Moments with Coconuts

One unexpected perk of living here in tropical Honduras is the accessibility of fresh coconuts. The trees grow here pretty abundantly, and every once in a while, someone hands me a freshly split coconut with water spilling out for me to sip on. Just a little sweet and thicker than ordinary water, it's full of electrolytes, making it both refreshing and hydrating. The easiest way to a coconut from a tree is to send a kid climbing up there with a machete. Not saying I condone this method, just giving the facts here.

Honduras has less of a problem with iPad kids, and more of a problem with machete kids. In the Finca, older kids use machetes (supervised, of course) when they help our maintenance team chop fire wood or trim trees. But it's very common for young kids in rural areas to use machetes when they are sent to work to support their family. I think about this often when I'm sipping from a coconut. I can enjoy its sweetness, but I also acknowledge a bitter side, the reality of many who live here.

Along with the sweet and bitter aspects of coconuts is a slightly uncomfortable side for me. Most people when they finish their coconut water, split the coconut open and scoop out the fruit inside. I am not most people.

I love coconut water and dry coconut, but the idea of scraping a slimy, fleshy chunk off and eating it is far from appetizing for me. I know I would enjoy it, but I just can't get myself to try it yet. You are probably thinking the same thing my mom would say to me right now. "Seriously, Emily? You would love everything you know and love behind to take showers with a bucket and burn your toilet paper, but you won't eat a fruit you already know you like?"

That is correct. A girl has limits. One day I hope to conquer this odd inhibition with coconuts.

And so it is that with every coconut, there is a sweetness, there is a reflection of the reality of Honduras, and there is a personal challenge for me to grow.

The first time I had a fresh coconut here was a sizzling October morning. In a few days was one of our girls' quinceañera, and guests were staying at the Finca. The missionaries and some of the older boys were put to the task of cleaning an unused house for guests to stay in. You'd be surprised how quickly plants become overgrown and surfaces get moldy in this climate, so we had our work cut out for us. After a morning of scrubbing, mopping (AKA boys slip 'n' sliding on the soapy concrete floor), raking, and tree trimming, we gathered around a wheelbarrow full of freshly cut coconuts.

Wiping sweat from our faces, we drank the nutrient-dense treat with some makeshift bamboo straws. I thought to myself that Trader Joe's boxed coconut water will never measure up to this moment.

My next best coconut water experience was at the birthday party of one of our Finca nurses, M. Leaving the comfort of the missionary house, we had no idea what to expect of this party. All we knew is that M told us to wear clothes to go clubbing in. So naturally, I wore a knee-length dress with a bleach stain and some crooked embroidery on it. Believe it or not, I did not bring a lot of party clothes when I moved to a children's home.

We may have known a bit more of what to expect if it had been a Honduran party, but it was a Garifuna party. The Garifuna are a group of African descent who have lived along coasts of Central America after initially being transported by the British for slave trade. Their culture is notable for bright, expressive clothing, music with heavy drums, a very complex language, and a dance called Punta. Punta is the national dance of Honduras, and to the Gringo eye, it looks like a mild twerking.

We were so excited to be invited to the party, but clueless as to what exactly we were getting into. My nerves were calmed when upon arrival, I was brought a fresh coconut to sip on while I mingled with M's family. It even kept me calm when dancing Punta turned from mild twerking to something much more intense. I know that there were a lot of cultural factors at play there that I didn't understand, but what I do know is if my mom threw me a birthday party, then proceeded to grab a chair to lean on while she shook booty like their was no tomorrow, I think I would burrow into the ground and never return.

I had a fresh coconut on our drive up to our missionary retreat last week, but this experience was much more bitter than sweet. We stopped to see a girl called A who lived at the Finca for a few months before being sent to live with her grandmother. I had never met her before, but she was greatly missed by the missionaries who had.

When we pulled up to here house, she was elated to see us, but her glow died when asked about how she liked her new life there. Her grandmother wasn't home, and instead of responding to the question, she went inside to gather some objects. She returned with old notebooks, songbooks, and letters from the Finca that were all kept in different hidden places in her room. She gave each missionary one to look through and the conversation stood still as we each found letters of desperation hidden between pages. In my panic, I only could read bits and pieces. "Grandma doesn't love us." "I go days without food." "She hits us when..."

The notebook was snatched from my hand when her grandmother walked through the gate. A's letters were swiftly taken to our car as her grandma greeted us warmly and presented each of us a fresh coconut. I sipped it with shaky hands as small talk proceeded and I tried to process all that was going on. I wished I didn't have such an aversion to the fruit inside so I could have something to focus on rather than the fearful look in A's face. As goodbye's and thank you's were said, coconut shells were stacked in a corner while Nate had a serious but quiet conversation with A. With notes securely stashed in our car for our clinical team to investigate, we drove away, praying the rosary as we left A behind.

I later learned a lot about the state of Honduras and the roles of the Finca that I had not known when I sat down at A's house. The Finca is under the thumb of SENAF, the Honduran equivalent to Child Protective Services. One responsibility of the Finca's clinical team is to investigate homes of family members and decide if our kids could potentially live there safely. After investigating A's grandmother, they found that it clearly was not a safe place for children. But SENAF overruled the decision, saying that's where A must go, so that's where she went. Any pushing back would be defying the government.

It is Finca policy that after a child leaves to live with a family member, our clinical team visits monthly to aid transition and be certain of the child's wellbeing. But with recent elections and heavy rain, travel to A's area was made impossible between riots and stretches of deep mud in the roads.

The heaviness of this reality pressed persistently on my heart. In that moment, it felt like what little hope the Finca brings in desperate situations was crushed by broken systems. While on retreat, I turned to the Lord in prayer about the helplessness I was feeling.

How could this situation be redeemable? What am I doing here if the only thing I can do is drive away, leaving a child with her abuser?

I looked up at the Lord in the Eucharist and said, "Jesus, I am hurting so much for your children."

Gazing at an image of Christ crucified, dying for the redemption of the world, I felt Him say, "I am hurting for them too."

At the foot of the cross, Mary too must have looked up at her dying Son and wondered, "How can this situation be redeemable?" But death had to come before the Resurrection.

The Lord does not want suffering for A and children like her, but in His death, He offers her a Resurrection from her suffering. I may not ever see a resurrection for A, but I have seen in my own life where the Lord brought beauty out of seemingly unredeemable situations. My only hope is to look at the cross and trust that the Lord will do the same for these children.

The last time I had fresh coconut water, I was still on retreat, a few days after we visited A. A few coconuts were given to us by the priest at our retreat center, and the water was poured into a pitcher for us all to share. Sipping from a pink plastic cup, I thought about A again. I thought about when Theresa told me about when A left the Finca and how her grandmother took one of our coconuts with her. She said she would plant it in her yard, and each time they drank from those coconuts, they would think of the Finca and all it had done for their family.

I thought about how the Finca had taught A how she deserved to be treated and that she could recognize the treatment from her grandmother was not what she deserved. A was brave enough to stand up for herself and fight for the love she knew she was worthy of.

The Finca clinical team will continue to do home visits so that they can educate A's grandmother on proper parenting, as well as continue investigating and reporting anything concerning. In fact, they will be visiting within the next week.

It is not a perfect solution. But A will know that there is a team of people fighting for her. And as the disciples that stayed at the foot of the cross as Jesus died, A will not be left alone in her suffering. And I have hope that the Lord will bring her Resurrection to.