Monday

Day Eleven

Well, Jerry woke me up this morning at the butt-crack of dawn so that we could get packed up and loaded on time.  The plan for today was to leave by 7:00 AM so that we could visit the market in San Pedro Sula before arriving at the airport.

Soon after waking up I could already feel the tension of the day starting to grip me like villainous hands upon my throat.  There aren’t a whole lot of things that are more stressful than trying to lead a team of high school students across international borders.

Everyone did a good job of getting up on time and having their luggage out next to the suburban at 6:15 so we were loaded up on time and off to breakfast right on schedule.  It was strange to actually complete a task on schedule.  Honduras has this strange power over schedules.  It seems to always dismantle them piece by piece.

Soon after breakfast we said our goodbyes to our dormitory, and after a few people visiting the toilet 48 times (not everyone was feeling great) we hit the road.  The sky was clear, with no rain and wispy white clouds dotting the blue backdrop.  It was about the clearest day we had experienced in Honduras.

The drive to San Pedro was very positive.  I expected crankiness and bad attitudes because of the early morning and overall exhaustion that everyone was feeling, but like nearly all my predictions on this trip I was dead wrong. 

As we drove along we talked about what we were most looking forward to in the states.  Some said running water, others good food and Jill said something about an energy drink.  It was clear that we were going to miss this place, but we were pretty stoked about getting back to our own culture.

The market was relatively empty when we arrived and a few of us bought trinkets and things for friends and family.  Jill bought this huge sombrero and insisted that she was going to wear it on the plane regardless of what anyone said.  I think it is probably good that we’re returning to civilization today because she is starting to lose it. 

On the way to the airport Jill drew a little smiley face on her finger and put a little leather sombrero on the tip of her index finger and began talking to everyone through her finger in a squeaky high-pitched voice.  She even hung the little guy out the window at a toll booth and talked in broken Spanish to the driver of the vehicle next to us.  They driver of the vehicle stared at her like she had lost her marbles.  I was actually thinking the same thing.  Most of us were acting a little crazy though.  We all had people we were excited to see back home and things that we couldn’t wait to do.  The whole thing reminded me of how little kids get sort of spastic and annoying right before something really big is going to happen.  Honestly, no one can stand to be around kids on Christmas Eve as they ask their parents about presents 200 times every three minutes.  I’m sure you know what I mean.

We arrived at the airport and moved towards the luggage check-in area.  Fortunately, there was a man who spoke perfect English at the counter so the check-in was very easy.  However, when they began loading the bags two of them were overweight.  They threw the bags back at me and mumbled something I couldn’t understand so I had to scramble to find another bag, which was packed away in a different suitcase.  After finding it we switched some luggage around and the overweight suitcases passed through. 

By the time we got the suitcases situated I looked up at the clock on the wall and discovered much to my dismay that our flight was going to leave in five minutes.  After nearly wetting myself, Dick informed me that the clock on the wall was wrong because all of Honduras had moved their clocks back last night.  First off, why would Honduras be on a different day-light savings time system than the rest of the world?  Secondly, why would the airport no change their clock?  Of all the places in the world where you should change your clock why not the airport? 

As soon as I regained my composure I headed over to a up a huge ramp which led up to the second story of the airport.  It was on the second level that the “exit tax” booth was located. That’s right.  In order to leave the country every foreigner has to pay an exit tax which comes to $32 US.  I went ahead and paid for everyone at once so that we could breeze through the line when we needed to. 

When I returned to the group I realized that I didn’t have enough time to get any lunch, which was a little disappointing.  The whole traveling with a big group over international borders was starting to get to me.  We were progressing fine, but it was still stressful.

We passed through security and boarded the plan without too much trouble, but once we were on board Jerry informed me that one of our guys had lost his passport.  Naturally I was a little concerned.  I tried to picture the customs officer at the US border being told that a minor in my group didn’t have a passport with him.  I imagined getting deported as a kidnapper being forced to live of pineapple and corn in Honduras for six months while we waited for a new passport.

Upon entering the plane I asked one of the flight attendants for a first aid kit so that I could cover up the poison ivy on my wrist.  I probably should mention that it was starting to look a little like a mild case of leprosy.  I wasn’t worried about it spreading or anything, but I didn’t want the person next to me to have a heart attack or spray me with pepper spray.  When the stewardess caught a glimpse of my wrist she exclaimed in a loud voice, “Good Lord!”  Naturally I started laughing.  As far as helping me, she had a med-kit, but wasn’t allowed to open it unless there was a major emergency, but some guy sitting a few rows back told me that he had one in his carry on and he let me borrow it.

Once we were in the air I looked through my paper work and saw that my seat for my next flight, which was from Houston to Des Moines, was 1A.  I scanned the seats in front of and realized that 1A was first class!  I had never been in first class before.  I started to get a little excited.  Leather seats, first class service, whatever drinks I wanted for free.  I’ll be honest; I was starting to feel rather important.  I showed my ticket to Joel and he just laughed.  I felt a little like Charlie in that movie about Willy Wonka.  I think Joel was a little jealous.  He was probably still bitter about being stuck between the two fat guys on the way to Honduras.

After landing in Houston I immediately started working on a strategy of how to deal with this missing passport.  When the rest of the group appeared from around a corner they brought good news with them.  The missing passport had been found.  Of all things, Luke had been sitting on it the entire time.  I was glad to hear that we would be avoiding deportation and the angry customs officer.  I found out later that Luke set the flight attendant on an emergency mission of combing the plane for the missing passport and then, having found it himself, slipped away through the crowd without telling her.  I wonder how long the poor lady searched for it.

Getting through customs was a breeze.  Fortunately, my secret fear that I would be detained and forced into medical quarantine because of the strange growth on my wrist came to nothing.  Maybe he didn’t see it.

The American customs offices are so much more professional than the Honduran version.  Much to my disappointment no one raised an eyebrow to Mallory’s blond hair.

We had a lot of time to kill in Houston so we just hung out. I worked on this journal and ate a leisurely dinner with some members of the group.  It was a good thing we had a lot of time too because Taco Bell took about three years to get our food together.  I spent most of the time bragging to the team about how I’d be sitting in first class on my way to Des Moines.  I was getting a pretty big head about the whole thing if you want to know the truth.

A strangely freeing sensation washed over me as I saw the rest of the group off.  I hugged everyone I could get a hold of and wished them well.  Don’t get me wrong, I was sad to see them go, and I knew I would miss them, but I was glad to be freed from the leadership of the team.  The job had taken its toll on me, emotionally speaking. 

I made my way back to the train that would take me to terminal B, from which I’d be flying out of.  I didn’t think it would be far, but by the time the train docked and I walked what seemed like forty miles I was sure I was in another zip code.  I wanted to ask one of the workers if I was still in Houston, but I was too tired.  Not to mention that I was afraid that someone would notice my mutated wrist.

For whatever reason my flight was delayed for about an hour and a half so I just sat on a bench trying to organize my thoughts.  It felt good to be alone and contemplate all that I had experienced in the last ten days.

Finally, the plane arrived and I made my preparations to leave.  I got in line behind the rest of the travelers and when I handed my ticket to the attendant I felt strangely important, knowing that she would see my seat number.  I imaged that she considered me to be some important business man or perhaps the rebellious son of a Southern millionaire.  I was pretty sure I saw a smirk of approval in her face.

I walked down the hallway with my new found swagger towards the plane and entered through the hatch.  The flight attendant greeted me warmly, as she ought to with such an important passenger.  She looked at my ticket and exclaimed, “Oh no, you aren’t in 1A are you, Oh dear!”  Confused I looked to my right and was startled to discover that I was standing in what was potentially the smallest jet in the Continental fleet.  I gasped in horror as I came to see that there was, in fact, no first class section on this plane.  Seat 1A was all alone directly behind the cockpit.  There was no leather seat, no extra leg space, only a tiny rigid antiquated airplane seat with no baggage room.  I decided that since I was in Texas I would man up and take what was coming to me.  I stepped towards my seat and smacked my head against the ceiling so hard that I let out a whimper.  Perfect.  Rubbing my head I grudgingly plopped into the seat with my two bags.  Looking at me as if I had just been diagnosed with cancer she shook her head and sadly informed me, “Oh no, you can’t have bags if you sit in that seat.”  My imaginary world came crashing down around me.  There would be no first-class for me, in fact, there would hardly be a seat at all. 

All at once I realized that this was the perfect ending to this crazy trip.  I had never once been in control during the entire week.  Most of my plans had disintegrated before my eyes.  I had never once gotten what I wanted.  From the beginning of this trip God had taken away what I wanted and given me what I needed.  I sat there with a goose egg on my throbbing head in my pathetic seat on this pathetic jet and pondered all that I had been through and all that God had taught me.

Surely after all I had just experienced I didn’t just fall for the ol’ prestige trap.  I thought about the people of St. Nicholas and how they were so happy with so little.  One of those little children would absolutely kill to be in seat 1A.

I thought about the little orphan boy and how the village took care of him.  The image of the blind boy slipped into my mind and I wondered how his visit to the doctor had gone.  I pictured my own son and how he was perfectly healthy, huge and cuter than a bug.  I remembered my beautiful wife and how she loves me so much and treats me with such dignity and respect.  I repented of my selfishness and thanked God for all he had given me and all he had taught me and I cried.  I just sat there in my 1A seat that God had laid out for me months in advance and I cried like a child with full watery tears slipping from my tired eyes, sliding past my glasses and streaming down my face.  Okay God, I think I’m finally starting to get it.

Sunday

Day Ten

Since it was the weekend we got to sleep in a little bit this morning before breakfast, which was nice.  I had a little trouble sleeping because my shoulder seemed to hurt no matter what position I attempted to sleep in.  Note to self: don’t jump off cliffs.

We made it off to breakfast and sat around the tables talking for quite a while.  We had a lot of time to kill this morning because church wasn’t until 10:00.  It was weird to have down time with nothing to do.  All week long we had been on a tight schedule.  Schedules usually don’t mean much in Central America, but Leota kept us on one regardless.

We had decided the night before that we wanted to attend a city church so that, while we were in Honduras, we could experience a country church and a city church.  That meant that we would not be putting on a puppet show or singing any songs or anything, just sitting back and observing like the church we were used to in the states. 

We arrived at the church a little early and had to sit through the ending of the Sunday school hour.  The teacher kept going on and on about who knows what and I was started to get a little bored so I just started reading Deuteronomy.  By the time the service was over I almost finished the entire book.  It reminded me of sitting through sermons in church as a kid.  It made just about as much sense as back then.

At the end of the Sunday school hour a loud school bell sounded and all sorts of people flooded into the sanctuary.  I felt like I was back in high school running towards my second hour class so that I wouldn’t get a tardy.

The place filled up in a hurry.  There were cute little Honduran children everywhere and they were all dressed in their Sunday best.  Unlike the country, these people actually had nice clothes and were very well kept and clean.

This church also had a little worship band which included a keyboard, a bass and drums.  They sang a bunch of songs which I didn’t know.  It wouldn’t have really mattered anyway because the words were in Spanish.  The funny part was that the worship leader would start a song and then end it abruptly because the people weren’t singing with enough enthusiasm.  I’d like to see someone try that in my church at the states.  “You people are lame!  Let’s start it over again…Still terrible!  We’re going to keep doing this until we get it right.”

When a few songs had been completed the senior pastor, whom I recognized from the previous year came up on stage and began giving some announcements.  In the Honduran culture they also recognize any visitors or distinguished guests.  He had our group stand up and the congregation clapped for us.  Then he recognized an old lady who was sitting a few rows back from the front.  He announced to the audience that it was her birthday, and not only was it her birthday, but she was 115 years old.  Rita leaned over and asked, do the Guiness World Records people know about her?

After the announcements a younger Honduran man, who was probably about 19 or so came up and sang a solo.  I couldn’t understand a single word the guy was saying, but he sure sang with passion.  About halfway through the song he started to break down.  As it turns out, he was singing a song about being willing to do whatever Christ was calling him to do.  I found out later that he was about to leave his family, friends, town and country behind to attend some seminary in the states.

After his song there was a commissioning time in which some older men, probably the elders of the church all came up, surrounded the young man, and prayed for him.  I didn’t know it at the time, but I guess the young man who sang is the senior pastor of the church’s son.  Apparently he’s got some clout with this church in the city.  It seems like everywhere we go people know and love Dick. 

After the elders finished praying some old lady wandered up on the stage and decided she was going to sing a song too.  Her little performance wasn’t part of the scheduled program.  She started singing her song before the piano could begin and started in a different key that the piano player was anticipating so there was a little awkwardness.  I won’t lie, it didn’t sound great.  Not too long into her song the old lady broke down and stopped singing altogether.  She moved towards the young man and embraced him, hanging on for dear life.  The whole thing was very sentimental but a little uncomfortable.  The senior pastor took the liberty of snatching the microphone away from the old lady while she was hugging his son.  I guess there are crazies in every church.

After the old lady’s impromptu moment there were a few more songs, which were led by the senior pastor and then we partook of the Lord’s Supper, which was wonderful to participate in.  I kept thinking that although I couldn’t understand these people now, I probably would be able to in the future when God returns things to the way they ought to be.

After the service ended we hung around for quite a while shaking hands with the people of the church.  They were all very friendly and interested in what we were doing in Honduras.  The atmosphere  was open and friendly; the way church ought to be.

After church we drove back to the Seminary for lunch and a little rest and relaxation.  A little later in the afternoon we left the Seminary for a nearby town named Porto Venir, which was known for its pottery.  We ended up at the same place we did last year, which was the home of an older lady who made black pottery.  When we arrived we were surprised to meet Jorge on the porch of her house. 

We found out last year that the black pottery that this lady makes was originally an accident.  As the story goes, her drunken brother placed pine needles in her firing oven to keep warm one night and the smoke from the sap transformed her ordinary red pottery into sleek black pottery.  At first she was infuriated because she had a order to fill, but when the person who placed the order liked the black pottery better than the red she realized that she had something special.  Now she was known all over the region for her beautiful black pottery.

The thing about Jorge is that he is the son of the lady’s drunken brother.  I guess he didn’t do much as far as parenting so she ended up raising Jorge. 

After the pottery place we stopped at the strip mall in Seguatepeque for cappuccinos.  I sat one end of the table with Dick and Jorge and we talked about the ministry to the Lencas.  I asked Jorge, through Dick of course, how long it would take them to finish the church.  He said it would probably take a very long time.  The only people who knew how to lay the adobe blocks were the old guy who refused to zip up his zipper and Jorge.  To be honest I was sort of upset about it.  It bothered me that it was going to take so long to build the church.  I kept thinking of ways I might be able to come back and help.

Then Dick and Jorge talked for a while about Jorge having trouble finding an apartment.  I wondered why he needed an apartment so Dick told me that Jorge was planning on launching a ministry with the Lencas in a few different towns, but he needed a place to live.  These Honduran missionaries are so hardcore about spreading the gospel.

Dick also told me that Jorge wanted to attend the seminary in Guatemala where he could receive more in-depth training.  I was thinking how strange it was that we have about 6 billion seminaries in the Unites Sates and Jorge was going to have to go to another country to get the in-depth training that he felt he needed. 

Jorge also probed me with a few questions.  He wanted to know how many students I had in my ministry.  When I told him he was blown away.  He made this cool whistling noise through is teeth to express his amazement.  I thought it was pretty nifty, but I still haven’t figured out how to make the noise myself.

When we returned to the seminary I showed him a picture of my church from our website and he was shocked.  I sort of felt ashamed that they were scraping all the resources they had together to put up a shabby one roomed adobe block structure for a church building while we had this monstrosity for a building filled with expensive lighting, thousands of dollars in sound equipment, unnecessary stained glass and plush upholstery seating.  I couldn’t help but remember that even after they got their building up they still wouldn’t have any seats.   

Where are our priorities in the states?  Thinking about it now I feel sick.  Why do we spend millions of dollars on bricks, paint, steel and carpet when our brothers and sisters are going without electricity, cars, running water, nice clothing, and adequate food in Honduras so that they can share the gospel with an ethnic group that has been abandoned by everyone else?  I’m tired of empty church.  I want a movement that has significance

I find myself wanting to be more like these Honduran missionaries.  They don’t have much, but they give everything they have for the cause of the gospel.  This guy Jorge, for example, only has shoes because Dick gave him a pair.  He trusts himself to the care of his God, who will not let him down.

After downing our cappuccinos we headed over to a place which has an expansive floral garden filled with exotic species of plants.  We took a few pictures and cleaned the place out of coffee.  Joel and I were hoping to buy about a million pounds of coffee for our new student ministry coffee shop event on Sunday nights so we forced the group go with us to the local grocery store where we bought every bag of high grade coffee beans that they had.  We walked out of the store with fifteen pounds of coffee.  The total price came to 780 limps, which is about 5 bucks or something.  Did I mention that I hate Starbucks and their overpriced coffee?

Finally we returned to the Seminary after what seemed like a ten hour tour of Seguatepeque.  We spent some time resting before our second big date at the Pizza place.  I spent our down time with Jorge showing him pictures of Katie and Keegan on my computer.  After a few minutes Dick showed up with his laptop and showed us some vintage pictures of him and David Brooks, back when they had hair and stuff.  Dick had pictures from everywhere.  I’m pretty sure he has been to about every country in the world.  Seriously, one day I was talking about Rwanda and how my dad is getting ready to launch a clean water project there with Mars Hill Bible Church and Dick responded by saying, “Oh yeah, Rwanda.  They have really dark red clay there.  I was there during the revolutions—pretty wild stuff.”  Who is this guy?

The Pizzeria Venetia was fabulous as always.  We enjoyed good pizza and great conversation.  Jill and I spent quite a while talking about relationships and marriage and all that good stuff, while the boys spilled pop, broke glasses and generally created a hilarious nuisance.  Oh the difference between boys and girls.

We have about the perfect mix in our group.  We have a few guys who always want to make people laugh.  We have a few people who always want to serve others.  We have some who want to talk all the time (like me), and some who want to listen to others tell stories.  We have a few people who are constantly focused on the details and making sure we don’t forget something important, and we have a few leaders who are centered upon just getting stuff done.  I must say the group has meshed together quite nicely.  We have a great assortment of personalities and gifting.  Usually you end up with a lot of conflict between team members on a mission trip, especially with such different people and a trip of this magnitude of difficulty, but this group has been a breeze. 

After dinner we returned to the Seminary to pack up our things and hang out for a while.  We played some games and just hung out at the Snack Shack.  I must say, it feels strange to admit that this trip is nearly over.  It feels like we have been in Honduras together for a lifetime.

Saturday

Day Nine

I woke up this morning expecting an entire day of rest and relaxation, but found out, much to my dismay that we were painting.  At first I vocalized my disappointment, but after a while I realized that I had better conjure up a better attitude otherwise the students would follow my lead and lynch Leota.

While we were eating breakfast I heard more and more complaints about the group from Texas and how they ate all the food all the time, how they were unspiritual and confederates and stuff like that.  I decided that I had better deal with the developing bitterness before it started tearing our group apart.  Just before we all left the cafeteria I pulled everyone together and challenged them to stop complaining about the Texans.  I think it had the right affect because I never heard another peep about not having enough food, the Civil War or anything.

After breakfast we loaded up into the vehicles and headed down to Tim’s house.  A few of the guys and Dick went into downtown Seguatepeque to purchase machetes, which made the rest of us somewhat bitter.  The painting went quickly even though it was sticky and hot, even in the morning hours.  I swear the humidity in Honduras has to be about 230 percent.  We finished the house by about 10:00 and headed back to the Seminary to clean up.

It felt great to be finished with the painting project.  There is nothing like the feeling you get when you’ve worked hard all week and now you know you get to spend some time relaxing and having fun.  I guess that’s why God invented a Sabbath rest. 

We showered up and piled back into the van so we could drive to the fish restaurant.  To save on gas, our entire group, including Dick, scrunched into the van.  We had four people in the farthest back seat and four in the closest bench to the front.  It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but we were all too excited to care much.

The fish restaurant was fabulous as usual.  We each ate a scrumptious meal of Tilapia and either French fries or banana fries.  We told stories and laughed a lot.  It is always fun to share a meal together.

The next item on the agenda was the waterfall.  After paying the entrance fee into the park and walking down the trail towards the waterfall we got our first glimpse of the 350 ft. high falls.  They seemed to be much stronger this year.  I asked Dick if he thought the same and he told me that this was the most intense he had ever seen them.  I was a little nervous that we might not be able to walk up to and behind the falls, but he didn’t seem to be too apprehensive. 

The walk up to the falls was extreme.  The falls bombarded us with water.  It was nearly impossible to keep my eyes open.  The pools of standing water were much deeper than last year and the currents within the pool had much more force.  When we got right up next to the cascade of water we had a difficult time communicating because of how loud the rush of water was. 

I entertained myself by pretending I was a news reporter broadcasting in the middle of a hurricane.  I thought it was pretty clever, but everyone pretty much ignored me.

After we had had enough of getting doused with water we returned by the same path to a deep pool of water in which we swam and jumped from a 15 ft. ledge. While we waited for all of the students to dive off Joel asked me if I would let him jump off the higher ledge, which was somewhere between 25 and 30 ft. up.  I thought for a second about all we had been through and all the close calls we had had on the roads and I came to the conclusion that this would really be no more dangerous than all those other experiences.  So, with that rationale I told him to go for it.  Then he asked me if I was going to come.  No one wants to be a sissy, so although I was fairly terrified about the whole thing I joined him and Dick on the climb up to the higher ledge. 

In order to get to the launching point we had to climb up a slippery incline of mud and rocks.  Once we reaching the shelf of rocks that the jump was on we had to cross a small stream that cascaded off the rocks into the pool below.  Dick and Joel went first and they made it look easy so I just eased my way up to the edge, looked down, considered turning back and jumped for all I was worth.  As I sank towards the pool of water a feeling of absolute terror slammed me in the chest.  Fortunately, it was over in an instant and I plunged into the water.  The pool was surprisingly deep and I never touched the bottom.  However, I kept my arms outstretched too much and the impact of hitting the water stretched my right shoulder a little beyond what was normal.  It didn’t seem like much at the time, but the doctor later told me I sprained my rotator cuff.

Coming up out of the water I saw that most of the other adult leaders were on their way up to the ledge.  As I swam over to the rocks I noticed and Jill and Mallory were about to jump from the wrong spot.  With visions of Mallory flat as a pancake on the rocks below I yelled out for them to hold up.  Joel and I scrambled back up the rocks to point them in the right direction and ended up jumping another time just for kicks.  This time I kept my arms close to my body because I was scared that the impact would tear my arm clean off this time.  My strategy worked except for the part where I plunged far deeper than before and hit the rocks at the bottom of the pool.  I guess I just can’t win.

When we were finished swimming and diving we climbed back up from the waterfall, took a few pictures and head for the van.  The ride home was uneventful, aside from all of us being soaking wet. 

We arrived back at the Seminary an hour before dinner and cleaned up.  We slipped off to dinner in a clandestine manner in order to avoid the group from Texas.  We wanted to be the first to eat so that we could head over to Dr. N’s house for the evening and still have some time left to play with. 

Dr. N. is a Honduran doctor who spent most of his adult life as a chief surgeon in some hospital in Chicago.  His house is situated on a missionary hospital complex just outside of downtown Seguatepeque.  He has a long paved driveway which winds along a cliff and up a steep hill.  His house is enclosed by exquisite landscaping and shrubbery.  A dimly lit walkway works its way up from the driveway to his front door.  It is the kind of walkway that you might picture a couple walking up arm in arm in a romantic movie. 

Inside the doctor’s house is even more striking.  The entryway opens to a massive great room with a high vaulted ceiling.  Virtually everything inside the house, aside from the white walls is finely crafted woodwork.  Nearly every corner has large vessels of original Honduran pottery.  When the doctor is home most of these pieces contain fresh flowers which fill the air with their exotic fragrances, but today the doctor wasn’t home.  He was back in Chicago.

Dick and Leota are very close with the doctor.  In fact they first met him when he was laying for forms for this very house.  They had grown close of the over the years and now they had their own room in his house.  They usually lived out of that room when they were in Honduras which is about three months out of the year these days.

The best part about the doctor’s house is the wall opposite of the front door.  Unlike the parallel wall which contains the loft this wall flows from floor to ceiling with small panes of glass encased in darkly colored wooden frames.  The bottom half of this wall is doors which swing open to a large wooden deck which overlooks the city with all its glowing lights.  The whole scene is desperately romantic if you want to know the truth.  Like all good romantic getaways a hammock usually hangs lazily from the posts.  This year the hammock was gone, probably because the doctor wasn’t home, but we still spent a while on the deck staring peacefully at the city. 

After a week’s worth of hard work the doctor’s house was a welcome oasis.  A few of the students climbed up the stairs to the loft where they discovered massage chairs.  I’m telling you, as far a third world countries go, this place was paradise.

At the Dr.’s residence we ate dessert, relaxed and reminisced over our trip by watching a slideshow of our pictures.  The pictures from St. Nicholas seemed like another life.  It seemed like so long ago even though we were only two days out from being in the village.  It was such a surreal experience that it just seemed like we were looking at someone else’s adventure.  We were shocked at how dirty we all were in the pictures and how inconvenient and primitive our living conditions were.  Still, for reasons much deeper than cleanliness and convenience, I found myself wishing I was back in the village. 

Dick broke my heart in the middle of the slideshow by informing the group that one of the little boys in many of our pictures was an orphan.  His mother had died when he was young and his father, an alcoholic, simply abandoned him.  He lived in St. Nicholas and wandered from house to house for food and shelter.  The whole time that he was around us, which was most of the time that we were there none of us were aware of it.  Much to my discredit, I felt like I would have treated him differently if I had known.  Many of the people in our group were annoyed with the crowd of kids who followed us around, especially when they crowded around our windows and doorways and watched us.  How I wish I would have invited him in, given him something to eat or perhaps even offered him my bed.  That poor little boy; I wish I had the resources to bring him home with me and take care of him. 

Looking back it reminds me of that story in the gospels in which Jesus casts some people, who thought they were “in” out into the darkness because He never knew them.  They plead with him explaining how they did many things in his name including miracles and He responds by saying that he was naked and they didn’t clothe him and how he was hungry and they didn’t feed him.  I can’t help but believe that that little boy has something to do with that story.

Friday

Day Eight

Last night a powerful thunderstorm tore through Seguatepeque.  I awoke in the middle of the night to strong rains beating down on the metal roof of the dormitory.  When I realized that a storm was approaching I jumped out of bed and unplugged my laptop from the wall.  Less than five minutes after returning to bed lightening struck so close that I imagined that the touch down could have been no further than across the campus of the seminary.  A few moments later a second bolt struck somewhere behind the seminary.  Both strikes were incredibly loud and frightening.  Personally, I love a good thunderstorm, but I found myself lying in bed considering the possibility of being struck by lightening.  A twinge of fear crept into my chest as I considered the thought.  The only word I could think of was: crispy.  I wasn’t the only one who was scared by the thunder either.  Some of the girls told me later than they were hiding inside their sleeping bags.  With the arrival of this massive thunderstorm I realized that we might have been out of St. Nicholas, but we were still in Honduras.

When we awoke we went to check on the clothes that we had hung out on the line after washing them and found the clothes lying in the mud because the wind had yanked the metal pole, which was secured in cement, right out of the ground.

Breakfast consisted of cereal, bread with peanut butter and jam and also fried eggs which were considerably overcooked.  They required an abundance of salt and pepper to choke down.

The main work project for today was painting Tim’s house.  Tim’s house is located down a steep hill from the Seminary in the direction of downtown Sequatepeque.

A few of the guys wound up stapling chicken wire to the fascia of the dormitory.  I am still a little confused as to why the project was necessary.  I guess it had something to do with pigeons.

Jerry, Dick and I became plumbers today.  The seminary has about 80 toilets and all of them needed to be upgraded.  Apparently the Seminary has been losing a lot of money because the pump in their well runs constantly.  Tim the maintenance guy believes that the problem is that the toilets aren’t functioning properly.

We began our project in the convention center which is a huge building which looks like an airplane hanger.  It is situated on a far end of the campus near the front gate.  The work was tedious, but fairly easy although it wasn’t exactly fun having my face two inches from a toilet all morning.  Honestly, I wasn’t serious about the whole “kissing the toilet thing.”

By about 11:30 we had completed 25 of the toilets and were ready for a break.  Dick thought we should go and check on the main group down at Tim’s house, but as we were rolling up to the gate a brilliant scheme erupted into his mind.  He mentioned casually that if we turned left instead of right we could end up at a coffee shop for a cappuccino.  After having our faces plastered to toilets for the last three hours we naturally consented to the change of plans.

We drove over to the local strip mall and entered into a beautiful and clean restaurant.  After finding a table, Dick ordered four cappuccinos for us and began to tell us stories about Honduras.  He told us about the origins of the strip mall we were currently relaxing in and how it started out as a simple vegetable stand.  He went on to tell us about the son-in-law of the man who had started the vegetable stand and how he had deviously run off with 1 million dollars.  This country has the strangest stories.

After a while our cappuccinos came, along with a plate of gigantic sugar cookies, which were perfect for dumping.  Upon taking my first sip an older couple came up and said hello to Dick.  It was obvious that they were old friends.  They talked for a while of days gone by and when they left Dick informed us that they were veteran missionaries of Honduras who had been in the country for 35 years.  The wife had been a MK in Chile, and had only lived in the Unites States for four years. 

He also told us about a Honduran village that he and this guy had traveled to by mule years ago.  Apparently Dick and Leota used to go on quite a few medical trips into the countryside in which they would pass out medicine and do basic first aid for people in need.  He told us that it didn’t always go well though.  During one of their trips they distributed what they thought were vitamins to the people, but the pills ended up being laxatives.  Naturally the natives were not too impressed.

Upon returning to the campus we met up with the rest of the team who had been working hard all day.  The painting crew worked all morning and was only able to get down a coat of primer.  The thing is Tim’s house is rather large. 

While the one group painted, the other guys finished putting up chicken wire around the entire front side of the dormitory.  Unfortunately, no one was very impressed with the fact that we had gone out for cappuccinos while they were working.  We tried to return discreetly but failed miserably.  I have a feeling that there will be some sort of payback. 

When we arrived in the cafeteria for lunch, most of the food was gone.  Apparently, the other group, which was from Texas came to lunch early and ate everything.  Naturally, our group wasn’t too thrilled, but the cooks quickly produced more fried chicken and mashed potatoes.  For not being in the USA, the mashed potatoes are pretty stellar.

After lunch our group walked back to the dorm for a bit of Siesta.  It is always nice to take a little nap before getting back to work.  I really do believe we should institute this staple of Central American society into ours.

A little while after waking up Jerry informed me that the supply hose to the toilet that he had worked on in Tim’s apartment had cracked, which created the rough equivalent of a flood in Tim’s apartment.  When I went outside most of Tim’s furniture was sitting out on the colonnade to dry…oops.

The second half of the day consisted of basically the same projects as the first.  The only difference was that my team ran out of things to do.  We used up all the toilet supplies that we had.  I guess the problem was that 50 boxes of the new supplies were still in Dallas. 

After wandering around for a while trying to appear busy I started to feel guilty that everyone was working so hard while I was doing nothing so I changed my clothes in preparation for painting.  The rest of the guys decided to join me so we hopped in the van and headed for the gate.  On the way we ran into Dick and we decided that we ought to travel to the hardware store to pick up a few parts that we were missing for the toilet project. 

To get to the hardware store we had to travel through downtown Seguatepeque.  The town was actually larger than I thought it was.  There were numerous shops and businesses.  Dick showed us one particular bank which had been held up by a gang from San Pedro Sula when he had first arrived in country.  The seven robbers were shot dead in the attempt.  Dick pointed out a few armed gunmen near the bank, one of which was on the roof.  The police in this country don’t mess around.  Many of them carry automatic weapons.

The hardware store itself had a large building with a high ceiling.  There was a second level which consisted of office space and storage.  Dick pointed out that most of the lights, except for the main floor were out, probably to save money.  This particular hardware store had been a very profitable business but many other hardware stores had sprung up in the region and now the one we were standing in was barely making it. 

We picked out the parts that we needed and Dick handed money to a clerk who sat in an enclosed structure which was completely surrounded by thick steel bars, much like a prison cell.  Apparently there are problems with theft in this town.

On the way out Dick told us about the owner of the hardware store who lived in a beautiful large house in Seguatepeque that was built when the business was strong.  The owner’s son worked at the hardware store and was in-line to inherit it, but he had joined a dangerous gang which was notorious for robbery and murder.  The word on the street, according to Dick, was that the owner’s son was a marked man and who would soon be shot down.  Dick said it is common in Honduras for the sons of wealthy business men to be rebellious and join the gangs.

After returning to the Seminary, Jerry dropped Joel and me off at Tim’s house and we began painting.  The team who had already been working all day was noticeably exhausted.  Some of them had been painting; others had been leveling the front yard, which of course is thick red clay.  In standard Honduran style they had only used shovels and pickaxes to do the leveling.

We worked hard for several hours until we ran out of paint.  In the end we had rolled a primer coat and two coats of paint on the outside of the house in the time that it took two ladies from the Texas group to paint one bedroom.  One thing is true, our group works hard.

After returning to the Seminary most of the group showered up for dinner.  I, however, performed surgery on my increasingly painful poison ivy.  Somehow, somewhere, in the mountains with the Lencas, I had encountered the Central American version of poison ivy and it was wreaking havoc on my wrist and stomach.  What would a mission trip be without a nasty case of poison ivy?

Dinner tonight was pork chops and mashed potatoes.  It tasted pretty good, but we didn’t get much to eat because the group from Texas ate most of it before we could get at it.  Everything is bigger in Texas, including appetites.

After dinner Dick and Leota put together a bonfire for us and we roasted marshmallows.  Unfortunately, the marshmallows in Honduras are terrible, which sort of ruined the whole “s’more” idea.  The thing is, the marshmallows down here are fruity.  They have either pink or purple swirls in the middle of them.  Who wants cherry mixed in with chocolate and graham? 

During the campfire I started to feel strangely lonely and homesick so I left and just sat alone in the dark under the colonnade.  It was completely dark because the authorities had shut off the power to the Seminary for some reason.  They have a weird habit of doing that on a regular basis. 

I think I needed to be alone because I am emotionally drained.  This is the second mission trip that I’ve led this month and this one in particular is quite exhausting.  You know your emotional gas tank is nearly empty when silly little things like people looking at you weird or a friend poking fun at you makes you want to cry. 

The campfire lasted for quite a while and the group was singing old hymns, which sounded nice, but when it broke up people just went to bed since there was no electricity.  There isn’t a whole lot to do here when it is dark.

Thursday

Day Seven

We woke up this morning and most of us were feeling a bittersweet excitement.  We were looking forward to electricity and the amenities of civilization.  As a matter of fact, I had already made vow to kiss a toilet, a couch, a paved road, and my bed.  However, we were already feeling a sense of loss concerning the village, particularly the people.  We had experienced so much and learned so much about what life is truly about and it was difficult to consider that most of us were about to be permanently removed from this strangely beautiful place.

Unfortunately, not many of us got a whole lot of sleep.  There were the usual dogs barking and roosters announcing the dawn three hours before it actually came, but last night we had mechanical noise-makers.  I had seen an old school bus during the week down the road, past the worksite, which had in big letters across the windshield St. Nichols-La Esperanza.  I assumed, correctly, that the bus ran between the two towns, but I had not seen it move all week.  I asked Erick what the deal was and he told me that the bus only ran when there wasn’t any rain.  I understood what he meant because I could hardly imagine a full size school bus making the turns and climbing the hills out of this desolate village on a paved road let alone on a wet and slimy clay road. 

Well, after I received that information, and after it didn’t rain last night, I guess I should have seen the whole thing coming.  However, even if I had seen it coming or known about it, I would not have predicted the bus rumbling up the highest hill in town and blasting its horn repeatedly at 3:30 in the morning.  When the first honk broke the silence of my sleep I jumped up in my cot, nearly capsizing onto the floor and started laughing.  In a moment everyone else who could hear me was laughing too.  Nothing is too outlandish for this place.  After a little while the bus driver simply shut off the engine.  I was grateful for the stillness and fell back asleep.  About a half hour later the horn erupted again, waking me for a second time and then the bus rambled down the hill and out of town.  Who are these people?

Before breakfast we all worked on packing our things.  The guys’ room in particular looked like a hurricane had swept through it and was in great need of some cleaning.  By the time breakfast rolled around we were still far from loaded.  Breakfast this morning was huge.  We had scrambled eggs with ham and cheese, pancakes, bread, and of course the coffee, which I’m quite sure, will be the coffee that is served in heaven.

After breakfast we walked back up the hill to the house for the last time and finished packing our things.  We had quite a challenge before us because Dick had brought a load to St. Nicholas the week before which we had to include. 

I must say, of all the things I didn’t know about people before this trip, but learned while here, the biggest surprise to me was that Joel is potentially the most skilled packer of all time.  We just handed our bags and things to Joel and he put this serious look on his face and went to work.  Seriously, it was as if entire duffle bags were disappearing into thin air after we handed them of.  I have to hand it to him; he packed enough luggage for about three cars into the one suburban.  The top of the suburban looked like an Arabian caravan.  On the other hand, I honestly wasn’t too confident that the luggage on the rack above the suburban was going to stay up on the way to La Esperanza. 

I tried to help pack, but mostly just got shoved out of the way.  Being demoted to packing the rack I thought I’d try to help with the nylon rope, but the Hondurans quickly got me out of the way of that too.  This one guy named Roni, who always wore headphones, even though no music came out, was an expert in tying knots.  No joke, he would put an eagle scout to shame. 

As we neared the time for our departure what seemed like the entire town showed up to see us off.  We all gathered into one large circle and Erik presented me with several gifts for the service we had given to the people.  He gave me a wooden plaque and a poster board size thank-you card made with crayons.  The whole situation was very emotional as he thanked us for what we had done. 

After Erik finished his presentation I said a few words.  It is very difficult to express yourself coherently when you are working through a translator.  Basically, I said a bit about how we came to serve, but ended up being served by the Hondurans, how we had learned so much, and how much we appreciated the opportunity to work on the first evangelical church among the Lenca Indians. 

After I said my part Dick prayed and a few of us got a little teary eyed.  I think that the whole experience, and the realization that it was over was smacking us square in the face.  It was as if we have finally discovered, in this place, what mattered in life, but now we were being forced to return to our own self-indulged culture.  We will never forget the people we met and served with this week.

After the sendoff we headed up the huge hill that led away from St. Nicholas.  I do mean huge too.  That hill is massive.  About halfway up the hill the van, which was also loaded to the brim with people and supplies came to a halt.  I was positive that we were all going to have to get out of the van in order for Jerry to be able to get up the hill.  It was that steep.  However, Jerry put on the parking brake, feathered the clutch while building up RPMs and got us up the hill

Once we made it up the hill we started down another colossal hill which emptied to a bridge at the very bottom.  We parked the van just across the bridge and all climbed out.  There was to be a baptism in the river underneath the bridge.  Of course automobiles travel quite a bit faster than Honduran villagers on foot so we waited for quite a while before the Hondurans finally showed up.  We passed the time by playing in the river.  Cody, ever the Merriweather Lewis of our group, was almost a mile upstream when the baptism actually started.

Nehemias and Erick entered the river with the man, whose name I can’t remember.  There was quite a crowd of spectators on the bridge observing the ceremony.  We sang an old hymn and then after saying their bit Erick and Nehemias dunked the man.  I had never witnessed a baptism in another language or culture.  It was pretty cool.

Leota told us later that baptism, in this culture, was a big deal because it meant that the person was formally breaking with the Roman Catholic Church.  She went on to say that it was common in this culture for families to disown their children for leaving the Roman Catholic Church.  She told us that this man would likely be persecuted.

After saying goodbye yet again, we crammed back into the van and suburban and headed off towards La Esperanza.  The elevation was even more dramatic than I remembered.  The gravel road makes a very steep decline on the way into St. Nicholas and the road leading back up this way was extremely difficult to climb, as loaded down as we were.  There were a few times when I thought we were not going to make it up a hill.  The curves were imposing as well.  Jerry drove like madman.  I think he was imagining himself to be Dale Jr. or something.

We stopped about fifteen minutes into a trip at a small home on the side of the road.  Erick delivered to them a large sack of food that we had not used.  My guess is that these people were Christians who Erick knew or people that he had worked with previously.  One thing is for sure; these people take care of each others’ needs.

The roads, with the lack of rain the night before were in great shape and we made good time.  All the worrying that we had done ended up being for nothing.  Our group believes that the lack of rain, on the one strategic night that we needed, was God’s intervention on our behalf.  That journey on wet roads would have been unnerving and dangerous.

It wasn’t long before we arrived in La Esperanza and made a pit stop at Erick’s in-law’s family compound.  This time Erick invited me into his home and introduced me to his wife and his baby daughter, who was only two months old.  They had named her Ruth, but in Spanish it is pronounced “Root.”  It was a little awkward because she wasn’t dressed like a girl and I honestly couldn’t tell if she was a boy or a girl, but sometimes you’ll have that.  Honestly, I’ve had some trouble with identifying people by the wrong gender in my life. 

With his usual hospitality, Erick invited me to sit on his couch.  I noticed right away that he had a large bookshelf filled with various Bibles, theological books, and commentaries, all of which were in Spanish.  Using Dick as a translator, we talked about different books that we enjoyed or employed in our ministries.  He showed me some of the Bibles he had.  He had copies of the first three versions in the Spanish language.  If I remember correctly, the first one was a translation done in the early 1500s.  I enjoyed talking with Erick and felt an affinity with him based on our shared work.  I believe him to be a much superior pastor than myself, however.  He is incredibly passionate and devoted, much more so that I am even though we are the same age.  I learned a lot from him in only four days.

While in Erick’s house I also noticed that he had a huge poster laminated on his wall that displayed a dispensational understanding of the Bible, from Genesis all the way through Revelation.  It reminded me of some of Charles Taze Russell’s strange charts I had seen while studying the Jehovah’s Witnesses.  It struck me because as far as development and theological progression goes, Honduras is where the United States was maybe 80 years ago.  Dispensationalism is still dominant among the evangelical church and so is a very rigid understanding of evangelism, discipleship, and models of the church.  The thing is their philosophies and strategies are working.  I think it is simply because the United States has become a postmodern culture whereas Honduras is far from it, at least in the rural areas.  Or maybe it is because the Honduran church is alive and the American church is pretty well dead.

After about thirty minutes we left La Esperanza and headed towards Seguatepeque.  It was strange to see quality paved roads and fairly heavy traffic.  I know that we were only in the jungle for four days, but the experiences had been so dramatic that it seemed like much longer.  We truly were struck and changed by the things we saw and experienced.

When we arrived at the Seminary there was a lot of cheering and laughing.  I hopped out of the van and ran to our dorm door, and after unlocking it flipped on the light switches while yelling, “Look…electricity!”  Then I flipped them off again and exclaimed, “When I flip the switch real lights come on!”  The guys just looked at me like I should be locked up somewhere.

We had made the joke while in St. Nicholas that when we returned to the Seminary it was going to feel like we were checking into the Hilton and it sort of was.  We had lights, running water, dry beds, clean clothes, chairs and tables to eat at.  It was such a great feeling. 

Well, we were on a tight schedule because we had gotten off to a late start out of St. Nicholas because of the extended goodbyes and the baptism.  We had to run straight to lunch instead of unpacking our load.  It was so nice to have great food prepared for us and tables and chairs to sit at.  We had gotten used to the rustic conditions quickly, without too much complaining, but eating meals on your lap while sitting on a board which is set on two rocks isn’t exactly convenient or desirable.

After lunch we unpacked our supplies and went back to our dorms and we rested.  It was so nice to stretch out on a bed, not just a mattress on a dirty cement tile floor, but a real bed with clean sheets and blankets.

Before we had even left for St. Nicholas Dick had apparently arranged for a softball game with the seminary students.  This game was to take place at 4:30 down on the soccer field.  We were pretty excited because we thought that we might actually have a chance to do well at a sport in Honduras.  We needed a little redemption after the soccer game in the mountains. 

In typical Honduran style the game ended up starting at about 5:15 and we split up into two complete teams.  The seminary had been given 9 gloves by a previous work team from the states so we were good to go.  The game was a blast up until one controversial play which happened right in the middle of the contest.  The bases were loaded and one of the Hondurans hit a pop up in the infield.  Luke went to catch it but dropped it and then tagged one runner while stepping on the bag to force another runner out.  Now, being an avid baseball fan I knew that this situation was a perfect application of the “infield fly rule.”  Unfortunately, the Hondurans seemed to have no concept of this rule.  I tried to explain it to them in English, which did no good.  Then in typical tourist fashion I attempted the same explanation with slower speech and exaggerated hand motions.  With similar blank faced results I moved on to one of the seminary students who had lived in the states for a few years as an interpreter and ended up with the same confused responses.  In the end I gave up and simply called for a “repeato,” which I think means re-do in Spanish.  What a fiasco.

Later in the game one of the professors’ children, a boy named Jose came to the plate.  Some of the other Hondurans who were on my team were standing behind him talking to each other.  Jose swung at about 57 pitches before he finally connected, but when he did he flung the bat behind him about ten feet straight into the eye of the of professors who was not paying attention at all.  The professor went down in a heap and at first I thought it was funny until I saw a thick dark red stream of blood flowing down his face.  It was a tense moment as a few of the students helped him back up towards the campus.  I figured the game was over for sure, but a professor, who was from Nicaragua, where they actually play baseball, exclaimed in the loud voice, “Play ball!”  And we did.

After the softball game we showered up and headed off to the Pizzaria Venicia.  I had been to this pizza place last year and knew that it was pretty good.