A Steady Beat

August 8- This happens every single time I work with kids abroad. And no matter how much I try to mentally or emotionally prepare, it doesn’t help. I just have to face the fact that for every hello, there’s going to be a goodbye. Every kid I love is going to be a kid I leave. Every friend I make is going to be a friend I miss. Every laugh now will probably be a tear later.

But strangely enough, that doesn’t change anything. Because it’s not about me. These kids need ALL of my love, even if it means a hole in my heart later on. Jesus said to take up His cross which means loving others til it hurts and then some, regardless of their response. So here I am again, in this country that I love, knowing that goodbye is just around the corner.
It hasn’t been the best morning. Actually, it’s been a pretty bad. We took the kids on a hike up to some waterfalls, and I ended up in the back with Samara (another volunteer) and the kids having trouble climbing up the slippery rocks. Within 5 minutes, it goes from bad to worse as we lost the others, Samara got bit by a spider, and I tumbled backwards while climbing, banging both knees and taking a dip in the icy water in the process. Shaking but thankful that I hadn’t hit my head, we realize it’s time to turn around. We have no idea whether or not we’re close to the falls, and it isn’t worth risking any kind of accident. Annoyed at being left behind and missing the fun, I begin the climb back down the mountain with Samara and the girls. I quickly forget my bitterness, though, and begin to enjoy walking with Eli, Nikol, and Ana. All three were students at the school my last time around, and it’s nice to reconnect with them in such a small group. Nikol has grown from a shy six year old to quite the chatterbox, and Eli has somewhere gone from pretty to gorgeous. I confess Ana hasn’t changed much. She still adores me all the while driving the other kids nuts with her bossiness.

As we walk, it begins to hit me. Tomorrow is my last day. My mind drifts back to my farewell party two years ago. I can’t believe it’s been that long. So many details are still etched in my mind, especially the tears running down the faces of the three girls now walking beside me.

“Miss?” Anna interrupts my thoughts. “Are you sad?”

“What?” I stutter, as I often do when a Spanish phrase interrupts my English thoughts.

“She wants to know if you’re sad,” says Elizabeth. “Because we can see it in your face.”

Amazed at their ability to perceive my emotions, I offer a weak smile and avoid the question. “I’m just happy to be able to see you all again,” I say. “Today has been quite an adventure. “

Ana returns my smile, but I can tell Eli sees right through me. She takes my hand and I look away so she doesn’t see my watery eyes. These tears are for another day.




Nikol, Eli, Ana, and I at the waterfall

 August 9- I’m totally lying right now. With the kids in a circle around me, I resent having to shout “Muy bien!” every time they sing, “Como estás, Miss Josy, como estás?” The question seems ridiculous. Do I look like I’m doing okay?!? My eyes are red and puffy, and I long since gave up on holding back the tears. How did I become so attached in two weeks? It must just be that I never really let go the first time.


It only gets worse as the little ceremony goes on. Individual kids thank us for our time with them, and they sing and dance. With the group hug, I finally feel my heart break and not because they’re squeezing too hard. Elizabeth weeps as she hugs me, and Ana gives me a letter I still haven’t been brave enough to read. But the worst is actually the boys. Eleven year old girls cry all the time, but seeing emotion in a teenaged boy is a rarity. Jaime actually poses for a picture (which he is normally way too cool to do), and Justi hugs me goodbye at least three times. Abel places one of his Olympic gold medals around Cody’s neck, and even Chino and Piero kiss us on the cheek. Not surprisingly, Brayan is one of the hardest to bid farewell. New to the school but the star player of Team USA, he stands at a distance with a frown and waits for a chance to hug his biggest cheerleader. When he finally wraps his arms around me and tells me not to let go until I get to the United States, I totally lose it. Why does loving these kids have to hurt this much?

With my banged knee beginning to ache from standing, I take a seat on the edge of the patio to watch the kids play soccer. In two years, so many things have changed. But as I rise to leave, I realize that one thing has stayed steady. Walking down the dusty road with little brown hands clutching mine, the ache in my heart starts its chant yet again, calling me back to Peru. And I have to wonder if it will ever stop.

Cody hugging Piero in the middle of the goodbye circle

with Ana and Jaime

I know Cody's eyes are shut, but I had to post this one bc Abel is actually smiling, and Justi almost is

I love this one!



Abel giving Cody one of his many medals



best group of volunteers EVER




**Cody's post coming soon**



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.”