuggle?” they pleaded. With a sigh, she dragged herself out of bed and opened the door. The blonde, blue eyed beauties bounded into the room and began bouncing on her bed. Soon, a smile lit up Cinderella’s face and her frustration vanished. Time to start the day.

After a few pillow fights and some tickling, Cinderella walked into the kitchen. She looked up as she saw her stepmother. Of course, this is where you’re expecting the story to turn nasty as the stepmother looks down her nose at Cinderella to snidely give her a long list of chores. Right?

Wrong! Cinderella’s stepmother gave her a bright smile and a friendly “Good morning” as she flipped an egg frying on the stove. Not until they sat down to breakfast did Cinderella’s stepmother mention some of the things she would like Cinderella to do that day. Every one of them ended with a “please” or an “if you can.” Yet Cinderella inwardly groaned.

As she worked through her list of things to do, her stepmother often worked alongside her, replete with kind thank yous and expressions of gratitude. Nevertheless, there were times when Cinderella did not feel like washing dishes, sweeping, cooking, cleaning, and caring for two kids and a baby. However, this Cinderella could not blame a cruel stepmother or evil stepsisters for her woes. The problem came down to her. She was not a perfect Disney princess, and frankly, at times, she was lazy and selfish.

Contrary to common belief, though, what Cinderella lacked was not a fancy outfit or a trip to the ball. What she needed was some perseverance and the humble heart of a servant.

Based on other Cinderella stories, you’re probably expecting this to be the part where her fairy godmother swoops in to turn her life around. Well…I hate to break it to you, but FAIRY GODMOTHERS AREN’T REAL.

Cinderella did not need a flick of a wand or a bibbity bobbity boo, a temporary transformation that would fade away when the clock struck midnight. Yet she needed help. So instead of crying out to an imaginary fairy godmother, she knelt and prayed.

And the Lord changed her. As days turned to weeks, she learned to serve joyfully and humbly, to put the needs of others above her own. She strove to work with her heart and not just her hands. She ceased doing the minimum and sought to do all that she could. At times, she still had to fight her selfish nature, but each day, she could feel her old self slipping away. Her clothes were just as dirty (the baby liked to spit up) and her hair just as wild (did I mention that it was ridiculously curly?), but her heart was being made over.

Cinderella realized that being a princess isn't all about being swept off your feet. Sometimes it's about sweeping under someone else's. Being a servant. And still living happily ever after.

This Cinderella’s story may appear to have a very different ending- no ball, no glass slipper, and no prince (at least, not yet). But I assure you that her story ends just like that of any other Cinderella- with a life transformed. And because of God’s faithfulness, which far surpasses that of any fairygodmother, we can be certain that the changes in Cinderella’s heart will not slip away when the clock strikes midnight.

“So you also, when you have done everything you were told to do, should say, ‘We are unworthy servants. We have only done our duty.’” Luke 17:10

What Words Can't Say

My pastor often poses the question, “If you couldn’t speak or use words to express yourself, would people know that you’re a Christian?” While this question provokes much thought, most people would not expect to find themselves in a position where they are forced to test it out. But since when do expectations equal reality?

Doubts filled my mind as we discussed our plans for the first day of Vacation Bible School. I looked around at the team for the day: two adults, two teenagers, an eleven year old, and not a single Spanish speaker. I wondered how on earth we expected to reach the kids with the gospel. It seemed like an impossible task. Determined that the day be successful, I immediately busied myself with studying the day’s lesson and songs. SOMEONE had to be able to speak Spanish.

By the time two o’clock rolled around, I was ready to go. I taught “This Little Light of Mine” and “Jesus Loves Me” in Spanish. I told the story of the wayward woman, who cried over Jesus’ feet and dried them with her tears. I asked the kids questions to make sure they understood. Overall, I was pleased with the way things went.

Then we broke into stations. Although Jon and I would be walking around helping with the Spanish, I was expecting chaos to ensue. But looking around, I realized that the team did not need ME to bring the gospel to the children. Although they could neither tell the children about the love of Christ nor share what He had done in their lives, their actions spoke more clearly than a thousand words. These women from my church wanted nothing more than to teach and hug and listen to the children. It didn’t matter that the kids were strangers, that they were dirty, that they were poor. And certainly the love they showed was a much more powerful testimony than anything that I could have said.

The next day, I was in charge of giving out shoes that the team had brought for the children. I motioned for Dania, who was next in line, to come closer. As I pulled off her shoe, I noticed how her toes curled under, stiff and cramped from being stuffed into shoes two sizes too small. Examining the tiny shoe, I saw that the heels were worn to almost nothing, and the fabric in the front was so thin that her toes would soon peek through. I searched the suitcase and found a pair of flowery tennies. “¿Le gustan estes? (Do you like these?)” I asked her. She nodded vigorously, so I loosened the laces and knelt to slip one on. Her feet were bare and dirty, and for a moment, my American pride begged me not to touch them. However, the cry of compassion from my ever-transforming heart was stronger. I reached for her grubby foot and slid it into the shoe. It fit perfectly and looked almost as pretty as the smile lighting up her face.

I marveled at another silent, yet profound, display of Christ’s love. The simple gift of a shoe would bless Dania for at least several months. She would no longer have to rub sore feet at the end of the day or stop halfway to school to dump out rocks that slipped in through the holes. She could now walk in comfort, all because someone living thousands of miles away had walked in obedience to Christ.

Throughout the week, I saw over and over again that God doesn’t need our mouths to proclaim his gospel. His love can be shared just as easily, and probably at times better, through our hands, our feet, and our hearts. After all, who of us can really express the joy of salvation? It’s just one of those things that words can’t say.

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

Lessons in Compassion

“DON’T!” Molly screamed as I reached into my pocket for my camera.
“Oh come on,” I groaned. “Just let me take one picture.”
“No!” she insisted. “The second he sees us stop, he’ll hop out of his kidnapper cart and drag us in!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoffed. “That’s NOT a kidnapper cart! It’s just a little taxi.”
“But the last one we saw had swastikas on the wheels! Please…I really don’t want you to take that picture.”
“Fine,” I muttered, surprised that she would get so worked up over one picture. “If it’s that important to you.”

Two months later, hundreds of miles away, I again found myself standing before a “kidnapper cart.” Only this time, I would be getting in. If only Molly could see me now.


I stepped into the mototaxi and held on as we set off down the bumpy road. I laughed at the thought of being kidnapped in one of these. I could easily jump out of it and be no worse for the wear.

When we reached the bus station in Ojojona, the giant bus to Tegucigalpa was just pulling away. My driver honked his little horn, which sounded more like a squeak, and I rushed from the taxi to the bus, glad I wouldn’t have to wait 30 minutes for the next one.

The bus ride was uneventful, except, of course, for the general South American lack of the concept of personal space. Although I started with my own seat, there were soon two others crowded in next to me, pressing me all the way against the window. The popping of my “bubble” was almost audible.

Stepping off the bus in Tegucigalpa, I realized that I was much more likely to be kidnapped here than by riding a mototaxi in Ojojona. I looked around and started to pull out my cell phone when I heard my name. A taxi pulled up next to me, its rolled down window revealing a smiling woman with a Compassion International clipboard. I climbed in, and my eyes landed on a familiar face. Staring up at me were the big brown eyes that had beckoned me two years ago from a laminated sheet of paper. I remembered seeing those eyes and instantly begging my parents to let us sponsor him, as if he were a puppy at the pound. Sure enough, we had “adopted” Lesvin Guillen Tomas Martinez that day. Every month, we sent his family money for food, clothing, school, and any medical care that he might need. We sent him letters, photos, and little gifts, and he responded with letters of his own and beautiful drawings.

Although he was two years older, Lesvin’s shy smile was just as cute as the day I’d picked him out. And even though there was a slight air of awkwardness in the taxi, I could tell that it was going to be a great day.

Our first stop was the children’s museum. In the playroom before the actual exhibits, I marveled at how much fun he was having with some wooden cars and blocks. He would have been content to stay there all day. I knelt on the floor to play with him, wanting him to like me, but being aware of my white skin, nice things, and 19 years like never before. Sure enough, though, working together to build walls with the blocks tore down the walls of differences between us. His shyness was lifted to reveal a sunshiney grin.

Lesvin had a blast playing with every toy. He especially loved riding around on a little backhoe. Being much too big to play, I watched with a smile. Then he called my name-- not Yosee or Yoshi or Miss, but Josy-- and waved a plastic ball. I held out my hands, and he tossed it to me. After passing for a few minutes, I suggested we start into the actual museum. With a reluctant look at the scoot around backhoe, he agreed.

When we walked into the first exhibit, I thought his eyes might literally pop out of his head. He looked like the roadrunner as he dashed over to a giant crane, sat down, and drove it through the room. Thirty seconds later, he jumped down and hopped into a bulldozer that was powered by hand pedals. He drove it forward and backwards and all around, and then stopped. He climbed down, ran over to me, and grabbed my hand. Dragging me over to the dozer, he sat me down in the driver’s seat, and had ME pedal while he hung on the back. His laugh was music to my ears.

Lesvin loved every exhibit so much that I’d have to drag him on to the next one. As we got ready to leave, I could tell that he was tired. He plodded slowly up the same ramp that he had sprinted down, full of energy, two hours ago. We got back in the taxi and rode to the mall.

In the food court, I was surprised to see how many American restaurants had spread all the way to Honduras. There were more American choices than Honduran ones! I asked Lesvin what he wanted. “Pollo (chicken),” he said confidently. Then he looked around. “Hamburguesa….pizza…” His mind changed with every restaurant we passed. Finally, he settled on Pizza Hut. Of course. After eating Pizza Hut in Peru, I’d sworn I’d never eat their pizza again outside of America. But that’s what he wanted. And he probably ate rice and beans almost every other day of his life. So, I ordered a large pizza “Americana.” (I think it was SUPPOSED to be pepperoni.) I even went all out and bought the combo that came with stuffed crust, a 2 liter, and some little pecan pies. When I took my first bite, I was surprised to discover that it actually tasted like American pizza. And after a month in Honduras, that was kind of nice.

After lunch, we headed to the mall’s arcade. Lesvin went straight for the racecar games. His jaw was set as he drove. As I watched him, I was amazed at his driving skills. He was only six, yet he already knew how to drive like a Honduran, RECKLESSLY. With no concern for other cars or pedestrians, he sped the car around the track. But not fast enough. GAME OVER.

I convinced him to try a different game, and he soon discovered arcade tickets. That only led to heartache. We spent his entire game card, yet we only had 50 tickets. As with all arcades, everything was ridiculously priced, and 50 tickets would buy little more than an eraser and a sticker. Lesvin desperately wanted a toy car, but it cost 250 tickets. Seeing his downcast face, I wanted so much to pull out the 5 brand new Hot Wheels cars waiting in my backpack. But I couldn’t exactly whip them out while standing at the ticket counter. I convinced him to pick two army men and then led him back through the mall. My heart broke as I watched the tears well up in his eyes.

I tried to cheer him up as we walked back towards the food court. Then I stooped to his level near a large table. “Are you sad about that car?” I asked him. He nodded, the floodgates ready to burst open. “Well I think I know what will make you feel better,” I said with a smile. I pulled the Hot Wheels box out of my bag. His frown did a backflip, revealing not so pearly whites, and he took the box with a gasp. I told him to share with his brother as I handed him markers, pencils, a new shirt, a harmonica, and other little toys. I talked to his mom as he played with each toy one by one, saving the cars for last. His mom thanked me with eyes full of tears. She asked me about my family and pets, specifically citing every photograph we’d ever sent. She was so glad to finally meet me. She smiled as she looked at her sons. They were driving the cars all over the table, imaginations running rampant. And we just watched them. For 5 minutes, 10 minutes. They were so happy.

We stayed at the mall for a while longer, just enjoying being together. Lesvin cowered against me when a man in a dog costume walked by. I dared him to go shake his hand. He shook his head frantically. But with a little bit of teasing, he ran over, shook his hand, and sprinted back. I couldn’t help but laugh at his proud grin. Taking his hand, I led him back over to the dog and took a picture.

After that, it was time to leave. We rode the taxi back to my bus station and waited in the stifling taxi for the right bus. As I said goodbye, he wrapped me in a hug so tight I couldn’t breathe. But I didn’t care. Who needs oxygen, anyway?

Standing on the crowded bus, I looked back on the day. Not only had it been fun, but, once again, God had revealed to me a piece of his heart. I had loved and cared for Lesvin for two years. And even though he had never seen or met me, he loved me too. All he had were the words I’d written him and the gifts I’d bestowed so often, but he loved me nonetheless. So when I finally did meet him, and got to see him face to face, it was a joy unlike any other…for both of us. And THAT, multiplied to the millioneth power is exactly what we have to look forward to when we finally see God face to face.

That wasn’t all, though. I also thought about our time at the arcade, how much Lesvin had wanted that plastic car. But I had said no. Because I didn’t love him? Because I was mad at him? Of course not! I said no because I had something SO much better for him in my backpack. I had hated watching his sorrow, but it was necessary. In the end, the little car was forgotten in the wake of something better. And I have a feeling that the love I shared with him, that same love God has for us, will linger much longer than the memories of that little plastic car.

A Whole New World

Although it was 6:00 in the morning, excitement coursed through my veins as I boarded the plane. But just as I settled in my seat, the flight attendant announced that, due to weather in Miami, we would now be getting OFF the plane. I inwardly groaned. Since when was weather a problem in MIAMI?! I trudged back into the airport, curled up with my blanket, and tried to sleep in the infamously uncomfortable airport chairs.

Thirty minutes later, a woman announced that our departure time was still unknown. I thanked God that I had a three hour layover in Miami. Or did. Every half hour, the woman would announce that there was no change in the situation. After over two hours of broken sleep, I started to get nervous. I was fairly certain that if I missed my connection, I would have to spend the night in the Miami airport. Finally, around 9, we REboarded the plane, this time actually making it off the ground. I let out a sigh of relief as the world beneath me faded away as if being hit by the invisible beams of a giant shrink ray. I watched the matchbox cars race around their tracks toward Monopoly houses until fluffy clouds suddenly blocked them from view like a crimson curtain closing on the last scene of a play, or like my heavy eyelids finally forcing me into a dreamless sleep.

After a rushed layover and an uneventful flight from Miami to Teguc., I dragged my ridiculously heavy suitcase off the baggage claim, inwardly scolding myself for packing so many books. During the car ride from Tegucigalpa to the ranch where I would stay, my eyes were glued to the window.

Honduras looked very much as I’d imagined. A film of dust covered the trees and buildings. Tiny mud houses cluttered the roadside, looking like they’d crumble with little more than a huff and a puff. An hour or so later, we reached the sleepy little town of Ojojona. The dirt roads, occasional man on horseback, and dusty sepia tones made me feel like I was touring the set of an old western. Only, this was no tour. This was home. And although I don’t pretend to be a city girl, that came as a bit of a shock.

My first week was exhausting. I quickly learned that the “girly girl” part of my personality could not survive here. My manicure was destroyed within two days, my hair was poofy, and it took everything I had not to scream bloody murder when a freakishly large spider scuttled across the floor. The hardest part, though, was learning to live with two very loud and energetic little girls. For the first few days, entertaining them sucked the energy out of me like a vacuum, and I found myself crashing in my bed before I could even turn off the light.

Little by little, though, I adapted to the very different style of life. And once I could wash dishes with cold water, bounce a fussy baby while reading a book, and come up with an endless supply of Disney pretend games, I was ready to start working with the kids on the ranch.

As I rode on the bus to pick up kids for guitar class, I was excited to meet the children for the first time. I smiled, remembering the swarm of children in Peru smothering me with questions and kisses on my first day. I expected to receive a similar welcome here. However, as the kids boarded the bus, I didn’t get so much a second look. Surprised, I tried to make conversation with the child nearest to me. He answered my questions with as few words as possible and then moved to the back to sit with his friends. I tried not to be hurt and wondered why the kids here were so shy and reserved.

Throughout the week, it was like pulling teeth to get the kids to talk to me. They were the complete opposite of the children I was used to working with. But this only made me more determined to earn their trust.

Finally, after two guitar classes, youth group, and Sunday school, the ice was broken. I arrived at the property to find seven giggling girls waiting for the first arts and craft class to begin. The three girls that had ridden the bus with me fought to grab my hand and drag me into the church. The smiles I’d been waiting for spread across every face as they waited to start. We had a short Bible study, and then I got out materials to paint stained glass crosses. Every girl called my name, begging me to admire their work. As some of them finished, I pulled out several bottles of nail polish, and the mob I’d expected on day one instantly formed around me. Grubby, sticky hands grabbed the polishes and waved them in my face. And since my brain couldn’t begin to understand the chorus Spanish voices screaming in my ears, I was content to mull over the fact that God had placed me exactly where I was supposed to be.

Landing in Tegucigalpa

Me with my new little sisters: Tabi and Naomi

first Wednesday class with the girls

Breci painting her stained glass cross

Nail mania

Other Pictures

Teaching English (W=DUH-BUL-YOO)

Holding Tobi

Nubia making a friendship bracelet

Second Wed. girls class: friendship bracelets

recorder class: slightly organized chaos

No Merry-Go-Round

I pat my pony’s powder pink mane with a smile. The cheery music of the calliope is soothing, as is the gentle up and down motion of the horses. My hair tickles my chin in the soft breeze, and life is... easy.

But then the breeze turns to a strong gust of wind, snapping me out of my daze. I remember that the merry-go-round before me is wooden and motorless (as in, a guy pushes it around) with stationary horses that, if living, would be emaciated and scruffy. And I realize that a ride on this merry-go-round would be a waste of time. Because I’m already on a ride, one that is much more exciting, even life changing. I’m on the Potter’s Wheel.

This go on the wheel brings me to the outskirts of a tiny town called Ojojona in the one of the poorest countries in the western hemisphere: Honduras. Bleating goats, barking dogs, screaming kids, and a crying infant harmonize (or try to) in place of a merry tune. In a world ravaged by spiritual warfare, the daily ups and downs are anything but gentle. My hair, which is currently deprived of my usual “ethnic” shampoo, is on its way to becoming an afro. And life is HARD!

But life is good. Because little by little, God is chipping away at my heart. Little by little, he’s smoothing out the edges and making a vessel to be used by his purpose. And each time His potter’s hands touch my life, I remember that this is no merry-go-round.