On Earth as it is in Heaven….

Some thoughts from Nicaragua for the next time you are at the gas pump

2008-06-22T18:56:00.000-06:00

Dear friends,

I sincerely want to apologize for the lack of communication with you all on my part these last few months. I’ve been pretty good about making up excuses to not go to the internet café, and I received a wonderful visit with my family in May that gave me so much love and energy that I’m still glowing with joy from the time we spent together and the opportunity I had to share with them a little bit of my life here.

My return in December is sneaking up on me. In six months I will pack my bags and try to express in good-bye hugs how important all these people have been to me these past two years. But finding myself in this downhill six month stretch has really got me thinking. In many ways I feel like I am on my last lap, the last leg of the race, I see the finish line so close in the distance and know that I am at my peak in terms of relationships I have spent so much time building or my time as a librarian that I have so open heartedly poured myself into. Honest conversations with coworkers or library users come so naturally; I’ve seen women carry children for 9 months, give birth and am now watching the children grow and take first steps; and I can actually eat a mango without dripping the juice all over my clothes.

But the absolutely haunting feeling that permeates within me and throughout my days is the fear that when I pack my bags and get on that plane in December, I will say goodbye to a hurting country that I watched get worse everyday over the time I spent there. Some weeks are worse than others, and I see the changes at a very micro level through the lives of coworkers and friends in the neighborhood where I work, which is one of the poorest and most marginalized in Managua, but it seems that the economic situation is rapidly getting worse leaving so many people without options and little hope.

Inflation for the year of 2007 was a steep 17% and by the time this year is over they are anticipating an outrageous 28% based on the assumption of oil prices continuing to rise. What that means at a most basic level (the one that I personally witness) is that people are hungry. Of course I am from the small, blessed percentage of people in Managua that don’t have to worry about where we will get our next meal, but the search for food is a struggle taking place around every corner, even in the middle class barrio where I live. Tortillas are smaller; prices of beans and rice have reached new highs; and cooking oil (a staple to any typical dish) has double in price in just the short time I have been here.

My hope for this email however is not to bore you with statistics and numbers because I don’t know if that is the best way to describe the reality of the situation, but I want to share with you some of the ways that I have seen the effects of the global food crisis taking place in the poorer parts of the world, and how increasing gas prices greatly affect a large population of people that will never be lucky enough to drive a car. I share these stories with you in confidence knowing that they are others’ stories and not my own, but with the hope that they will allow us to think a little deeper about the complexity of the world in which we live.

Hungry Hunters: Around 4:45pm this past Friday afternoon, I was hurriedly cleaning the mop in the outside wash basin thinking about the upcoming weekend when I heard what sounded like rocks whizzing past me and bouncing on the metal roof tops and falling to the ground. I fearfully looked around and saw no one nor heard any footsteps. All the kids had left for the day and I knew that just 2 coworkers and I were the only ones left in the project. I promptly blew off the incident and returned to the library to quickly mop the floor and leave for the day, but it wasn’t until I was on my way out the gate several minutes later that I could explain what had happened. I spotted two young boys armed with sling shots. Of course my immediate reaction was one of anger thinking that they where trying to harm me earlier as I washed the mop, so I stormed over to where they were and asked what they were doing shooting rocks in the direction of people. Clearly I was thinking worse case scenario: sling shots can be a violent weapon in the hands of young boys. As soon as I began to speak, they quickly lowered the sling shots and earnestly apologized. They had assumed everyone was gone for the day and wouldn’t harm anyone. I still however didn’t understand what they were doing and kept asking questions about why they wanted to be at the project when it was closed, again thinking the worst that they were up to no good, but once more upon my questioning they apologized saying that they didn’t mean any harm because they were just trying to kill some pigeons to eat because they were hungry. My heart sunk I felt awful looking into their sad, desperate eyes and had no food or anything to offer them. Feeling almost nauseous, I apologized and told them to take care of themselves and walked away. How quick had I assumed they were causing trouble and honestly never would have guessed they we just searching for dinner.

- A friend from the library, a young mother who had just returned to school to finish her last two years of high school told me on Friday that she was dropping out of school. The two of us are the same age but are in very different situations. She has two young daughters both of which have no father figure for any type of support. On Friday, her one day off, she came to visit me at the library but when I asked her which book to pull of the shelf to lend her, she sadly lowered her head and told me that she wasn’t going to continue studying because she had just gotten a job on the janitorial staff of a college in Managua. I was trying to give her hope suggesting she switch her studies from the night to the weekends, or at least try and finish this semester which is almost over. But her only reply was that her kids have to eat. “The reality is that we have to eat,” she told me. That quieted me quickly because I knew it was the truth.

- A 12 year old girl who comes to the library often told me how she wants to come see my house. I proposed we would find a date for her to come visit my house and meet me roommates on the agreement that she would first take me to her house to meet her family, especially her mother, so the next day she met me at 5pm after I finished work to take me to her house. When we arrived, I was never actually invited inside, but I was immediately given coffee and a piece of sweet bread. The visit was brief; they only had one chair which they gave to me. Her mom, brother, and sister just awkwardly stood around me. All of a sudden it made so much more sense why she came to the library everyday, they didn’t even have a table or chairs to sit on. I left very thankful for the visit, and in a few weeks during her vacation from school she is going to come spend a day with me.

- The past few weeks I have been working alone at the library during the mornings. My coworker had to switch jobs to help out another program in the project. The transition to working alone has naturally been a lonely one; I don’t think I ever realized how much I relied on her for advice and companionship let alone the fact that this switch has greatly increased my work load. I greatly missed her presence last week when a very terrible, completely unfortunate accident occurred in the library. A very frequent library user, ten year old Odalis, came to the library to do her homework. I don’t know much about her family situation, but I can tell that they are struggling. Their mother works all day long at the sweatshop factories, so the three children get passed around between busy family members and neighbors. On this particular day Odalis brought along her three year old sister, Madeline, a truly beautiful girl with a very hard life. I always have to repeatedly tell Madeline to put on her sandals and not walk around barefoot, and this day was no exception, but the consequences this day we much greater because Odalis was leaning back on the bench she was sitting at and caused it to tip over and come crashing down onto Madeline’s barefoot. I didn’t even hear the bench fall, but I did hear the painful scream and cry she released and saw the blood and wound on her foot. I snapped into to panic mode which for me in that situation was to hold her and clean her foot off (she is almost always walking around in the dirt without shoes on). Cleaning her foot to stop the bleeding was no simple task. It was impossible to put pressure on the cut because the bone in her toe had shattered so placing pressure was too painful. I sent one of the kids to get one of my coworkers for help and sent Odalis home to get her grandma to come take her to the hospital. Really all I could do was hold her and listen to her cry. Her cry was so disturbing: in between gasps of breath she shouted syllables of my name. “Ma--rrrr---ia--!” I continued waiting but her grandmother never came, meanwhile her foot kept bleeding. I eventually handed Madeline over to one of my older coworkers while I went and looked for more gauze. When I came back, I saw a young boy no older than 12 years old walking away with her in the direction of her grandmothers house. I feared that she would be abandoned with no one to care for her and it was obvious to me she needed medical attention. As I continued with my day, I couldn’t get her cries out of my head, so I went back with Margaret during our lunch break to check in on her. Her grandmother seemed relieved to see us; it seemed that no one had so much as touched her since she left the project. She sat alone in the chair crying in pain with blood still dripping from her foot. We encouraged them to take her to the hospital, and when her 16 year old aunt got home from school the two went alone to the hospital.

- One of the main leaders of a political party in Nicaragua is on a hunger strike. She has been fasting for 12 days and says she will continue to do so until the government puts her party back on the ticket for the upcoming mayor elections. Fasting as a form of protest seems powerful and ironic in a country where many are hungry.

- One of the main “ventas” or small corner stores run out the front of house was robbed last week. What was stolen: a hundred pound bag of rice and a hundred pound bag of bean that had just been distributed by the government to this family to sell at a very subsidized price to the people in the neighborhood. I can’t imagine the effort put into breaking into a house and then lifting the heavy bags over a tall cement wall. Must have been hungry.

I appreciate you allowing me to share my thoughts and stories, may they fill our hearts as we pray others stomachs are filled. I hope that we can continue to remember how blessed we are and keep all those suffering in our prayers. Thanks again.

Peace,
Mary

The Complexity of Poverty

2008-01-13T16:51:00.000-06:00

“Lord, when was it we saw you hungry and gave you food, when was it we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, when was it was saw you sick or in prison and visited you? And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.’” Matthew 25:37-40

We arrived soaked from head to toe after a two hour hike through mountain trails to arrive to the home of the family of my co-worker, Myrna. I was a little apprehensive because I had never met her family or been to a house so far removed from everything. But within the first few minutes, despite being a complete stranger, I was welcomed with warm hugs and was sitting with dry clothes near a fire, drinking coffee and eating bread.

The above passage from Matthew appeared at the beginning of John Pitts Corry’s article I just read in The Catholic Worker when he wrote about the struggles of knowing what this passage means for our lives but the difficulty we encounter in trying to really live out that call. Jesus makes his home around the poor, likes being around them, and constantly takes up their cause in the public arena. Must we not do the same? Corry questions what the people fleeing from gunfire in Baghdad or women caring for their young, dying children in Africa would have to say about our need to go out to a restaurant for nice dinner or on a vacation? Not to mention all the things we take for granted that many other people on the globe don’t have access to: education, healthcare, electricity, water. His honest words of struggle to live this Gospel call spoke truth as I evaluated my own life in this area.

I remembered again the few days I had just spent in the remote mountains of northern Nicaragua with my co-worker’s family. I romanticized about the simplicity of the lifestyle there: The dependency on the land and farming, following the sun’s natural clock of when to sleep and when to rise, cold bucket showers from a nearby well, close relationships among neighbors although the nearest one is a thirty minute walk away. I was so caught up in the natural beauty of the mountain views, the wonderful people around me, and the adventure of entering a new type of life (one morning we walked in boots over two hours to bring back 40 lbs of fresh cuajada cheese from a tiny house high in the mountains) that I had completely failed to realize how “poor” these people were based on the North American standards I was raised by. And if these people were so “poor,” why was it that they were the ones welcoming me, the stranger, into their homes and offering me food and drink?

Then, my thoughts returned to a Bible workshop I went to with co-workers back in November. We spent a lot of time talking about “Christ’s Project” and how he was committed to the poor. I remember feeling uncomfortable several times about the constant use of the word poor, especially knowing the difficult economic situation many of my co-workers face in their homes. One of the women even boldly complained, “We are not poor by choice; we are involuntarily poor because we were born into this!” But despite the continuous use of the word poor, we never once really discussed what it means for us.

The complexity of all that the word poor brings has me realizing the intricate heart Christ has and questioning my own interpretation of the word. Some say that we can circumvent our responsibility to the economically poor by saying God cares for each of us the same in the individual ways we each are poor, but I don’t think I personally subscribe to that. Can we all be the last or the least? I believe God cares for us all deeply, but He is with the poor (interpret that how you will), so is that not where we should go?

So many times I find myself in situations when fail to live this message. Sometimes I forget and other times I just don’t. What is holding me back from this complete conversion to the poor? Why is it so easy for me to fall into the thinking that maybe not all of us are called to be like Mother Teresa? At the heart of it, I know that it is nothing more than my own fear and desire to hold on to my own independence.

Living in Nicaragua, it is not difficult to to love the poor and find my home in them, but it would be a lie to say I always encounter the presence of Jesus in the face of everyone that is economically poor or abused or sick or homeless, but I do know that in my heart I believe He is there. I might recognize it immediately with some and with others it might be a little more difficult, but I know that He is there…and that has to be enough.

Out of Managua

2008-01-13T16:41:00.000-06:00

Wanted to share a few picture about a recent trip I took to visit the family of a friend outside of Managua.

365 down, 365 to go (Part 1)

2007-12-09T17:35:00.000-06:00

Wow…the fastest 365 days of my life. I know that some passed more quickly than others, some were easier, and others were filled with despair, but individual days aside, the year has completely changed me from the inside out. Even just looking back on these last few months when I have failed to write, so much has happened, I can hardly remember myself, but for now I would like to share a short story.

Just yesterday I was invited to a first communion of Edelis, one of the young girls I have gotten to know this year at the library. Only one of the many beauties of this culture is that a friendship with just one person opens you up knowing an entire family. In the case of Edelis, I know not only her but also her brother, numerous cousins, parents, grandmother, and even a few uncles and aunts. More than 20 family members live together on a plot of land in El Recreo, the neighborhood where I work.

I arrived to her house round 7am yesterday morning a little nervous and unsure of what a typical first communion experience would be like. Not surprisingly, I was greeted with excitement, love and hugs and kisses from everyone, but most amazingly was treated just like one of the family. Upon my arrival, we quickly left for the church that was a little ways away in the next neighborhood. It also quickly came to my attention that this day was not just the first communion of Edelis but also a family affair because her brother and two cousins received their first communion also. This day had been looked forward to by all of them for a long time, and I was really touched that they wanted me to be a part of it.

Mass started by a loud ringing of the bells, and I again felt so glad to be sharing in this moment especially as I watched all the communicants process in meeting eyes and smiling with those I had just spent the last year working with at the library. In a neighborhood where families struggle to make ends meet and put food on the table, this day was a huge accomplishment for everyone.

Midway through mass right after the homily, fireworks were set off just steps away from the doors of the church in typical Nicaraguan fashion as a way of demonstrating happiness and excitement. Of course through my North American glasses, it seemed like nothing other than a huge safety hazard as smoke and debris from the fireworks entered the church and also a big disturbance of the sanctity of mass (imagine how distracting and LOUD fireworks are when you are less than 50 meters away). Most everyone just ignored them, but of course I completed jumped out of my skin because that was the last thing I was expecting to happen.

Afterwards, we returned to the house where everyone lived and ate cake and drank coke (also a very cultural thing…no party is complete without cake and “gaseosa”). The “house” is a chain of small rooms built with scrap wood and dirt floors. As I sat outside on the small patio area that connected the various parts of the house, I took in all that was around me…the very close context in which they lived; there weren’t enough chairs for everyone to sit on; no toilet only a small latrine, no running water, and many people slept in the same bed. The mother shared with me that she wasn’t able to make lunch for everyone due to all the expenses of the day. It was incredible the high importance they placed on buying a beautiful, white, communion dress, lace gloves, matching shoes, and veil. Especially when I reflected on the conditions of their house, I was really impressed by the way they worked to conserve parts of their culture.

This experience was just one part of that one day. Last night as I went to bed, I laid my head down on the pillow, and thinking back to the days events, I once again felt grateful for this experience of being here. Please stay posted…I still have many other days and stories to share.

From Managua to Marietta and back

2007-10-16T12:57:00.000-06:00

It is an incredible reflection of privilege that in just a matter of three and a half hours, I can get on a plane and move practically effortlessly from what seems like two different worlds. A month ago, I walked out my front door from my home in Managua crammed into a small rundown taxi that was probably over 20 years old. There were six of us in the small vehicle which isn’t an uncommon sight in Managua. We blew through the streets passing women with baskets on their heads selling bread, shoeless children washing car windshields, men shouting headlines from the daily paper, and breaking every traffic law I had ever learned as a 15 year old in drivers ed.

After about a twenty minute ride, we all spilled out of the taxi at the airport gates. I was on my way back home to Marietta to be with my family for my dad’s upcoming operation. He has been struggling with a super rare disease called Cronkite-Canada Syndrome since April, and after much discernment I decided to go home to be with my family. With a small bag and passport in hand, I said by to my community and walked through customs and then onto the coach class of a Delta flight headed direct to Atlanta. Three and a half hours later, I drove into the outstretched, long-missed arms of my family. We climbed into the family’s comfy sedan with leather interior, turned the air conditioning to the exact degree we wanted, and drove through the familiar 16 lanes of traffic through downtown. As we sat in traffic, I enjoyed my family’s much missed company but knew my heart and mind were still marked with the heavy impressions left by Nicaragua.

Of course the 26 days I had at home were filled with too much shock and emotion for me to comprehend. I would go a few hours feeling like it was if I had never left and just so glad to back to a well-known place where I could speak my own language, be surrounded by people who knew me since my childhood, hear country music on the radio, walk around on carpet with my shoes off, and eat turkey and cheese sandwiches whenever I wanted. But not too much time could pass before I would see something that would remind me of an experience in Nicaragua. For example, one morning I went running down Trickum Rd. right by my house (running in general is a much missed privilege I unfortunately rarely get to do in Managua due to time, the heat, safety, etc.) and saw that someone had dumped about six rolls of wallpaper on the side of the road. I wasn’t sure if they were left there or purpose or if they had fallen off of a truck, but I immediately thought that was so strange and knew you would never see six unopened rolls of wallpaper in Managua. First of all, someone would have quickly come by to pick it up, but secondly, they would probably wouldn’t even understand the necessity for wallpaper but find something else probably more useful to use it for. After the run, I opened the fridge and again was reminded of the little luxuries I had available. Right in front of me, in my own house were about 8 different drink options: two different flavors of water, two types of Gatorade, ice tea, diet coke, milk and orange juice. The fridge was also stocked with 5 flavors of yogurt, 2 kind of hummus, grapes, apples, and many other hard-to-come-by foods in Nicaragua, but it wasn’t so much the types of foods that was the shock, but more so the quantities. The fridge was so full…and we had another freezer downstairs filled as well!

The thoughts of the extreme differences between the two worlds never left for much longer than a few hours, and the 26 days went by quicker than I ever could have imagined. I enjoyed my last hot showers, loads of laundry in the washing machine, hours on wireless internet, and turkey sandwich and was filled with much emotion saying goodbyes for the second time around knowing that I wouldn’t be back for another 15 months. In many ways I was glad and ready to return to the simpler life in Managua. But I remain completely awestruck knowing that I walk this thin line between two realities. I knew that no matter how many pictures I could show or stories I could share, I could never accurately portray or get one to understand the reality many Nicaraguans face. Likewise, I was a little relieved to remind myself that many people in the neighborhood where I work will never understand the immense luxury and accessibility to everything we have in states…and if they did, they probably would be absolutely horrified by all the waste.

I made the reverse trip from comfy Marietta to my Managuan home, this time with a little more understanding and a bigger heart for my time here. My first day back to work in addition to about hundred huge hugs and kisses, my co-worker in the library threw me a welcome back party with her and the four high school volunteers that help out every afternoon in the library. They had prepared fried chicken and cabbage salad which we ate off tortillas and sheets of notebook paper for plates. One of them handed me a dryer sheet to use as a napkin, and this time I wasn’t thinking about Nicaragua but was reminded of home…I was probably the only one of us that had ever seen a dryer. Who knows why we had the dryer sheets or where they came from? Either way, I gladly used it as if I didn’t even know the difference. The thought behind the party was so genuine and kind. I am always amazed by the welcome I am given in a country I once new next to nothing about, but I was truly touched as I was welcomed back another time.

Librarian Life?

2007-09-27T22:38:00.000-06:00

Never would I have guessed that after graduating college I would work in a library of all places. Sure I always enjoyed libraries and reading, but now that is where I spend almost all of my time. Sometimes I get restless and feel locked up behind the doors, but the moments when I realize that my job is nothing at all about books or reading, I am completely reaffirmed that my job is absolutely perfect for me…and it has been flawless in showing me the injustice that permeates this country. Honestly, there are days that I am faced with too much to deal with, but more and more these are the days I am beginning to appreciate.

This one particular day began with a slow, boring morning…one of those days that I have to remind myself that I work in a library… The banal work of the morning was soon interrupted when a 16 year old high school student, Katherine, came in to borrow a book to finish her homework. We sat at the same table both half working and half talking to each other. I asked some simple questions about how her classes were going and how her family was, and before I knew it we had launch into a conversation about the sexual abuse her close friend had receive for four years. Katherine was talking low and soft and quickly, I was having trouble understanding everything, but I knew this was a conversation that I shouldn’t ask questions, just listen. Everything she described sounded horrifying…the mom knew the abuse was taking place, the friend felt like it was all her fault, etc. Apparently, this all occurred 6 months ago, and she has since been removed from the situation, but when I asked how she was doing now, Katherine sadly tells me that two weeks ago her boyfriend who was 21 or 22 moved into the house. The mother approved as long as he paid for his own expenses and that the girl washed and ironed his clothes and cooked for him. All I could do was lean my head down and shake it slowly in disbelief, and close my eyes and pray. We sat in silence for a few minutes after the conversation; neither one of us wanted to return to the work in front of us. Although I felt a disgust and rage for this sad story, what more could I have done?

A few hours later, I cross the cancha (basketball court that doubles as a soccer field) and headed to lunch. I came across Gloria, a woman who worked in kitchen at the project but left to find other work. She shared with me that her family was in a “critical” economic situation. I didn’t have to ask what that meant. She is recovering from eye surgery and doesn’t want to return to washing and ironing clothes because that is what she did for 13 years and doesn’t think her back and body can handle the work anymore. Later in the conversation, she tells me her son quit school although he only has a year left until he graduates to look for work also. On top of her job-searching struggles and barely making ends meet, she is attending Saturday school because she is determined to finish high school.

During lunch I was given the opportunity to accompany Emilio, a friend of the project from Spain that was going to work with the children in the primary school in the neighborhood. I love any opportunity I have to be in the school, so I jumped at the chance to go with him and help lead creative, cooperative for the children for them to have a chance to open up and express themselves.

As we entered the crowded, chaotic, three thousand student high school, I was greeted by dozens of regular library attendees. I think we were all surprised and excited to see each other outside of the typical setting of the library. They say everyone gets their ten minutes of fame, right? Never before in my life had I felt like both a huge celebrity and complete foreigner at the same time. Children were running out of classrooms to hug me, shouting my name through open windows to exchange a smile, staring at me with wide-open eyes. Meanwhile, I stood stunned and speechless at the conditions of the school environment in front of me. I tried to focus on the reason I originally came the school that day.

Emilio and I entered the classroom and began working with the students. After a few icebreakers, we sat in a circle and played a simple game. Emilio would say “Stand up and move your seat if…”, and the students would respond by running and quickly searching of an open, available seat in the room. He started out with simple phrases, but when he moved into the move heavier questions, I was shocked by some of the candid responses of the students.

Emilio, “Stand up and move your seat if…you ever seen someone dead…”

Four kids move.

“Really, you have seen someone dead? Who was it?”

My cousin he was being assaulted by two robbers and they killed him. The entire family was very sad.

“And you, what death did you see?”

My uncle. He offered no more explanation. No more words.

“Stand up and move your seat if you like the war”

Five kids get up and move.

“Why do you like war?”

Because people fight, and I like fighting. These words were spoken by a third grade girl named Maria. She stood there stoically looking painfully innocent in her school uniform.

“Does anyone else like fighting?”

Kids throughout the classroom nod their heads in agreement.

“Stand up and move your seat if you ate lunch today.”

Of the twenty kids or so only half moved.

“Stand up and move your seat if you were woken up last night by people shouting.”

Without thinking four students quickly ran across the room.

“Stand up and move your seat if you know someone who is a robber.”

Seven kids search for new seats.

“Is the robber a friend of yours? Does she live in the neighborhood?”

Yeah she is a friend, but she is a little older than I am. She is my neighbor who lives in the house right in front of mine. She has never stolen anything from me though. I think she only works on Saturdays.

“Stand up and move your seat if you have ever yelled at your mother.”

Everyone even those that haven’t been participating much moved.

“Move…if you like hugs.”

Not a single move except one innocent looking young girl stands slowly and nervously looks around.

“Stand up and move your seat if you like hugs.”

Emilio stood and repeated the question. Still no movement, and the girl sinks backs down in her seated hoping to remain unnoticed.

The kids couldn’t even stand in front of the room and say their name. All the classrooms are open. Metal roofs which make it impossible to listen in the rain. Broken desks, children sharing desks. Trash thrown all over the floor. Children screaming, shouting, hitting one another.

A teacher yells so loud that her voice quivers and runs down my spine, trying to get the children to behave. I can tell she has passed the point of frustration; she’s lost hope and is not acting this way because she wants to be. I think she would be embarrassed to know my thoughts about her at that moment.

While we walk out of the school, I realize my afternoon is not quite over. We pass by an assembly for the secondary students. After a very biased political speech given by a representative of the government, they announce that the president is giving a brand new bike to the best student in each classroom. The best student of the school receives a new computer. Meanwhile, they lack teachers, paper, photocopies, pencils, classrooms. But a bike is something necessary for the top student of the class? Why not award them money towards a college education they might never have?

I leave, get on the bus. I don’t even know what else to think. I don’t speak, just stare and stand and try not to fall over amidst the many stops. I want to think about everything and nothing that happened today. I want the world to be just. That seems so far off.

Pictures

2007-08-10T21:08:00.000-06:00

I figured it was way past time to post some pictures. These wonderful faces and images I see daily in the library and want to share them with you.

Reflections

2007-07-28T20:09:00.000-06:00

It is Sunday and it is 7am and I am tired. I lie in bed and listen to fireworks being shot off less than two blocks from my house. As much as I love and respect Nicaraguan culture, at this moment I wanted to curse whoever it was or for whatever reason large, loud explosions were going off in what seemed like was my bedroom. It is Sunday and it is 7am and I am tired. I close my eyes and go back to sleep.

I can barely open my eyes. I was in darkness, but now all I see is bright sun. All I feel is hot sun and the sweat beginning to cover my skin. I walk out of the national cathedral after Sunday mass and am literally blinded by the light of the sun. I follow many others leaving the mass, and we bottleneck at a gate we must pass through to leave. I wait about a minute for the crowd to fade, wipe the sweat off my forehead then step through the sheltered gates of the cathedral and into Managua. Lined up in perfect single file outside the gates where seventeen homeless men and women each one with a hand stretched out and a face asking for help. Words weren’t necessary: their shoeless feet, dirty faces, ragged clothing, and missing teeth spoke for themselves. I took a deep breath to muster the strength to walk past them. I knew I didn’t have a single cordaba on me and that I wasn’t going to be able to fill their empty hands or stomachs, so I compromised and decided to walk by slowly and at least look each one in the eyes, and by the time I passed by the last set of sunken, sad, desperate eyes, although it was a span of less than a minute, I was completely exhausted. Any feeling of hope and strength the mass had left me was completely gone, and I felt tired and mad and frustrated with the problems of the world.

I walked a little faster and tried to release my anger. I wasn’t even off the cathedral’s property before I received my first “chelita, linda, preciosa” (a call given by some Nicaraguan men which literally means “beautiful, precious, little white girl”). I crossed the street and hear my name being shouted by neighborhood friends as they pass by on a motorcycle. We smile and wave and say “adios,” and some sort of comfort and hope is restored in me. I take a few steps and pass by a man sleeping on the ground at the bus stop, then receive two more separate calls and whistles from different men. I begin to walk a little quicker and to my left is a man sleeping in a sewer resting his head on trash. How have we let the world become like this? I feel anger and sadness. I feel frustration and despair for all my contribution this injustice. It is ugly.

By the time I arrive home, eleven different men have made some sort of comment or whistle. One of which came from a man that looked about 65 who called me a doll and asked me where I was going and if I needed him to take me there. I could be his granddaughter! But during all these comments, I keep my head down. I don’t look up to acknowledge; that is what they want…for me to acknowledge their comments, and I won’t give them that.

Three hours later I am in a crowded, humid room filled with about thirty young children screaming, laughing, fighting, crying, and slowly emerging from the chaos with handfuls of candy. The piñata at Doña Carmen’s grandson’s first birthday has just broke open, and I am praying no one gets hurt. We were lucky to make it safe out of the actual breaking of the piñata. Imagine thirty children in a small, crowded room blindfolded and swinging with all their strength at an object they couldn’t see. The DJ shouted into the microphone offering meaningless advice and directions of where to swing, but from my position in the room there seemed to be a few close calls between the bat and people’s faces. The entire party was such a beautiful representation of Nicaraguan culture: family and friends together on a Sunday eating delicious arroz con pollo listening to overly loud music and enjoying each others company. We talked about the recent power cuts, the rain, how pitaya is the cheapest juice to make right now, and watermelon only cost 6 cords. The entire party we were waited on hand and foot by the family: filling our drinks, introducing us to friends, etc. They had arranged for us to sit at a private table in the back of the house that is normally reserved for family. And above everything, I was reminded of my favorite thing about Nicaraguans: they are always so willing to share with you whatever it is that they have to give. I knew that the grandmother who was hosting the party had just been left by her husband a few weeks earlier and that they probably didn’t have money to be throwing such a huge party, but I saw it as their way of celebrating the first year of Eden’s life and sharing with their friends and family what they had. Very beautiful.

If I haven’t mentioned this already, we are have a severe energy crisis. The power generally gets cuts everyday for hours and hours at a time making it hard for me to have time to write much, so I will end this entry with a few short stories and reflections.

Reflections for the past few weeks:
- Walking home from work the other week, I passed three boys playing with huge blocks of Styrofoam about the size of baseball bats. They were dismantling the blocks by breaking off little pieces and throwing them into the air on the street with out any intentions of picking up the remnants and throwing them in the trash. About ten days later I was still seeing the pieces on the street.
- On Wednesday, the strong afternoon storm arrived right at five o’clock as I was just about to walk out of library and to the bus stop to head home. My co-worker and I decided to wait a few minutes to see if the heavy rains would pass because neither of us had umbrellas. We sat together sheltered from the rain under a pavilion at the project looking out on the cancha, which is the basketball court that doubles as a soccer field. There were two boys who were maybe 3 or 4 completely naked playing in the rain. As puddles would form they splashed themselves and each other. They threw dirt and bathed themselves in small streams of runoff that were forming. It was a moment that was sad and beautiful at the same time. Without really thinking, I asked my co-worker why they weren’t wearing clothes, and she responded by telling me they probably didn’t have any. Oh right, why else wouldn’t they be wearing clothe. But in that moment I didn’t think it made a difference to them; they were happy and content where they were.
- When I took the trash out, as soon as I set it on the curb a man without hesitating approached to break it open and look through it. Unfortunately, the first bag he broke open was the trash from the bathroom.
- For the first time in my life, I saw a family of four on a motorcycle. The dad drove holding a small girl in front of him. The mom rode behind him with another daughter sandwiched in between. No one was wearing a helmet.
- We had an hourglass timer sitting on the desk at the library that belonged to a board game. So many kids were completely fascinated by it. One afternoon a girl asked if she could borrow it, and I told her of course. She brought it back to the table where she was sitting and for about forty-five minutes she and her friends each took turns turning over the hourglass and watching the sand seep out. They were guessing if it was made of sugar or salt and timing how long it took to completely empty. It was as if they had never seen anything like it…well, they probably hadn’t.
- A man named Henry stopped by the house one morning just as I was about to walk about the door to see if we could help him out. He spoke perfect English and told me that he was exported from the US and that he was HIV positive. He was very honest and looked me straight in the eyes the entire time he spoke telling me that he unfortunately had been unfaithful to his wife and contracted AIDS and without knowing passed it on to her and later their baby daughter. He asked for anything I could help with, so I ran back to the kitchen put some powered milk into a bag and gave it to him along with a few pieces of fruit. His seemed more than grateful, and repeatedly thanked me.
- Maria, a young girl who comes to library frequently lost one of two front teeth, and the other is well on its way to falling out also. Her sister, Itaty, tried to talk me into puling it out for her, so I half jokingly suggested tying a string from her tooth to a doorknob and then slamming the door. They rolled around in laughter in response to my suggestion and the tooth fell out on its own, therefore, evoking more laughter. There is no sign yet of either front tooth growing back, which leaves Maria with a beautiful smile!

Animal Dreams

2007-06-16T21:54:00.000-06:00

I looked out the window of the bus ride, over the newly green countryside and saw a young energetic cow sucking thoroughly on low hanging utters of a thin, weak mother. There was a bleak expression in the cow’s face, not that I had ever know cows to show emotion, but she seemed distracted, distant, thinking about other things. The young calf switched from utter to utter searching for nourishment as if trying on new shoes, and then with my next breath, the bus zoomed by and that image became a memory of the past.

With one blink, six months in Nicaragua have already passed, and from now on I will be keeping my eyes wide open and alert cause in just three more blinks I will already be leaving. With great pride, I can announce that I have earned official residency in Nicaragua. I even have authorized identification to prove it. Does that mean that I am no longer a U.S. resident? Can one be a resident in two countries? My U.S. citizenship I still have; that is my golden ticket out of this poor country and back to my homeland of washer machines, granny smith apples, zip lock bags, and wireless internet.

Since December, I have slowly cracked open the dusty closet of the world’s secrets, and with each new day the door swings open a little wider letting out new whispers. Now I know that it is way too heavy to close, I just pray there is only one closet and not an attic hidden away for me to discover later. I think back to how I saw that mother and calf struggling, and I just sat as I bystander passing by. That is very much how I see reality unfold in front of me. Mother’s and fathers struggling themselves, but also fighting to rise up their young.

I was reminded of a recent library visit I made bringing books to the community. If I haven’t explained this before, I set aside a morning once or twice a week to go out to the community and bring books to the people of the neighborhood who don’t come to the library for a variety of reasons (i.e. have young children, need to stay in the house- in a dangerous neighbor like El Recreo you can’t leave the house alone, aren’t aware the library exists, don’t have any interest in the services the library offers, etc.). On this particular morning, I set off alone carrying a white plastic basket, that reminded me of a smaller version of a beach bag my family had owned at some point in my past, filled with stories I had just hand picked based on different reading levels and the morals or values contained in each.

Along with my basket, I apprehensively approached a house hidden in the corner of the neighborhood. None of the houses are located on formal plots of land, so it is easy for them to be hidden and forgotten, but for whatever reason I had in my mind for several days that I wanted to make a visit in this particular house. When I arrived to the gate at the front of the house, I poked it open with one finger, as if I was opening that worldly secret closet a little more, and shouted “Buenas!” After slight hesitation, a round, slow walking woman around my age approached the gate to swing it even more open and warmly welcome me to her house to read stories to her children. I thanked her for her immediate openness and promised I wouldn’t stay long, just enough time to read a few stories and then I would be on my way. Once a few minutes passed, I realized how naïve that thought was and stayed for the next hour.

Three young children crept out of the small, simple, one room house not much bigger than my bedroom growing up. The initial encounter of entering a house when you’re a stranger is always slightly uncomfortable, but especially in this case because when I spoke, I received no response from the children. “Hi! How are you?” Silence. “Do you like to read stories? I sure hope so because I happen to have some right here!” Stares. “Should we sit down? How about you choose on of these stories for us to read?” No real movement, just a few blinking eyes lashes.

The mother, who seemed to only move at one steady, slow pace, walked to get some of the plastic patio chairs, that are a staple in ever Nicaraguan household, and helped encourage the children to decide on a story. So we sat together and read one story, and then another, with still little communication from the children. I then passed out stories to each of the children, ranging in age from three to eight, and encouraged them to read a little on their own or if they couldn’t read to study the pictures and imagine the story.

In the meantime, I began to talk with the slightly overweight mother and was reminded of the weak, thin mother cow trying to nurse her young but having nothing to give. As Yahira shared, I heard an all too familiar story. On our first day as acquaintances (although I am not sure that word exists here, so I will say friends), I heard her story. She brought to my attention her current economic situation: Sometimes she didn’t have enough money to feed her kids breakfast and dinner. They didn’t have shoes to go to school, so they hadn’t been in months. Her current employment was washing a neighbor’s clothes, but she had recently been sick and the only time of day when there is running water in the neighborhood is between three and five in the morning, so she hadn’t worked in awhile. Raising the children on her own was a challenge.

The tables had turned and I now felt like one of those children just staring with nothing to say. Of course I said the common, banal responses “Oh wow.” “I can’t imagine.” “Ohm.” One thing I knew I couldn’t say but kept wanted to come off my lips was “I understand.” So instead I repeated “I’m sorry” over and over as if with each time opportunity or hope or food would magically spring up in front of us.

As I got up to leave, and Yahira walked me back to the front gate, we walked past the “house” of her mother. We poked our heads in just to say hello. Her mother moved at the same pace and had a very similar face and figure to Yahira plus a few wrinkles, and she sat with the same desperate looked in her aged eyes as she cared for the four children of her other daughter. At that moment, I wanted to swoop up the entire family, grandma and all, take them to place where the world was beautiful, kind and just, and tell them that they have to start caring for themselves otherwise there children and grandchildren will find themselves in similar situations. Had they seen the young cows trying to get nourishment from the weak, empty mother? I left and knew that I would come back, and in the meantime I would pray.

I can’t help but feel extremely grateful for all the stories that people share with me. I say grateful for two reasons: One, in that I am blessed for their openness, honesty, and willing vulnerability to difficult subjects, and secondly, I am thankful for the fact that their story is not my own… The more I discover about the world, I see new traces of places where I have been…

The Rains Came

2007-06-03T20:38:00.000-06:00

I wonder if the expression “raining cats and dogs” translates into Spanish? Lloviendo gatos y perros? I’ve caught myself wanting to say this all day as I stare out the doorway to find rain, rain and more rain. Between the hours of 8 and 12, one girl came to the library to borrow a book…maybe she stayed 45 minutes then left. So, there I sat all morning alone in the library with my co-worker, Myrna. To try and at least efficiently use this down time, I began work on the month’s report we have to turn in at the beginning of each new month. There I sat as the rain poured down around me, crunching numbers and finalizing statistics. I did this work as if it weighed heavy importance, but still felt like something in my day was lacking. “Wow…1,137 people visited the library this month and more than 4,500 books were used.” I said this out loud to my co-worker as if to make us feel important or useful, but through the doorway the rain still fell, and we sat in the library with nothing to do and not really much to say. We commented on the cool weather the rain had brought in, but then just listened to the music made by the rain drops.

Watching the rain fall and the puddles grow, I couldn’t help but think of all the potential library users at home, dry in their houses not wanting to leave as I sat awaiting them and now growing bored. I stood in the doorway under the awning enjoying the cool breeze and spotted some chickens squirming around futilely trying to avoid the rain, and for a second I felt sorry for them wishing I could provide for them some shelter, but as I thought about all those in Managua living on the streets or in houses made of scrap metal, my sympathy quickly shifted away from the chickens who were now crouched under the lid of a barrel open to catch the rain and towards all those who were suffering or in a difficult situation because of all the rain. Of all the poverty that exists in this country, today there was no lacking of water. If only they could build an economy on water alone…

At lunch some of the other workers in the project and I opted to not make the daily trip to the nun’s house, but to stay and eat with the kids at the comedor (the project’s soup kitchen for children). We noted the low attendance due to the rain and worried for what the afternoon would bring. Continuing on the topic of the rain, I wanted to mention that I had mistakenly forgotten my rain coat at home, but at that moment the clouds were not only housing the rain in the sky but were also in my mind cause what came out was that I had forgotten my “folder of rain” at home. Upon saying this, I tried hard to mask my embarrassment, but after a few seconds I began to laugh at myself along with the others. Hum…maybe now would be a good time to ask if “raining cats and dogs” was also a Nicaraguan expression?

As expected, the afternoon only brought more rain and fewer students. With little urgency, I balanced the afternoon between helping with English homework, finding stories for two young eager girls to read, and trying to repair the computer currently dying from a virus. At about 4’oclock when the small group that adventured to the library that afternoon was beginning to trickle home, a young girl, Rosita who had just been happily reading fairy tales burst into tears. In between sobs, she explained to me that her umbrella which was neatly placed along the wall was missing. Her panicking quickly increased, and she began searching all over. Those still remaining in the library joined in the hunt, and we efficiently scoured the entire library hoping the missing umbrella would magically appear between the pages of books or under bookshelves. Her tears continued to pour, and as we were beginning to give up the search, she sniffled to me that if she didn’t return home with the umbrella, her mom was going to hit her. How was I supposed to respond to her fears especially when there was no sign of it appearing soon? I offered to walk her back home with a mangled and semi functional umbrella that had been in the trash can earlier that day to keep her from getting wet on the walk home and to explain to her mother how the umbrella was lost. As I walked out the project gates holding a sick looking umbrella in one hand and the hand of poor, sobbing Rosita in the other, I knew that anything I could communicate to her mother could not prevent her inevitable beating for loosing the umbrella. We took at few more steps together warning each other of approaching puddles, while up walked a miracle: Myrna had just made a trip to the corner store to buy instant coffee packets and taken the umbrella with her knowing that she would just be gone a few minutes. Rosita still continued to cry and couldn’t wait to get her umbrella back and walk home. Was a missing umbrella suitable ground to beat a child? To me that answer is obvious, but maybe not to a family like Rosita’s that had to save up for weeks to buy an umbrella. Now probably wouldn’t be a good time to ask if raining cats and dogs was also a Nicaraguan expression?

On the bus ride on the way home from work, I went to go sit in the only available seat to find that it was available because it was totally soaked from the window which was stuck and couldn’t close. Not acknowledging the confused looks on the faces of the Nicaraguans traveling in the rain that day also, I sat in the seat feeling my pants soak up the water and rain spit on my face. Cause that’s what happens when it rains, you get wet…I figured I would just wait until tomorrow’s rain to ask if “raining cats and dogs” was also a Nicaraguan expression; I imagined they would say something like “raining chickens and pigs,” but who really knows what that expression means anyways? I don´t really think it matters, and although the rain brings hardship for some, it is joy for the farmers and their crops. So for now, I am just going to remember how the grass is getting greener.

A Letter

2007-05-13T17:28:00.000-06:00

Dear Friends,

I am blessed to share that my Easter season was very filled with the spirit and presence of Christ. Through these past few months as I struggle with my understanding of poverty and injustice I unfortunately witness everyday, I was reminded of the humanity of Jesus and the suffering he endured carrying the cross for us.

Working the past 5 months in one of the poorest neighborhoods of Managua, Nicaragua (the second poorest country next to Haiti in the Western hemisphere), I sadly report that I have been a witness to much suffering of the Nicaraguan people. I see their struggle especially as I watch them experience hardship through a very deficient education system due to a teacher strike that is currently in its sixth week and as I realize how desperate and eager these young people are to learn. Most of my time is spent working in the neighborhood library, and there have been several occasions when young kids have come in to the library simply asking me to teach them something. When I ask what it is they want to learn, they just respond by shouting “Anything! It doesn’t matter!” In the case of one girl who is probably seven or eight and came to the library asking me to teaching her something, I was left stuck not knowing where to begin because she didn’t know such simple things as reading or writing because she had never been to school. I saw the suffering face of Christ as I held the hand of Itatia, a young girl who explained to me that she was abandoned by her mother at a young age, and the only thing she receives from her mothers is about $2.50 a week to provide for her meals. I witness Christ’s crucifixion as I visit with people in the neighborhood bringing books and stories from the library, but only to find that their houses are nothing more than a roof and walls with dirt floors, little or no furniture, and no running water or electricity. I see suffering in those that are sick with parasites, colds, or broken bones, but do not receive the necessary treatment from the public doctors.

But amidst all this, I can genuinely say that I have also experienced many “resurrection moments”…those times that despite all the suffering, despair, and doubt, I see the face of the risen Christ…those times when I know that he is alive, and see his love covering this place fully and completely. He lives vibrantly in the young children of my neighborhood that rush to my front door as soon as I come home from a day at the library asking to read stories together and telling me about their days or what they learned in school. I see the face of the risen Christ in the way that my neighbors give so freely of themselves and their time, but also in whatever it is they have…like the time one of the neighbors kindly distributed mangos to those on the block who didn’t have a mango tree. I see Him in the devout faith and persistent prayer I have learned and experienced from my community.

So when long to walk through the door of my comfy Marietta home, I realize how I am learning and becoming more fully human but in a way that leads me to Christ and the foot of his cross. I more fully understand His suffering as I see the suffering of my brothers and sister in Nicaragua, but also find hope in way Christ lives here through faith and love. Either way, I am deeply grateful for this experience, but also for your continued support and prayers.

Most sincerely,

Mary Densmore
Jesuit Volunteers International
ADPL MN 161
Managua, Nicaragua

Operación María

2007-04-15T17:43:00.000-06:00

On Saturday afternoon, I decided to go to a free play put on by the Samaritan House in Managua about the sexual exploitation of young children in Nicaragua. Walking in to the theatre at the UCA (University of Central America), I knew very little about both the play I was going to see and the current situation of sexual exploitation in Managua…actually the only thing I did know for sure was that the play was about a social issue that interests me…and it was free…

As I took my seat in the theatre I scanned the crowd and felt content that I saw some familiar faces of co-workers, other foreign volunteer friends, and even some people I have just recognized from various human rights related events that I have attended over the past few months. After a brief introduction, the play began to unfold in front of me, and I became shocked by some horrific events it presented.

Through the efforts of the actors and actresses, I learned how children as young as 8 or 9 years old are selling their bodies for sex to make some extra money. The play walked through how there is a huge problem in Managua of young kids sniffing glue and living on the streets, and now it is becoming more common for some of the young girls to sell their bodies to make money for more glue or maybe just a meal. The children that are living on the streets and sniff glue are such a mystery to me. I have heard that there are some kids as young as 4 years old. So when initially hearing all this I felt frustrated and confused. Where are these children’s parents? Can it really be true that they are choosing to live their lives on the streets sniffing glue? What kind of desperation must they feel to now want to sell their young innocent bodies for sex?

But my frustration and confusion with the situation didn’t stop there as I was also saddened to see the role of the North American in the play. Apparently some (obviously very disturbed) men from North America come to the tourist areas of Nicaragua to solicit young women and children for sex in return for paying them very little by US dollar standards…sometimes they are even paid with things like chocolate and candies that are viewed as such luxuries to them. Sure I realize that only a very small percentage of the North Americans in the country actually make up this population, but it is just another example of how I am learning that the culture where I come from constantly contributes to the oppression of these people.

The play was created for an adult audience, and it was clearly stated that no one under 18 should attend, so there were quite a few of graphic and violent scenes. At several points during the performance the audience broke into laughter, but because of the high use of slang terms and no microphone use, I was often lost with the dialogue and confused as to what was actually really funny, but during probably the most graphic and horrific scene in the entire play where a women was being raped by 2 men (and there was NO confusion as to what was going on), the audience giggled and laughed. I just kind of looked around the theatre with confused eyes wondering what could possibly be funny about this scene.

The Samaritan House presenting the play opened up the microphone after it had ended to get feed back and people’s opinions/reflections. After a few floury, surface comments congratulating the actors, a discussion was finally brought up about the reaction of the audience during this awful scene. Why did the audience react with laughter after seeing a woman raped? Was that the intention of the director? The actress who played the woman in the scene spoke up and suggested that maybe the reaction was indicative of the way we all are reacting to this problem in Nicaragua. We all know that it is going on, we see the children lying on the streets drugged up on glue, yet we do nothing. Is that not us laughing in their faces?

As the play’s title, “Operacion Maria”, foreshadowed, the play ended with the Virgin Mary coming to the streets to be with the children and save them. But is that really what we think is going to happen? As much as I know God is living among us and see his face everyday in those of the poor, it is hard for me to believe that the solution of the problem is that simple. In the play a woman dressed as the virgin walked on stage to some “holy sounding” music taking the hands of the women and children and leading them to follow her, but is that really what is happen with them on the streets of Managua?

Everyday here, I feel as though my heart and my thinking change in a new way. This day I left the theatre in a somber mood curious as to how we could allow such horrible things to happen in our world. Operación Maria? Is that really how we think the problems of the world are solved?

Living the Dream

2007-04-10T20:08:00.000-06:00

Thursday night a few of us sat around sharing stories from the week. James shared an interesting journal entry of his from this same time the previous year when we were all going through the process of discerning to be Jesuit Volunteers. His entry was responding to a question that the office had asked us to reflect upon as we envisioned ourselves possibly becoming a volunteer in the future: “If selected to be a volunteer describe your dreams and hopes.” It seems so simple, right? As he shared his response, my mind drifted away to thoughts of mine from last year as I prepared myself for this experience, and then drifted back to the presence of my everyday reality that is full of visions of my dreams for being here.

I saw myself at last week’s story hour. After presenting the story, Little Red Riding Hood (La Caperucita Roja), the children were asked to draw a picture of the forest that the Little Red Riding Hood had to walk through to get to her grandmother’s house. This activity’s purpose was to get the children using their imagination and creativity to draw the forest. For the most part the students really enjoyed the chance to color and create something of their own, but I noticed one girl about 6 years old who seemed scared as she stared at the blank sheet of paper in front of her. When I approached her to ask why she wasn’t working, she just told me “I don’t know; I just can’t.” So being my natural optimistic self, I told her that of course she was able to, she just had to try, but about five more minutes passed and still not a single mark on her paper. She then came up to me and told me that she didn’t know how to hold a pencil, and when she told me this the situation made a lot more sense. I spent the next ten minutes practicing with her on how to hold a crayon, and before I knew it, as soon as she caught on of how to hold a pencil or crayon, the entire sheet of white paper was completely covered of lines and marks. I am not sure how much it really resembled a forest, but that wasn’t important to either her or me. I am telling this story because it was a beautiful to see this young girl in a profound moment of discovery. It was as if she took her first step, said her first word, or lost her first tooth...there I stood watching her practice over and over with the crayon in her hand, looking up at me each time as if to reconfirm that it was actually her drawing on her own without the help of anyone else. When the paper was covered on the front side, she turned it over, smiled at me as if to ask permission to color on the other side and continued on her way of creating her own art. Living the dream?

I hear two young children scream “BUENAS!!!” at the front door and knew immediately that dinner time must be approaching. Without fail, just about everyday for the last 4 weeks or so, a few of the neighborhood children come by the house to borrow stories to read. Honestly, after spending my entire day working in the library around shouting children asking for books, I wasn’t initially too excited about the idea of how children are now coming by my house requesting books, but kids wanting to read isn’t a very common sight in Nicaragua, so even if it involves more work on my part, I think it always has to be worth it (well, this is at least what I have to remind myself of during those moments when I just want to walk into my house, shut the door and not have to speak or think in another language after a long day). On this particular day, one of the girls, Valesca greeted me at the door singing me an English song she had learned that day in school. I wasn’t familiar with the song, but it was about a girl named Sally. I told her that Sally was my mom’s name, and immediately she started singing the song again and walked down the block to write “Sali” in some fresh concrete. Following Valesca, Jasser, Becky and the others also began writing “Sali” with their hands on the dirt street and shouting the name. For some reason, it didn’t seem worth it to tell them the correct spelling, and the next day as I walked home, I looked forward to their daily shouts at the door. I was a little disappointed when I saw that the “Sali” Valesca had written in the concrete the previous day was already covered with a fresh coat. Something about me felt content knowing these children would continue to return everyday…which they have been so far, and now Valesca always kindly asks me to tell my mom hello for her almost I see her. Living the dream?

There was something different last week as I walked across the football field heading towards the nuns´ house for lunch break. Many people from the neighborhood were out helping install new playground equipment that was donated by the city on the one condition that it was to be installed together by members of the community. As soon as the equipment arrived, Don Ernesto immediately began mixing the concrete while Don Felix and others began digging the holes to install it. The children could hardly contain their excitement; they were climbing all over the trees, and others were already forming a line to go down the slide. Even though the cement wouldn’t be dry until later that night, they weren’t about to wait…this might be the first time for some. I was inspired by the community’s effort to try and fix up the neighborhood. Sure in a few months the swings might break and the seats may fall off the teeter-totter, but that day was a victory for the neighborhood as they saw the repairs made by the effort of the community. I have yet to walk by the slide whether it is 7am, noon or 5pm without a line of eager children ready to take their turn on the slide…I’m now becoming curious when it will be appropriate for me to join the line and give it a try… Living the dream?

Sitting outside under the mango tree at the nun’s house after lunch, I picked up a small grasshopper trinket-type-thing made out of a palm leaf that had blown off the table. Paula, the 29 year-old nun who works in the project, thanked me for picking it up and then proceeded to tell me how it was made in a matter of seconds by a little boy on the street. She said the previous night after going to a free play at Managua’s culture center, this young boy approached her and asked her for money. She said that based on the area of town and the way the little boy dressed, he was most likely asking for money to spend on drugs. Although he was only nine years old, she shared with me that it is common for young Nicaraguan children who have rough family situations to live on the streets at a young age and begin sniffing glue (the most common and cheapest type of drug available). Paula shared with me that after seeing this little boy high on glue, half dressed and dirty, her heart broke for him. She talked with him for a few minutes asking about his family and whether or not he was in school, but she knew that by the look on his face his answers were lies. She struggled giving him money not knowing if it was the right thing to do or not because she wasn’t sure if he would use the money for drugs, but she told me sometimes you just have to hope for the best for some people, love them for who they are and offer then what you have. So with that same spirit, she offered the boy money and in return he gave her all he had and made her a snake and a grasshopper out of palm leaves. As I handed her back the grasshopper I had just picked up off the ground, she protected it as if it could have been a delicate crystal glass or precious possession. Maybe she was keeping it as a reminder of this young 9 year old boy’s life; either way I was amazed by her abounding generosity and optimism. Living the dream?

I guess I am writing all these short reflections to remind myself that amidst the challenges of living in Nicaragua, this is truly my dream to be here. Thinking back to a year ago, if I would have settled for some job back home, I would have always wondered how my life would have been like if I had decided not to come here. Sure, now that I have been here for a few months, I have a whole new set of dreams for the world because now I am learning the dreams of my Nicaraguan co-workers, my neighbors, the children that come to the library, and my fellow JVs, and I realize that our dreams aren’t so different. I know that one by one if we just take some risks, put trust in the right things, and not be afraid to face challenge that we might be able to LIVE THE DREAM.

Laguna de Apoyo

2007-03-04T17:40:00.000-06:00

“Quick, Mary! Look at those boys in the tree!” James, my community-mate, poked me to show me three young boys hanging high in the upper limbs of a mango tree off the side of a busy highway connecting Managua and Masaya. Without his warning, I probably never would have noticed at all, so I took a quick glance, and as we drove farther away and they became smaller, I tried not to think about how dangerous that was, or how that was just another thing to add to the list of things you would never see in America.

We were leaving Managua that morning for the sake of leaving. I am learning there is something about the city that sucks the energy from you—the noise of the street, the honking of the bus passing, the constant whistling and kissing sound from the men that seems to follow me around the city. We began the trip in hopes of finding relaxation, quiet, fresh air, and most importantly peace.

The bus ride continued for about 45 minutes to the town of Granada. We were expecting a little adventure in the day because we were on the search for the beautiful Laguna de Apoyo, but the only directions we were given were “Walk straight on road that runs out of the northeast corner of the cemetery for about an hour and a half. Don’t make any turns and you should walk right into the lake.” So with a packed lunch of mandarin oranges and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on hot dogs buns, we started the walk not knowing where it would take us. After passing the fork in the road (how are you supposed to “stay straight” on a road that has a fork…?) and several houses patched together with scrap wood and filled with children running out into the street to greet us, we continued on the journey further away from the town and its inhabitants but closer toward the lake.

The sound of my feet crunching in the sand, the sun beating on my face, and the hope of a beautiful lake ahead of me was putting me into a trance, but all I could think about was a conversation I had the previous night over the phone with a group of teens from my church back home. The teens were participating in a food fast that consisted of them fasting for over 24 hours, and they called me as part of the weekend to ask some questions about my experience as a Jesuit Volunteer. As I replayed the conversation over in my head, I kept re-experiencing this feeling of frustration of being unable to describe my life here to them because as they asked me the basic questions about the people, the food, the weather, the neighborhood where I live, I just wanted to shout “this place is so different than home; it is really incomparable to Marietta.”

I continued the walk, wiping the sweat of my brow, replaying my responses to their questions over and over in my mind. I realized I didn’t even remember what it was I said, and I knew that honestly it didn’t matter now, but the part that could not escape from my mind was me wanting to shout “this place is just so different.” I desperately wanted all those faceless people on the other end of the phone to know and see what I face everyday. I wanted them to walk me through the barrio on the way to work past the people sweeping their dirt floored homes, past the grinning one-toothed woman making tortillas in the shack on the corner, past the men who whistle and kiss as I walk by, over the causeway and through the billowing smoke of the trash burning below, past the boy running in the street without shoes or clothes on…not even underwear, past the stray dogs who I never trust and the chickens that seem to be around ever corner, past the women carrying a large basket of bread on her head, past the house with a pig tied to a tree where I hear a woman yelling and beating her child…these were the things I wanted to share with them. Whatever I said to these teens just didn’t seem like enough; I struggled answering their questions cause the only response I wanted to give was negative or another description how I am just barely beginning to understand poverty and all the baggage that goes along with it. Do I miss my family and friends? Yes, of course, so much and more everyday, but could you just see how people live here? Is it hard living without the material items or distractions I had back home? Yes, of course, but could you just see the size or inside of my neighbor’s house where over 8 people live? Is my relationship with God changing because of the supposed “simple life” I am living? Yes, of course, it is so much deeper than before, but I am also beginning to learn things about the world that I don’t want to know or believe…let alone see.

The heat was really getting to me know, so I searched the road up ahead for the hope of a view of the lake. I was ready for a refreshing swim, but even more I was very ready to escape my thoughts. Maybe I am just being too hard on myself? Why do I feel like I can never communicate myself or my thoughts?

At last through a tree I see that beautiful water of the volcanic lake below. James and I literally pass through a herd of cows and arrive to our own private beach. Finally, a break from thinking about all that is going on back in Managua; we immediately jump in, swim, and lie in the sun. Because the deep, cool waters of the lake were causing us to tire we constructed a very functional raft of some dry logs and vine. I felt as though I was 8 years old again playing pioneers in my back yard.

After several hours of swimming and resting, the beauty of the lake that had called us all day was now tempting us not to leave. Because we didn’t have a watch with us, we had no way of telling time and wanted to make it back before dark. Just one more jump off the rock. Just one more short swim. But we both knew it was time.

Although I know cows are not aggressive animals, something about me felt a little more vulnerable on the hike back, so I armed myself with a stick as we passed through the cow herd, and I said a brief prayer every time I stood just inches away from a large bull. I was secretly dreading the walk back, and after three steps I was already sweating. I think the afternoon adventure was just what I need. My steps were feeling stronger, and my mind was definitely clearer. My mind turned back again to the conversation I had with the high schoolers the day before. I suddenly remembered I had told them about how incredible the people of this country are—how I have been invited into complete strangers homes to sit and share a fresh fruit drink, or how my co-workers have randomly given me beautiful gifts for no reason other than to share what they had. The negative things I see and experience sometimes shock me so much that I forget about all the positive moments I witness—the little girls that bring me flowers for the library, the woman who comes everyday without fail to work on her English homework although she can barely read and in Spanish, the young volunteer who always arrives to help with a smile, sitting under the shade on a street corner and reading stories with children bursting with excitement to listen. Those moments seem to make it all worth it. I take a deep breath and thank God again for this experience.

The afternoon had certainly helped clear my mind and settle my soul. The weight of my week was slowly lifting off my shoulders as I walked back and prepared myself to return to Managua. I reflected on how happy and blessed I feel to be here, so much so that being apart from family, living without the comforts I grew up with, learning to live in a new language and culture, and every other struggle I face seems to make it all worth it.

As the sun slowly begins to set, we pick up our pace back towards town. With a little luck, a man rides by in a pick up truck, offers us a ride, and we jump in the back along with his six, large squealing pigs. I hold on tight and turn my head to the side looking out to avoid the smell of the pigs. This time I didn’t see the young boys high in the tree. I was hoping they were comfortable inside eating dinner with their families, but if not, I had a hope inside me to know it would be alright.

El Proyecto Gerando Vida

2007-02-08T20:09:00.000-06:00

The days start at 6am to the sound of my battery-operated alarm clock. Generally, I take a deep breath, stretch my arms and legs as long as possible, and then open eyes and remind myself that I am in N-I-C-A-R-A-G-U-A. I wash my face, put on some clothes, eat my morning oatmeal, and then I am out the door and on my way to Proyecto Generando Vida. During the bus ride, I try and mentally prepare myself for the day. What will I learn? Is my Spanish improving? How will I see God? How many times will I inevitably miscommunicate with someone? How many people will come to the library?

At about 7:30am after passing through the neighborhood streets filled with stray dogs, chickens and pigs, I arrive to the Project and am warmly greeted with kisses and hugs from my co-workers, but we don't waste to much time conversing and jump right into the day's cleaning (sweeping, roping, dusting).

This Project, "Proyecto Generando Vida" (Project Generating Life) is where I spend most of my days. It is run by the Sister of Sion and is comprised of about 25 volunteers (mostly Nicaraguan, with a few international volunteers) that work in the Project's nine programs:

· La biblioteca (library)- This is the program that I work in. Students of ages elementary to college come to “investigate” information and work on homework. Because most of the people in the neighborhood may not have comfortable or even safe home environments to study and concentrate, the library is used as a protected, quiet (well, maybe not always quiet) academic place to complete school work.

· Computación (computer classes)- There is no internet in the project, but the students learn Microsoft Office and other computer software.

· Comedor- Program that allows neighborhood children to come in the morning to receive a lesson and a healthy meal.

· Pharmacy- Because most Nicaraguans don’t have health insurance, this pharmacy allows people to buy medicine at a much discounted, wholesale cost.

· Salud visual (visual health)- This program receives donations of eyes glasses from organizations in the US and Spain and then redistributes them to those most in need.

· Gym- Here you will find very old gym equipment that has been repaired countless times. Margaret, another Jesuit Volunteer (JV) in my community, is working on starting an aerobics program for women in the community.

· Banks- This micro-lending program provides women in the community with very low interest loans to start small business. In this machismo society, most women are not given any control or say in how money is spent, and although many times despite the intentions of the project, the loans might be handed over to the husband, they are strictly given to women in hopes to empower them and allow them to make their own financial decisions.

· Cancer prevention- The project’s newest program that provides women in the community with information relating to cancer prevention. Without knowing the risks and symptoms of both breast cancer and cervical cancer, women in the community are at great risk, not to mention the fact that if cancer is detected little or no treatment may be available.

· Nivelación- Afternoon tutoring program that allows children who attend school in the morning to come and receive extra help. Nicaraguan classrooms in the public schools can have as many as 70 to 80 students, so extra help is almost always needed. Matt, another JV, teaches 6^th grade.

So, throughout the morning as I work busily behind the closed, quiet library doors, all around me my co-workers are also hard at work generating life in the neighborhood through the various programs. The walls of the bathroom are painted with the words PEACE, JUSTICE, SOLIDARITY, LOVE, and FRIENDSHIP, and I have been blessed to experience all these things here.

As noon approaches, my stomach reminds me that I am in need of a break, so we close the library doors for an hour and a half and walk a few blocks to the house where the Sisters of Sion live. Together in good company, about 10 of us sit around a table and gladly eat whatever Doña Elieth has prepared for us that day, usually consisting of a fresh fruit drink and some arrangement of beans and rice, and on a good day she makes her specialty—very delicious eggplant. After the meal we take turns washing the dishes, and I am continually challenged by all that I have to learn from Nicaraguan women…there is no running water in the neighborhood, so for me washing dishes has been a little difficult and definitely humbling washing along side someone who has known no other way their entire life.

The restful break passes quickly, and on the walk back to the library, I see the line already forming of people waiting to enter. But before I know it, the day is almost over because until 5 o’clock I am busy walking around, answering questions, and retrieving books. Unlike libraries in the US, no one is allowed to check books out to bring home or pull books off the shelves except the librarians, which can make my job difficult as I am still learning Spanish as well as the selection of books we have. Also unlike the US, most students are not permitted to bring books home from school, so the majority of the library’s users come to borrow school books to complete their homework.

By 5 or 5:30pm, I am looking out the window at the streets of Managua, as I ride the bus back home. Somehow the day seemed to go by slow and fast at the same time. I think I feel a little farther away from home than the day before. I am learning that there is nothing I can do to make the situation of this country right or fair or just, but at least I know I get to wake up tomorrow and do it all over again.

A Moving Day

2007-01-21T17:44:00.000-06:00

Thursday morning, January 18th, Armando awoke at four in the morning and left his house to travel to Managua. But what was different about this day than any other, was that he was actually leaving his house for the very first time in the eight years of his life. Armando is disabled and cannot walk on his own; he previously did not have a wheelchair, and thus no way of getting around. Last week, however, his life changed greatly because through the Wheel Chair Foundation and a group of medical volunteers from Connecticut, he was given a brand new wheelchair.

Ingred is six years old and has a medical condition that caused her head to swell with liquid to the point where she can no longer support it. She has spent most her life in an old, worn-out stroller with her head always reclined or in the arms of her grandmother with her head resting on the shoulder. But on that same day, a group of men worked for hours in the sweltering Nicaraguan heat, to specially build a wheelchair for Ingred that would support her head and allow her to sit up. It was such a beautiful moment to see her sit up in her wheelchair for the first time because not only does the wheelchair allow her to be more mobile, but now she can actually hold her head up and not only see what is happening around her, but allow for some of the liquid in her head to drain out. Ingred smiled big and moved her eyes around exploring her new surroundings as everyone just stood in silence and amazement of the miracle that had just occurred. The grandmother hugged the doctor and the men who built the wheelchair, and although they weren't able to speak because of the language difference, words weren't needed to express her deep gratitude.

These were just a few of the miracles I witnessed as I traveled with a group of 20 disabled children and adults from the community where I am working to receive wheelchairs. The day was a challenge for all of us because the people were in need of wheelchairs and thus immobilized, so to bring them to the clinic where the wheelchairs were distributed was a difficult task. I went along that day to help out where needed—helping the volunteers from Connecticut who didn’t speak Spanish or moving people in and out of their new wheelchairs as they tried out which size fit them best.

It is difficult to really express how beautiful it was to see young children or the elderly weak move around for the first time and smile as they were free to go about independently. One by one all the people who we brought from El Recreo were fit for their new chairs and the minibuses filled back up with the roof piled high of boxes and wheelchairs, and although we were all exhausted from the trip, there was a new energy about them…as if it was the best Christmas morning ever because it not only brought the material gift of the chairs but also the gift of hope and opportunity for their future.

That night as I laid in bed exhausted and reflecting back on the day, I dreamt of the lives that had changed by the simple gift of a wheelchair. I saw Carmen attending classes at college; Don Tinoco wheeling himself around the basketball court; Antonia with her family and grandchildren; Hugo going to school and learning to read and write, and Armando playing outside with family and friends. I felt so blessed to have been a part of that experience, for it wasn’t just those that received the wheelchairs that moved that day, I certainly was moved also.

2007-01-15T18:21:00.000-06:00

I was beginning to get tired. I was hot, my feet were hurting, the sun was blinding, but in every direction I looked, the crowd grew larger and larger. Excitement filled the air as the sun slowly began to set, and I shifted my weight from one foot to the next and asked myself over and over again if this was really worth me staying. What was I getting myself into?

On Wednesday, January 11^th, former Sandinista revolutionary leader, Daniel Orgeta, returned to power and addressed a crowd of tens of thousands in downtown Managua. I stood side by side the people of Nicaragua watching history unfold as powerful Latin American leaders including Hugo Chavez from Venezuela and Evo Morales from Bolivia came before the crowd with hands raised as Ortega’s campaign song blared in the background. After a brief performance of traditional Nicaraguan folk dance, the leaders approached the podium to offer messages of hope and justice.

Maybe it was augmented with slight mix of exhaustion and dehydration, but I stood in the plaza watching wide-eyed and mouth agape. Never before in my life had I been in the presence of such national leaders, not to mention in a crowd of tens of thousands that cheered and chanted “together united and we’ll never be divided” as if they were being heard for the first time.

While listening to a long-winded speech from Ortega himself, we departed early and walked away from the plaza towards home. I looked back, watching the crowd file out and wondered what would become of these next few years. I thought about all the Nicaraguans who had such faith in Ortega—those who had fought for many years trying to make their country a better and safer place for their children, those in need of better healthcare, education, transportation, and those who desperately wanted to be heard and have someone listen to their needs. Despite the very disparate opinions people have of Ortega, I believe the people are ready for a change. I believe the people need change.

The theme of Ortega’s campaign was “reconciliation;” he professes that he is looking to put aside all that has occurred in the past and look to the future as a country united. That day in the plaza, as I stood searching to develop some sort of opinion about a very controversial man that I knew little about, hope ran through my body like chills. Along with the Nicaraguans, I truly wanted to believe and see all the promises made that day. I confess that although I remain skeptical, maybe it is time to join Nicaragua and not make expectations, but to just hope…cause I am learning that sometimes that’s all you can do….

Simple Thoughts

2007-01-08T14:35:00.000-06:00

A month ago I left Marietta for Managua with just 2 bags for 2 years. Not only was I embarking on the greatest adventure of my life, but I was also committing myself to living out the 4 values of JVI: faith, community, social justice, and simple living. In my mind, only bringing those 2 bags was my first step towards living simply. When I arrived to the house I was going to be living, I honestly was a little relieved to find that despite the slightly cramped space, it was very comfortable…I had my own room with a fan, the fridge was full of food, we had a red velvet covered couch…what more could I want?

Because I won’t start working until January 15^th, I had time this past week to leave Managua and stay with a family in the small, rural community of El Viejo, and while I was there, I not only learned how to clean, gut, and fry a fish (and literally eat the entire thing), I discovered something far more important: By no stretch of my imagination was I even close to living simply. Sure I made the conscious effort to leave my laptop at home, have taken only cold showers, hand washed all my clothes, don’t have great access to internet or television, and have eaten my share of rice and beans, but after seeing the conditions that many Nicaraguans face everyday (and have faced everyday for many years), I can’t even begin to pretend to call my life “simple.”

When I arrived to Doña Marta’s home in El Viejo, although we had just met, I was immediately welcomed and treated as family. We spent the afternoon meeting her family (sons, daughters, grandchildren, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles…etc) who lived in the surrounding houses. I played with the small children running around the house and yard, watched as Doña Marta seasoned and fried the pork fat that was the main course for dinner, and helped wash the dishes in the outdoor sink. I was amazed by the genuine simplicity of their lives: No indoor plumbing (which means no indoor toilet or shower), no refrigerator, no mattresses on beds, dirt floor, roofs made of dried palm leaves, curtains that functioned as doors, and very inconsistent electricity. I immediately noticed how all these things truly made their lives more difficult. The women especially worked so hard. Just an example- I awoke in morning at 4:15am. The house and the neighbors were all awake, Doña Marta was on her way to buy the milk for breakfast, someone was banging a block of ice against the house…although I really wanted to get out of bed to help with the morning routine, I shut my eyes and went back to sleep for a few hours.

After a delightful visit of just 4 days, a warm hug, and goodbye, I returned back to Managua still thinking and reflecting on the experience. The next day, I was invited over by two friends who work for a free trade organization to the house that they had been house-sitting for the last two weeks. The house was owned by a woman who worked for the World Bank, and I am convinced was the nicest house in all of Managua. There was an open-aired courtyard, a pool, beautiful furniture, and wireless internet. We sat on the patio eating a wonderful lunch consisting of some serious comfort foods from home: turkey and cheese sandwiches, macaroni and cheese, ice cream, and pistachios. It was hard to believe that just 24 hours before I was in a town where some people have never seen the world outside of the town where they were born, many probably will never step foot into a like house I did that day.

As the afternoon progressed, the shock of the two worlds I was living in weighed on me. I was instantly aware of my privilege as an American living in this country.

Although I had the options of checking my email, swimming in the pool or playing with the many musical instruments in the house, the only thing that appealed to me was to stretch out on the hammock and read…although the words of my book were the farthest thing from my mind… I thought about my life up until this day. I thought about all the wonderful blessing in my life. I struggled trying to understand the huge differences in our world. Will I ever be able to understand why some people are more privileged than others or share in their struggles? Is it even possible to make changes in my life now to be mindful of the opportunities others don’t have? Will I ever understand what it means to live simply?

Feliz Navidad

2006-12-27T17:13:00.000-06:00

I spent Christmas this year not only in a new place, but also in the presence of new friends and neighbors. The six of us were invited to a true Nicaraguan Christmas celebration at the house of the neighbors that live across the street. In true Nica fashion, we did most of the celebrating on Christmas Eve, “La Noche Buena.” The night began with a huge feast at about 10:30pm. There was an apple stuffed turkey, a vegetable stuffed chicken, salad, plenty of rice, and sliced bread. After eating way more than we needed, we all sat around in the front room in a circle just talking and visiting and waiting for Christmas to come. At midnight, we celebrated with a toast and hugged while wishing one another a Merry Christmas.

We weren’t the only ones celebrating in the neighborhood. Everyone came out to the street to wish each other a Merry Christmas and view the fireworks that were being set off all over Managua. After midnight,t there was still so much celebrating to be done…we continued visiting and danced until we were soaked with sweat. I felt blessed to in place celebrating the birth of Christ in the presence of friends and love.

The Day I Traveled Back to the 16th Century

2006-12-27T16:55:00.000-06:00

Riding in the back of a pick-up truck, through an unpopulated area of Nicaragua, I began to step back in time. As we traveled away from the city of Leon, we passed by children playing simple games outside in front of their houses, men working in the yard, and women walking alongside the road balancing large baskets on their heads. We were on our way to visit with a family that extracted sugar from sugar cane.

When we finally arrived, I was instantly struck by the simplicity of their lives and their immediate kindness to the pack of strangers invading their home. The process we came to learn about was rather simple and complicated at the same time: Two oxen, tied to a wooden log, slowly walked and pivoted around a center point to power a very basic machine that crushed the sugarcane. Extracted from the cane was a juice, containing the sugar. It was then boiled for several hours and then placed into molds carved straight out of logs. After sitting in the sun, the sugar hardened into large blocks which were then, more or less, ready to be sold.

For me, the fascinating part was seeing how efficient the process worked. For example, nothing was wasted. Once the sugar cane was crushed and the juice removed, the cane was laid out to dry and then was used to fuel the fire. Furthermore, I was impressed by the use of the oxen as a means of energy. They were used to not only provide the energy for crushing the cane; they helped pull the water pail up from the well that supplied the family’s water. The well was 125 yards deep and didn’t have the luxury of a pump, so every time water was needed the bucket was dropped and pulled up 125 yards each way.

I want to share this experience with you all because I not only found it interesting, but it helped me gain a bigger perspective on the lives of others. I realized that the people we were visiting might not have had the privileges I was blessed with growing up, but in these people I saw a family that was very good at what they do and content with the life they had. They proudly smiled and laughed as we tasted every step of the process from drinking the sugar juice to the final stage when we ate the raw sugar while they explained every step of the process in detail.

As we left, I not only felt thankful for the experience, but I had a deeper appreciation for both their lives and mine. I questioned all the times in my life when I wasn’t content or proud of the work I was doing, when these folks had so much less but seemed to be so proud of what they did have.

La Purisima

2006-12-15T16:13:00.000-06:00

I awoke at midnight in a panic to what sounded like bombs being set off right next to my bed, but my nerves quickly calmed when I realized it was just firecrackers exploding all over the city of Managua….the sound was so loud, I imagine you could hear the rumbling for miles. This night was the eve of La Purisima (the Conception of the Virgin Mary). Among the numerous things I have experienced during my first week in Managua, I was fortunate enough to celebrate the Purisima. On this day, in celebration of the conception of Mary, many Nicaraguans set up altars outside of their homes to honor her. The altars contained everthing from very obviously fake flowers, to balloons, to a blinking Christmas lights of all colors, but no altar was complete unless it displayed some representation of the Virgin Mary…normally one picture would not suffice, many displayed almost 10 to 15 framed pictures or statues to symbolize her. Very loud fireworks are set off to let Mary know that the people of Nicaragua are praying…and on that night, they must have been doing a lot of praying.

Not every family created an altar, but generally they were created for either a special intention in the family or a symbol of status because on the eve of the Purisima, the neighborhood walks around to view the different “Purisimas“. I found this night to be a pretty accurate combination of both Christmas caroling and Halloween. After viewing the altar dedicated to the Blessed Mother, every group of neighbors stood together singing an ample amount of songs to revere her (this was the part I thought was like Christmas caroling), then the family hosting the Purisima handed out small gifts to all that participated (kinda like Halloween) We walked around with a bag just as if we had been trick-or-treating, except I almost enjoyed it more because it was always more a of surprise what gift you would be given (and there was no age limit to participate). To my amazement, I received quite a range of things including: dishware, a bowl of fried pig skin, oranges, a key chain of Jesus, a tamale, a headband with feathers (like the Indians wore), a stick of sugarcane, and (my favorite) a spatula.

The night ended early because of some rain, but at least I have next year to look forward to…I also have another year to practice the songs, but after singing some of them 10 or 12 times, I might not need much practice…

Hope for my new home

2006-11-30T17:44:00.000-06:00

A land marked by poverty, volcanoes, lakes, the infamous Daniel Ortega, and eighty-degree weather year-round will soon become a place I call home. This new home, NICARAGUA, is the second poorest country in the western hemisphere and compares in size to the state of Iowa. And, tucked just north of Costa Rica and south a Honduras, Nicaragua is the home of 5 million (about as many people living in Miami, Florida), with 80% of the population living on less than $2 a day.

As I try and absorb what this information really means and move to a country I once knew next to nothing about just last April when I accepted this position, I still have so many questions. There is so much unknown. I am convinced that I might have to completely re-learn to do things that seem so mundane in my life now. Tasks like laundry, cooking, working, riding the bus...and even more simpler things like speaking and reading are about to become incredibly complicated!!

But, after my many difficult goodbyes will be said in just a matter of days, and I take giant steps away from the home where I grew up and leave my familiar life behind, I can't help but be filled with great excitement for this land of many unknowns. The hope and genuine LOVE I have for this place already amazes me...and despite knowing that there will be hard times ahead, I can't help but be incredibly thankful for this opportunity. I can't help but wonder what lies ahead...