Final thoughts on trip #2 to Honduras

People ask, "How was Honduras?" I hestitate. Is the questions routine politeness or do they really want to know? Because I don't have a one word answer...and the one word that comes to mind is not one to just toss out in passing, it needs explanation. "It was hard."

Yes the heat was hard, especially for Tom. Yes the kids were challenging but endearing and I still wake up asking what the weather is like, singing the day of the week song and missing the cheerful greetings. True, I wanted to scream at all my bug bites and Tom had mystery bites that swelled up his whole leg and constantly oozed puss (Thankfully, they are on the mend finally).

Last summer, perhaps under the Lord's protection, we lived in isolation, only exposed to those who worked directly with Mama and Papa. We ate daily with our friends and learned about their heart and their vision. This summer, we learned more about the daily life of the average Honduran. We came to care about the lives of the workers on the property and Tia Maria. We ate, shopped, and dwelled with  just our family--living almost independently in this beautiful country.

The average worker in Honduras has very little. I felt guilty knowing the quality of education my kids are receiving, the tremendous number of choices they have, and the sheer amount of stuff we have. While on this earth, I will never know why I was born in the United States to my educated parents or why some of those dear children were abandoned in garbage dumps in Honduras. Perhaps, the hardest part is knowing that guilt is not helpful. But I still can't find a better response that is as steadfast as guilt.

So many people in Honduras need help. There are hundreds of orphans in Honduras and no orphanage to house them. Allowing Americans to adopt seems like a good idea, but currently they the cost to adopt them is prohibitive, almost $70,000 by the time you pay off all the judges and governemental workers who want some cash to sign a paper. Women have little to no true rights in Honduras. They are abused, beaten and subdued and they are the only ones who raise the children. The concept of a family with a mom and dad is very weak in Honduras. And while the school teachers don't get paid often in Honduras, somehow the mayors of the little towns (many of whom are all related in a given region) always get paid and they have perks, like a certain amount of free gift cards for gas each month and fancy vehicles.

And my friends? Their heart and vision is the same. But they need help. They want to run this school for their kids, but they can't pay teachers. They need transportation. They don't have enough space and the orphanage won't be finished for a few years. It seems as though their needs are so much greater than before that they run daily from emergency to emergency, unable to create a peaceful routine.

And I learned that the life of foreign missionary can be so lonely. While loving those need love, energy is spent. New friends show up to help and then leave and adding the donor/receiver relation can make things more complicated. There's a desire to be totally honest about struggles and a desire to make everything appear beautiful and perfect. New local friends abound too; the wealthy ones give gifts, but it's hard to know if the source of the funds is honest (and there's a lot of dishonest money in Honduras). It's hard to know if friendship is friendship or if something else expected. Americans have many resources. Hondurans know this. Life as a missionary can be lonely.

Certainly Honduras and its people are friendly and lovely. And certainly working to share the love of Christ among them brings emotional and spiritual rewards.  This summer, God taught me about the pouring out of ourselves and the reality of that life for friends. It isn't easy and people are never perfect in their attempts to defeat the selfish monster. Last summer I think God showed us about the filling up that comes from loving these kids. As the Lord fills cups to overflowing, it is hard to know which direction to pour.

The injustices and sin of this world still weigh heavy on my heart. All I know to do is pray.

Xiomara is almost 2. She is blind. She has learned to walk since I saw her last summer.
And while she can speak, she rarely does. But if you are attentive,
you might hear her sing in her quiet, sweet voice.