Poverty and Solidarity

A quick story. Awhile back, I told many people that during my time in language school in Guatemala that I would be hiking up a volcano. Seems like something that should have made a blog post a while ago, doesn't it? I'll tell you why this experience didn't quite make the cut initially.

The volcano is called Acatenango, and it's about 4,000 meters in elevation. This two-day hike is a staple among language school students; nearly everyone does it and comes back to tell tales of physical struggle and the triumph of standing on the peak watching a nearby volcano burst. I had been looking forward to the hike since I heard about it, and though I am not physically strong, I knew that I am mentally and emotionally strong. "If I could do it, you could do it," my friends had all said when I asked about the difficulty.

So the day came, and with Emmet and Isabella, the two other missionaries on the way to the Finca, I boarded the bus for the two hour ride. At the base of the hike, a group of eager tourists suited up with gear and tightened backpack straps. We all stared at the steep incline at the trail head as the guide explained the intense nature of the hike. A nod of understanding from the hikers, a quick puff from my inhaler, and we were off. As I struggled to secure my footing on the loose gravel on a steep slope, I lifted my gaze to see all the Europeans in the group absolutely blazing up the trail like a herd of mountain goats endorsed by North Face. I wheezed a little when I remembered the guide had said the hike would be this steep for about two hours.

I lasted about seven minutes.

My feeble inhaler was no match for the elevation of Acatenango (my lack of any physical training had nothing to do with it, trust me). My lungs were burning and shrively feeling, and a guide caught me as I slipped. I shouted to Isabella, who was now far ahead.

"Girl, I don't think I can do this."

"No, Queen, you got this!" I thought to myself, You're right, I am a queen, I do got this. I trudged on.

This queen had second thoughts about three minutes later. I struggled for air and the ground spun beneath me. I felt myself falling and cried out for Isabella, but there was no breath in my lungs. Luckily she turned back and saw my distressed look. I knew I was not physically capable of doing this hike, and going any further would be incredibly dangerous.

Tears filled my eyes as I crawled down the trail and got back on the bus. The bus driver seemed to understand the situation, because he exclusively played sad 80s love ballads for my lone, two hour bus ride back. Sad girl hours were in full effect, but I couldn't help laughing when Total Eclipse of the Heart played during my pity party.

This was the first time of my mission experience that I felt completely humbled, entirely incapable, and confronted by everything I lacked, and it wouldn't be the last.

"This is not a matter of mere human kindness but a revelation; contact with those who are lowly and powerless is a fundamental way of encountering the Lord of history. In the poor, He continues to speak to us.

Pope Leo, "Dilexi Te"

The chaos started on the PAVI Paseo. A few weeks ago, the missionaries took five of the older kids on a trip for their hard work in their after school program, PAVI. The annual Paseo is not only a reward for their participation in PAVI, but also a good way for these cooped up kids to see more of their country and experience the outside world. Monday morning at 5:30 am, we set out for Choluteca, Honduras on our 16 hour road trip. Picture a pick-up truck, but instead of a truck bed behind the front seats, there are two benches running perpendicular to the front seats. Now go ahead and shove 14 people in there. Cozy, right?

The drive through the jungled mountains was stunning. I had a particularly great view as I stuck my head out the window like a dog. You see, the breakfast place we stopped at apparently put some cheese in my food. Going 80 km/hour sticking out of the car trying to barf intermittently as to avoid hitting unsuspecting street venders isn't my traditional road trip game, but I guess I can cross that off my bucket list.

Tuesday morning, we set out for Tiger Island. This island off the coast of Honduras is accessible by a 15 minute boat ride and is made up of a volcano about 800 meters in elevation. At its peak, a weary hiker can enjoy a view of Honduras, Nicaragua, and El Salvador. The plan for the day: hike to the top of the volcano, eat some sandwiches while gazing at three countries at once, complete the five hour hike, then have some beach time before returning to the hotel. The kids not interested in the hike could have a relaxed beach day, and having learned my lesson from Acatenango, I was ready to take full advantage of chilling on a black sanded beach.

But I kinda really wanted to go. And 800 is very different from 4,000 meters, right? Everyone else was going.

After explaining my concerns for the hike, Emmet hit me with a "Nah, you're good," and apparently that was all the peer pressure I needed.

We added an extra hour and a half to our hike simply looking for the trail head. The scenic route took us through some neighborhoods that had the Honduran reality in full display. 50% of the country lives in poverty, which means dirt floors, tarps for rooves, 10 family members living in a single room, and little access to food and clean water. I thought about how many of the children in our care came from circumstances like these or worse, and may be returning to them when they leave the Finca. With how little they leave the safety of the Finca, the kids aren't often exposed to these realities, but with varying levels of maturity and little observational skills, they did not seem to notice much other than big rocks to jump on.

When kids arrive at the Finca, it takes our clinical team a long time to determine where a child is at developmentally. Trauma has long-term impacts on a child's brain, and even after years of safety and consistency, evidence of past near-starvation, neglect, abuse, and separation from families is pervasive. Many are developmentally and academically behind several years, while in other ways, are far too mature.

As missionaries, our role is not to be caretakers or psychologists, but to simply love them and give them opportunities to just be kids. And as we began our hike, kids they were, kicking rocks, pulling on low-hanging branches, spraying water at each other, leaping and running ahead and then complaining that they were tired and bored. The wildlife was beautiful; peering behind lush jungles was a vast blue ocean peppered with green islands, and we even saw scarlet macaws in the wild.

The physical aspect of the hike was a little less serene for me. My lungs were quite angry that the Acatenango lesson was not enough to curb my sense of adventure, and I had to take many breaks to catch my breath. Lucky for me, I had a buddy to struggle with, M (name changed for privacy). M is one of our oldest kids at the Finca, and her strong desire to be loved often manifests in strange ways. She tends to fake illnesses and injuries in an effort to receive attention when she worries she will be forgotten. For example, on the road trip back, M fake vomited, had a horrendous headache, invented a spinal injury, and faked tears for about 30 minutes. This rather intense hike, which she had the option to skip out on, set the stage for her greatest performance yet.

Not 30 seconds went by without a complaint or a whimper from M. It was easier to handle when we were in a large group and I could focus on other things. About halfway up the volcano however, survival of the fittest took its course, and missionary Theresa and I were left with M. When M's fake vomiting and needing breaks every six minutes did not prove to be effective, she began to outright refuse to walk. We had no idea for far ahead the rest of group was, which had all the food and water, as well as our nurse, and we did not know how much further the peak was. Angelic Theresa had pulled out all the stops trying to motivate M to keep going, but pep talks, affirmations, ice cream bribery, and music weren't going anywhere. M was lying on the trail refusing to go on. I was under the impression that the trail led us a different way down the volcano, rather than taking the same route back down. Exhausted and only able to see everything we lacked, I offered to play bad cop. As M lay limp and pouting in the dirt, I sat on a rock beside her and did my best with broken Spanish.

"If you want to sleep here tonight, you can keep laying here. But if you don't, we have to keep going. We have no food, no water, no nurse if something happens, and no signal to reach our group. If you want to eat or sleep in a bed tonight, we have only one option."

Ok, so maybe that was a little intense. I think I may have instilled the fear of God within her, because she silently stood up with wide eyes and offered her hand to Theresa, who literally dragged her up the rest of the way. And despite all my worst fears, we made it! Peanut butter sandwiches had never tasted so good.

And not only was M miraculously cured, as she goofed off with the boys on the way back, but she also apologized to Theresa. Despite my lingering annoyance, I was relieved to see that she was able to set aside her fears of being forgotten and just be a kid again.

As you can imagine, the Paseo really took it out of me. It was a blast of course, but five days surrounded by angsty teens is not for the faint of heart. The missionaries crawled out of the truck late Friday night and back into the safety of our own house like war-battered soldiers looking for refuge. The bumpy, squished car ride re-injured my tailbone a bit; my literal limping home was a nice touch to the pathetic sight we were.

But there was another battle still ahead. I know I'm being dramatic with the story telling, but it's a little cathartic, so just let me have this.

The upcoming Monday through Saturday, a psychologist from Tegucigalpa was coming to give talks on trauma-informed care to the whole Finca. Originally, these talks were going to take place during the school year so that all of the employees could attend them without worrying about who would take care of the kids. However, the timing didn't work out, and school ended weeks before. So instead, the Tias (caretakers), teachers, and clinical team attended the talks from 8 am to 12 pm while the missionaries watched the kids. From 1 to 5pm, the missionaries and maintenance team attended the talks.

Not enough mirror pep talks in the world would equip me to entertain a handful of kids for four hours, immediately followed by a lecture on extremely heavy topics after a very draining week. Typically we will watch the kids for a couple hours a week to give Tias a break, and when they misbehave, we just send them home. We did not have that luxury this week, and the kids knew it. Boundaries and buttons were pushed.

A couple days into the week, the expectations and demands really weighed on me. And ironically enough, the lectures on trauma-informed care were not exactly delivered in a trauma-informed way. Some of my own wounds from my life resurfaced, and I reacted pretty strongly, my limits being breached.

For my own well-being, I had to take a step back. My missionary community, exhausted as well, was very supportive and encouraged me to do what I needed to do to take care of myself. Despite their kindness and understanding, I was once again confronted with everything I lacked. I lacked the ability to hear the talks like all of my peers were. I lacked the communication skills to explain in another language to my superiors why I was missing mandatory training. I was lacking ability to control symptoms in my mind and body that came up with strong memories. I lacked the ability to keep up with the other missionaries. I lacked the people in my life I would normally turn to in situations like this. I felt a bit like M on the volcano at Tiger Island, overcome by self-doubt and laying on the ground, unsure of how to go forward.

Reflecting on this in prayer, the writings on of Pope Leo in his first apostolic exhortation "Dilexi Te" came to mind. In this document, he emphasizes how poverty and need is a fundamental pillar in the human experience, and as Christ took on human nature, he entered into poverty. He writes that to encounter poverty is to "touch the suffering flesh of Christ."

These past few weeks, I have gotten to know more deeply the experience of poverty within these children at the Finca. Here, all of their material needs are met, but they still live in poverty. They are poor in mind, deprived of healthy early development. Poor in heart - they are unsure of why they have been hurt so deeply and are living in fear that this hurt may happen again. They are poor from autonomy; the strong policies that are enforced to keep them safe often make them feel that they live without independence that other children grow up with. Poor in opportunities - their life here is so small, and realistic Honduran life is distant and unknown. They are poor in relationships - they have been separated from their families, and their family here is always shifting and changing.

This reflection may seem bleak, but it has been a vital realization as I step away from my idealized perception of the Finca. This mission is so beautiful, so necessary, and abundant in blessings and success stories, but the needs are vast. Reflecting on the reality of these vast needs in tandem with being humbled confronted by my own needs, I have seen the way that the Lord has allowed me to, in a very small way, live in solidarity with the children here. In my own poverty and my own weakness, the Lord has called me to share a small part of the poverty of these children, to move me to compassion, and to share in His loving gaze upon them. Bigger than any need or amount of poverty is the Lord's compelling mercy.

And as I continue to entrust this poverty to His loving hands and embrace living in solidarity with the poor, the Lord reveals pockets of His mercy to me throughout my encounters with His children. Sipping on fresh coconut water straight from the palm tree on a hot day, teaching a two-year-old to blow bubbles in the ocean water, picking out Christmas gifts for the kids, having M lean on me shoulder on the ride back home after she spent the whole week angry at me. Throughout life and throughout this mission, the Lord is taking care of us in the little things; He will not leave us abandoned in the big ones.

Now I know I promised some mural pictures, but as you can imagine, I haven't had time to work on it. But I hope you forgive me and enjoy some photos of the Father's artwork instead.