Honduras -- A Mixed Bag

Getting there was no small thing. I had bought a ticket for a single bus ride from Santa Ana, Guatemala to San Pedro Sula, Honduras, and that sounded easy enough, even if it were a six-hour ride. Well, the first bus broke down and the second one decided that it wasn't going or couldn't go to San Pedro Sula, as the bridge was out. Someone associated with the bus company gave me a portion of my money back and told me that there I needed to take two more buses to San Pedro Sula. I asked a couple times a couple different ways to make sure that I understood him correctly and was assured that it was in fact only two buses.

I took one bus to a fork in the road, where a taxi driver offered to take me to the border. I told him that I was taking a bus to San Pedro Sula and wouldn't need a taxi. He told me that the bus didn't go to San Pedro Sula. Another man asked me to take the taxi, too, and it occurred to me that they wanted me to pay for the two of us. A group of women at the "bus stop" seemed to keep their eye on me and put me one the right bus ... which took me to another bus, from which my passport was stamped. I took that to mean we'd crossed the border, but I was wrong. That bus took me to a truck that drove a bunch of us standing up in the back of it over a flooded road to the bridge that was out and to a boat that would take us across the river.

Once across the river, there was the ever-present offer to exchange money. I asked if we were in fact in Honduras and was told we were. I told the man that I wanted to be sure because I didn't want to exchange money if I were going to need more Guatemalan money (quetzales). He told me again that we were in Honduras and wouldn't need more quetzales. He quoted me an exchange rate, and I told him that I had no idea if that were a fair rate, that I had to trust him, and we made the exchange. I climbed the bank and found another bus whose driver quoted me a price in quetzales. I told the driver of the conversation I just had and that I only had Honduran money (lempiras). He again quoted me a price in quetzales. I asked him what I should do as all I had was lempiras, and he agreed to let me pay in lempiras. I told him, also, that I didn't know if he were quoting a fair price and had to trust him.

This bus took me to the border, where I met Juanita (more about her in a bit), who put me on a bus in Cortez, which finally took me to San Pedro Sula. When I got on this bus, my bag was put in one seat, and I was put in another. There were four young Irish women on the bus, too, and their bags were stacked in the corner. When it came time to pay, I was told I would be paying for two seats. I asked, "Because you don't have room for my bag, I'm paying for two seats?" He money collected confirmed that. I climbed on top of my bag and paid for the single seat. The four young women sat with their bags on their laps. I told them that it felt good to do that, that it felt like the first stand I'd taken in quite a while. I was dropped off downtown and took a cab to my hotel ... and I'd finally arrived in San Pedro Sula.

Back to Juanita: She greeted me at the migration office and offered to take me to the bus station in Masca, where she lived. Given my experiences in Belize, I'm not sure what prompted me to accept the offer, except that maybe I believed that I was either going to be taken advantage of by this woman or by the man driving the next bus. Juanita spoke English, said she worked for immigration, and offered to let me stay at her house if I wanted. I declined and said that I just wanted to get to San Pedro Sula. As she drove to Masca, she told me a little about the area and offered to show me some sights, which I agreed to and enjoyed. She offered again to let me stay with her, and I declined again. She continued to show me some sights, and as we were getting something to eat, I asked if I could please change my mind and accept her offer. I stayed with her four two days. Juanita and her daughter took very good care of me, and I relaxed some in their care and company. While I was eager to get to San Pedro Sula, from where I would be able to fly home, I was reluctant to leave the safety and security of Juanita's home.

The hotel at which I stayed in San Pedro Sula was quite nice. It was secure, and the staff there really understood customer service. I'd commented to the front desk clerks that I hoped their employers treated them as well as they were treating me, and I was informed that staff and services were being cut. The taxi companies the hotel worked with were wonderful, too. They picked me up when and where they said they would, and they talked with me slowly in Spanish. They reminded me of Enrique, the bus driver in Panamá with the kind and ready smile.

The Church in Honduras ... I don't quite know what to say about that. It's a part of the Province of the U.S., unlike the other countries in Central America. The bishop had e-mailed with a wonderful invitation, but when I'd arrived in Honduras, I learned that the bishop was having knee surgery and wouldn't be available. I visited the church in San Pedro Sula, Catedral El Buen Pastor (The Good Shepherd Cathedral), and no one initiated contact with me there and few greeted me at the peace. There was a group from North Carolina who has had a long-standing relationship with the Diocese of Honduras and the Episcopal School there, and I learned a little about that. I asked to speak to someone who may have answered the bishop's phone a couple weeks earlier, as I wanted to apologize for being rude to someone I had spoken to when I tried to call the bishop to make further plans. I spoke with the bishop's wife, who happened to be the priest-in-charge at El Buen Pastor. She hadn't answered the phone and didn't know who would have. I had explained who I was, how I'd been in conversation with the bishop about this trip, and how I wanted to talk with someone about the Church in Honduras. The priest-in-charge reiterated that the bishop was not available; she did not extend an invitation.

San Pedro Sula is one more dangerous city I was encouraged not to explore. I did walk around near the church and that seemed fine. As I was sitting on a step waiting for my taxi, a boy (maybe 10 or 11 yrs old) asked me for money, in Spanish. I asked "why?" and he said "please?" It was an amount that meant nothing to me, nothing at all, and I said "no." The day before I left, I took the hotel shuttle downtown and was deposited at the National Palace. I walked around the small square and took a few pictures. A woman approached me and spoke to me softly and rapidly in Spanish. That's never a good combination for me, and it took me a moment to realize she was asking for money. I was going to give her what I had on my person, except for what I would need for a taxi back to my hotel. Alfonso, a Mexican man in my parish, had given me money to give to someone who needed it, and I was going to give this woman that money as well. As I began to open my purse, a man called to me in English, "Hey, lady." I immediately walked away from him and the woman. The man said, "Hey, lady. I'm from New York. Why so scared." I found a taxi and retreated back to my hotel.

I took a walk later near my hotel and found a group of boys playing soccer. I spoke with their coach and learned that it was a soccer school. I explained to the coach about the money Alfonso wanted to share, and adding what remained of my funds, gave it to him. He in turn shared that news with his players. They thanked me in English and went off to play. I watched for a short time and was grateful that my final experiences in Central America were of healthy, active, smiling children and of volunteers giving of themselves to ensure those children have a chance at something more than the poverty and desperation in which they are growing up.

Guatemala ... one more time

Independent of my experiences in Belize, I don't know that I would have gone there had I known that I'd have to return to Guatemala in order to go to Honduras. At the very least, I may have gone later. It was expensive, relatively speaking, to cross the Belize - Guatemala border. I didn't enjoy border crossings as a rule, and to have to make the same one did nothing for me.

One issue that bugs me at the border is the money exchange. When my friend wired me money, it came as Belize dollars, so that is what I had to exchange, but I understood that people at the border are trying to make money, too, so you're just not going to get the best rate there. I understood, too, that the only trust-worthy option for exchanging money is a bank, but when I returned to Santa Ana, I learned that banks won't exchange anything other than US dollars, so I had to go in search of US dollars. That search included the bus station, the airport two miles out of town, and some man in Flores who did that sort of thing. I finally exchanged the Belize dollars to US Dollars at a rate not nearly as good as I could have gotten at the border but better than I would have gotten at the bus station.

I went to the bank, then. I told the man at the counter what I wanted to do and that my Spanish was not great. That's true just in general, and it gets worse as I get nervous, tired, overwhelmed. He started to speak to me rapidly in Spanish, and when I asked him to speak more slowly, he continued with no change in his tone or rate of speech. I snapped at him that I needed him to speak more slowly. I had running thoughts about the ignorance of people who can't / won't / don't accommodate the tourists who are probably the best hope they have for raising money and improving things. This man completed his part of my transaction and then sent me to another teller to actually get the cash. I was equally impatient with this second man, somehow making it his fault that I had to wait because he didn't have enough money in his draw to complete my transaction. I apologized for my mad mood and left the bank feeling ... well, like an ugly American.

My hotel room with private bath was not great. The bedspread had on it little black hairs that transferred to my pale skin. There were no sheets on the bed, and when I asked for some, I was given another blanket. I know the word for sheets. I specifically learned it when I asked for different sheets at the hostel that had bedbugs. However, I gave up tying to make that clear to the girl to whom I was speaking. A bunch of kids were playing pool or Foosball or something that made a racket, and they didn't stop doing it after I asked them to and reminded them that people were trying to sleep. The bathroom was private, but the shower was just a pipe with cold water, and no water was available in the morning. I heard four gunshots outside the hotel, and that was the note on which I willed myself to sleep and thanked God that I was getting to leave Guatemala in the morning.

Belize City

After seeing the Tikal Ruins, which did not disappoint, I left Guatemala for Belize. I had an idea to go snorkeling on the island of Caye Cualker and to stay only a couple day and nights touring the Belize City before venturing on to Honduras.

When I arrived in Belize City late Monday morning, I asked a women, Bridget, if she knew where Regent Street was, as that's where my hotel was. She cheerfully said she did, in fact it was the same street she lived on, and she'd be happy to walk me there. She talked along the way about a number of things, but what sticks out for me is the information about herself. I learned about her children, her work and sometimes lack of it, her boyfriend being out of work, and how hard it is for them to make a living.

We found my hotel, and after depositing my belongings, we went in search of something to drink. I told Bridget, then, what I wanted to do with my time in Belize and my needing to make arrangements to get to Honduras. She said it was my lucky day because she was a tour guide and would be happy to help me with all of that. On the way to the pier, where she said all my plans could be made, we stopped at her home to see her boyfriend and son. We made it to the pier, and I gathered information about boats and buses and was dismayed to learn that I'd either have to return to Guatemala on Wednesday or stay in Belize two more days to take the boat. Just what I'd seen of Belize City and the expense of it helped me decide to leave on Wednesday.

After gathering the information, I had to get money from the ATM. Now, I know better than to let anyone into that little vestibule when I'm using my debit card. I know that. And yet ... I stepped into the vestibule, and Bridget said, "I'm just gonna come in and enjoy the air conditioning. I won't look while you're getting money. I'll turn around. You can trust me." I felt my heart drop and didn't say a word. I withdrew some cash and then realized it wasn't enough. I inserted my card again and withdrew more cash. I remember putting the money in my travel pack and Bridget saying, "Take your time. We're in no hurry."

Writing this just now, it occurs to me that she had been watching that second transaction or she wouldn't have known what I was doing. Anyway, I don't recall removing the card the second time (I've made that mistake here in the states, too), I didn't realize I didn't have it until later in the day.

We returned to the pier, where I bought boat tickets to the island and my bus tickets back to Flores, Guatemala, and San Pedro Sula, Honduras. As I'm paying for the bus tickets, Bridget asked me how I thought she was as a tour guide, that some people really like her personality. She also said that sometimes she gets really lucky and wealthy Americans will hire her to show them the island and then take her out to a really nice lunch. I told her she didn't get lucky with this American. I asked her what she generally charges for her services, and she said that she leaves that up to people and that she wasn't going to charge me because I was her friend. I gave her the equivalent of ten US dollars and told her that I just wanted to be by myself and walk around. She said okay, that she was going to go to the store right then and buy her son some milk, and that she would stop by the hotel in the early evening.

"You can trust me." "You're my friend." They're statements you wouldn't expect to bring you a sense of dread, and yet that's just what they brought me. I work with high-risk sex offenders who score high in psychopathy. I know "glib and superficial charm" when I experience it, and my radar went off about this woman, and I didn't pay attention to it.

I don't know what made me think of it, but I discovered that I didn't have my debit card. I checked my hotel, all my pockets, and the ATM machine. I called home (for free, thanks to the manager of the hotel!), and a friend helped me cancel the card. I ran into Bridget a short while later and asked her if she knew where my card was. I mentioned that I couldn't recall removing the card after the second transaction, and she told in great detail exactly what must have happened. I told her it was no big deal as I'd cancelled the card already and no one could use it.

I didn't see any more of Bridget. I made arrangements to have my laundry done and then walked around town, crying much of the way. I found a bit of sanctuary in a church that had to be unlocked as it was after visiting hours, and I'm grateful for the man who did that for me. Then I saw a sign for American Airlines at a travel agency! I was told that changes to international flights had to be made at the main office and was told where to find that. I trekked all the way there, reluctant to use the little cash I had for something as non-essential as a cab ride. I found the main office and made arrangements to return home nine days early.

My friend was wiring money to me Tuesday morning, and Monday night, I needed to find a restaurant that took credit cards. I found one, had a $22.00 dinner, and tried really hard not to think of the homeless people I passed on the way to the restaurant or the fact that it would be dark as I returned to the hotel. The next night, I had money and could have eaten anywhere, but there were only two restaurants open within walking distance, the one I'd been to the night before and one that would have given me my meal in Styrofoam. I passed a number of people eating on the street, in the same place I was certainly they'd sleep that night, as I searched for something to eat. I ended up buying a single bottle of milk and returning to my hotel to drink it with some cereal I'd bought a few days earlier for munchies ... all the while knowing it is still so much more than millions of people would have that night.

Tuesday morning, I went to church. I'd missed communion on Sunday, and while I truly enjoyed the Mayan ruins at Tikal (a spiritual experience of its own!), I don't enjoy missing Eucharist. Mass was held in a small chapel off the main sanctuary, and I cried through much of it. I didn't circulate during the peace and few people greeted me. At the end of the service, one woman asked me if I was visiting, and when I said I was, she talked about herself and the two women for whom she provides home health care and brought with her to church. Neither of the two clergy approached me after the service.

Tuesday afternoon, I went to Caye Caulker. It turned out that no one went out snorkeling in the afternoon, which is information no one shared with me and I didn't know to ask. I walked around the island, drank a bottle of grape soda, took lots of pictures, and reflected on the events of recent days.

Here are a few of those reflections:

• When you're looking for a refuge, as I was going to Belize, it's more than disappointment or frustration when you discover it's no refuge at all ... only more of the same that sent you in search of refuge in the first place.
• I was identifying with my patients' victims -- always feeling a mark just because you look a certain way and people are making assumptions about you.
• I was identifying with my patients, too -- suspicious, paranoid, believing the world is an unsafe place where everyone has to look out for themselves because no one else will.
• I want to go home before I don't recognize myself and don't like at all who it is I see.
• What does a lifetime of deprivation and desperation do to the spirit of man ... if my spirit was this ... compromised ... in such a short while, especially given that I could buy my way home ... and had done just that?
• What does it say about me that I couldn't make it twelve weeks and/or that I bought my way home out of a situation that millions of others are consigned to?

The next morning, I boarded a bus to return to Guatemala, and I remember thinking, as I waited for the bus that was late, that people probably lied to me and the bus didn't leave from there at all, that I would miss it, and be stuck there for another two days.

It really was time for me to leave, if I was going to categorically dismiss all the people of Belize City as liars and con-artists.

I Came Home Early -- Here's Why.

I came home nine days early. That's a hard thing for me to say. Not being able to follow through on something? It's hard for me not to call that a failure. On the other hand, risking that feeling and sitting with it has been a success I would never have known had I not come home early.

I came home early because I love my life. Not just the ease of it, although after the last two weeks, I was certainly grateful for the ease. I love the totality of my life. I love my faith and the prayer, study, and work to which it calls me. I love my friends and family, those who make me laugh and let me cry and are perfectly okay sitting with me and saying nothing at all. I love working. I'm not crazy about so much of what's happening at Sand Ridge currently, but I am honored to do the job my gifts allow me to do. I love Wisconsin! I love seasons and all the changes that come with them. I love being able to walk. I love my liberty!

When I was talking with a friend about my trip and my struggles with it, she named my most significant struggle as "loss of liberty." The accuracy of that naming is reflected in my stance that I was on house arrest every night after six p.m. I couldn't go out by my self after dark, and it was dark every night at six. There were nights, of course, when I was with people and was therefore able to stay out late ... you know, until eight or nine ... and I really enjoyed those. But, they were the rare exception to the rule. The accuracy of the naming was apparent, too, in the immense, almost out-of-proportion joy I experienced any time I was able to walk and take pictures. It was almost like holding your breath underwater and then suddenly coming to the surface where you can take that essential life-giving breath.

I came home early because I love my life, the people and beauty in it, and the freedom with which I get to live it. I came home early for one more reason. I didn't like what I was seeing was me. It's easier to say that I didn't like who I was becoming or what the place was turning me into. Easier but not accurate. The difficult truth is that each of us has darkness and the only difference is how willing we are to look at and how able we are to sit with it without self-loathing. I don't like what I saw ... and I'm grateful for whatever allowed me to look at it. I'm grateful for the more complete picture of me, even if more of the picture is shadows. And I'm grateful for grace and mercy with which I've held it.

I feel better able now to tell the story of the end of things, I think, for a couple reasons. First, I'm recovering slowly from the experience; time, rest, and love can do that. Second, and more importantly for me, I just participated in the Rite of Reconciliation (i.e. confession). I sorted out what was mine to confess and what was just ugly and uncomfortable. I received absolution for the former and courage to continue to sit with the latter. I told the stories of leaving Guatemala, my time in Belize, and my final day in Honduras. They're the stories of vulnerability stripping away layers of civility and revealing my ... well, humanity, I guess. And rather than making me less than I am, they're the stories that flesh out who I am and make me whole.

I'll tell those stories in three more entries. As you read each of them, please remember that they're episodes in a bigger story.

What Difference Does Your Church Make?

In El Salvador, the Church is the difference between children getting an education or being lost to a world of gangs, drugs, and violence. It's the difference between women being safe in their own homes or living in domestic violence. It's the difference between a community having a place to gather and worship or having no sanctuary at all.

I was received in the Diocese of El Salvador by Reverenda Irma Guerra Alvarado. She, her husband, Padre David, and their son, Josue, hosted me for the majority of my time in El Salvador.

I arrived on a Saturday and spent the following day with Irma at St. Francis Church near Lourdes Nuevo. It's a small congregation in a neighborhood that has, I'm told, about 25 families. I was thrilled with the number of women and children and curious about the lack of men. The community was having a celebration that day and night, in honor of Independence Day, so I met a lot of people and experienced a wonderful part of their culture. I have to confess that I didn't understand all that was going on. What I understood very well was that the community -- even those not associated with the church -- came together this day and the following Sunday to display their pride in their homeland, and everyone was present and participating. Kids dressed up in costumes, hung banners, and played music. Young women presented themselves as candidates to be the representatives of the community for a wider celebration. Young men competed in a game. The elders chased babies. And everyone danced!

The Church and School of San Mateo had a grand celebration as well. I followed a parade with bands and dancers, even a little princess sitting atop a car. I tend not to be fond of parades. I find them loud and a little pointless. This one, though. Wow! The work the kids put into the music and dancing was obvious, and community members lined the streets as the parade approached. The national pride was palpable and a wonder to behold.

Padre David is priest-in-charge at San Mateo. He is also the priest of another parish, San Miguel Arcangel. I'm so not great with names of villages or colónes, and I'm lamenting that pretty well at the moment. What I remember well about the visit to the San Miguel parish is that we had to move out of the sanctuary and into a classroom because the rain was falling so hard on a tin roof that we couldn't hear each other. I don't know so much what the community is engaged in, but there was a faithful gathering who were quite hospitable to me.

I spent time with Padre Jesús Alvarenga Franco and his family, too, at San Andrés Apóstol Church in Amatepec - Soyapango, near San Salvador. Padre Jesús gave me a tour of the area, starting with his school. He's working diligently on getting sponsors for children, so more children in the area can go to school and so he can pay the teachers a fair wage on a regular basis. $300.00 per student per year is all it takes. Please contact me if you're interested in becoming a sponsor. Padre Jesús works in a very dangerous area -- high crime, drug, and gang activity. His daughter attends school at San Andrés and has to use a computer at the library. It's too dangerous for her to be out. I saw a program at the church put on by the school children in honor of Independence Day. Again, the pride with which the children recited their prayers and speeches and the honor with which they danced was awe-inspiring. I had a tour of the city, too, and in the evening, Padre Jesús, his family (wife and two daughters), and members of the community took me to dinner atop the city. It was raining, so I wasn't able to see the wonder of the city, but it had been a wonderful day, I had enjoyed the company and the hospitality, and I was thrilled to be there just to imagine what the city looked like. I will also look forward to going back.

I want to mention, too, that while it's not part of the experience I had with Padre Jesús (i.e. he didn't tell me the story), he has worked with young people to keep them out of gangs. I imagine its work he is either involved with now or will be soon.

This community has a wonderful feeding program. Every Friday night, the community prepares a meal and delivers it to homeless people in a particular section of San Salvador. The group took me to see the area, and I lamented not being able to go with them on Friday. The program is called Pan por mi Hermano -- Bread for my Brother, and it has received national recognition.

I left Padre Jesús to spend a few days with Padre Manuel Esteban Osorio Portillo at the Centro San Lucas Evangelista in San Miguel, El Salvador. There's no actual church building there, and the building in which the center is located, where I stayed, and where Padre Manuel resides is in need of TLC. Padre Manuel shared with me his plans to plant churches in two other areas, knowing full well he'll be attending to all three of them, even though they are two to three hours apart. We visited one nearby colón for the better part of the day. I met a lot of people, was well-attended to and well fed, and rested quite nicely on a hammock. I met people who had participated in the Cursillo weekend, an essential weekend in my faith formation, and suddenly the world seemed very small. I worshipped with this community, too. There was a shelter that served as their worship space, and we prayed Evening Prayer together. It was wonderful, and everyone I had met throughout the day was in attendance. And in no time at all, I had been honored with a gift. Amazing!

I returned to the city and visited the diocesan offices. The Bishop, Martín Barahona, arrived, and I spoke briefly him about my experiences so far on the trip. I returned, then, to Irma and David's house until Saturday, when the theology school met and there was to be an Ultreya (a gathering of people who had participated in Cursillo). I spoke again with the bishop, and he invited me to return to El Salvador sometime in the near future to talk with the theology school about the diaconate. I will be doing that! He also gifted me a book of Gospel Readings ... in Spanish, and recently, he mailed me a Spanish altar book. Beyond generous. Bishop Martín had been a victim of a recent assassination attempt. He works for justice, just as Oscar Romero did, and people are every bit as angry about it. For example, The Church in El Salvador actively and openly invites gay and lesbians to come and worship and learn about a God who created, loves, and accepts them. That's unheard of in Central America! Bishop Martín, once upon a time Presiding Bishop of the Province, has set a path that the priests in his flock willingly and actively follow. He's marvelous!

All the work of justice obvious in the Church in El Salvador does beg the question for those of us at risk of being complacent Christians (oh, the shame in that phrase!): What difference does your church make? If you can't answer that and want to, take a trip to El Salvador. It will open your eyes, heart, mind, and spirit to see what you're already doing and what there is still left to do.

The Return

I laid down in the grass in a park today, mostly because I could. I also walked around town with no fear of walking someplace I shouldn't, someplace that would be too dangerous to walk solo.

It really is good to be home.

Homecoming has been wonderful. I was picked up at the airport by Paigie, Jules, Gabey, Della and Alexys. I snuggled with the Girls on the way to Julie and Craig's, where I was given Blue Moon (from a can, still trying not to think about that) and cheese-filled pretzels (and where Cecil and Beenie Boy were reunited). CJ was there, too. We watched Scrubs and talked randomly about whatever occurred to us until it was time for bed. The next day, I enjoyed a breakfast sandwich, hugged Edie and Loren (and a few others I ran into on the street), got a haircut, and bought some "new to me" clothes. I drove my car (yea!) on Thursday and celebrated Gabey's 11th birthday. I went to a movie on Friday and checked in with some folks at Lugar de Reunion. I spent time working with the pictures I took, not really wanting to subject anyone to the 2500 photos I have. The Girls and I went horseback riding on the ridge on Saturday. The weather has been incredible since my return, even if it has been much chillier than in the days prior to my return, and being on the ridge ... whoa. Of all the wonderful sights I saw in Central America, it's really hard to beat an autumn in Wisconsin. Saturday night I attended Paige's show choir concert -- so very glad I was home for that! The Girls stayed at Julie and Craig's with me that night, and Baby Girl and I fell asleep with her having taken my hand. Sunday brought me to church. I wasn't going to attend the 9:30 service. I had wanted my first service home to be with my priest, who was on vacation, but I really missed my parish and being at the altar. Next Sunday will be the real thing, and I'm looking forward to that. We had Communion from the Reserved Sacrament for the Hispanic service, and I very much enjoyed being in that company. I went to a movie with my oldest friend, and we laughed about all sorts of things.

Homecoming really has been wonderful. And there's a difference between homecoming and re-entry.

I was supposed to (at least by my thinking) leave Craig and Julie's on Sunday, and when I went to say good-bye to Paigie, I started crying. I wasn't able to put words to it at first (which has become a more common experience than I'm comfortable with), but it was a bit of separation anxiety. I wasn't relishing being away from the two to whom I was most connected while in Central America. So, I stayed.

The next morning, I was watching television and rolled my eyes too often regarding the resources spent improving cereal. I also saw an episode of a crime drama in which a homeless man boarded a bus, announced he was homeless and hungry, and presented his cup for money. People turned away from him, and when one man did that, the homeless man took out a brick and said he could choose to use the brick but wasn't going to do that and put it away. The man he was speaking to gave him money. I thought about all the people I refused in Central America, the ones to whom I didn't give money, the taxis I declined, the items I didn't buy. I remembered thinking about what the consequences would be for refusing any of those people. Would I refuse the wrong one and find myself the victim of a crime, one committed by a desperate someone who just couldn't manage one more refusal?

I'm home, now. I stayed at my house last night, after dinner with my friend, Vicki. I had another bout of tears ... more separation stuff, I think ... and I processed that with Jules. My nephew (my roommate!) and I shared a few laughs, and after uploading a few photos to Facebook, I read myself to sleep.

I putzed on the computer this morning and ran a few errands this afternoon ... and by ran, I mean walked. I very much enjoyed my walk around my hometown. I enjoyed the chill and crispness in the air, the brilliant blue sky, and the bright autumn sun. I enjoyed the clean, wide streets and the tidy lawns. I enjoyed lawns. I enjoyed being able to walk.

My enjoyment of all that is shadowed just a bit by the memory of those who don't enjoy so much and my reactions to them. Such is re-entry -- sitting with the discrepancies in the world, trying not to feel guilty about my wealth, living with truths about myself I most likely wouldn't have known without this trip ... and rolling with all the reminders of those things just as they come.

Guate

It's a nickname for Guatemala City.

What else?

Well, it's clean. It's certainly cleaner than other capitol cities I've been in, though that isn't saying much. There were people everywhere sweeping and picking up trash. I love that! It's apparently been a conscious effort of the mayor (who was once upon a time governor and then mayor before that). The mayor has also made a conscious effort to make riding the bus safer. The "chicken buses" you've read about before tend to be subject to extortion by the gangs. That was true, too, in El Salvador. I was there when the gang members burned one bus to prove a point. The buses shut down for four days after that. The issue, at least as the mayor of Guate saw it, was that money was available. A person gets on the bus and pays the fare to the driver, so money is always on the bus. Gang members jump on and demand their cut, and for "safety" sake, the drivers give them the money. The new system in Guate eliminates all that. The fare is paid into an armed-guard-guarded machine before the person ever gets on the bus, so the driver never has money. The buses are new and green and have something resembling an accordian in the middle. They seem more comfortable than the revamped school buses, but they also get every bit as jammed full of people.

Also, there are still few places safe enough to visit, so there was little reason to take the bus. I took one with a few other people from the hostel. We went to the one square where there is anything to see. It has the cathedral, the national palace, and a park. Not far from there is the market. I'm not crazy about markets and wouldn't have visited this one otherwise. I would have preferred some time in the square and would have gone back there on my own if not for the frequent warnings about safety and the too-frequent admonitions to put my camera away. There were parts of the walk where I was all but forbidden to take out my camera. There was a nice walkway that the city is redoing that may grow up to be a safe place. We'll see.

People I've spoken with recently are astonished that I was in the city for a week. Most people tend to avoid it, other than the airport. I can see why. I wrote a review of Guatemala City for one of the websites thru which I booked a hostel, and I titled it "Not sure why you'd go there." I stand by that.

While my first night and day in the city were really quite positive, they had very little to do with the city. It had much more to do with the people.

One of those people walked with me one day and we dared to venture a little further from the hostel than maybe would have been recommended. We walked down Reforma Avenue, which on Sundays is closed off to traffic so people can walk, run, ride bike, skate, etc. in relative safety. Again, armed forces are everywhere. Reforma Avenue has a few things worth noting. One is the statue that looks like a replica of the Eifel Tower. I have pictures of that, I promise. It's very cool. It was built, as far as I understand, as a monument to the revolution that precipitated Guate's glory days.

There is also a military base on Reforma. The base had once been an ROTC training center (or something like that). It looks kind of like a castle from the outside and is one city block square. I have no photos of it ... inside or out. I didn't take one of the outside becasue I couldn't get a good angle. I didn't take one of the inside because the nice man in the military uniform told me I couldn't, and while he had given us permission to walk around inside the gate, he watched very carefully to make sure we went no further than granted and that we took no pictures. I get it, it being a military base and all, but a girl has to ask.

Which brings us to the American Embassy, which is also on Reforma. I wish I had taken a picture of it as we walked by it the first time, because on the way back, we noticed a sign that said that pictures were forbidden. Fair enough. No pictures of the embassy. There was an alley with a mural, though, and I wanted a picture of that, but as I lifted my camera, an armed guard told me "no." I asked for permission, specific permission, to take a picture of a certain portion of the mural. The man I spoke to spoke with another man and he another and he another, who asked me if I was an American and then went inside. When that last man came out, I was given permission to take one photo of specifically what I had indicated I'd wanted.

I was reminded of my picture of the American Embassy in Managua. I had taken a picture of it from the bus I was on, and my travelling companion pointed out that the guard was watching me all the while.

Also in this alley way were a couple frames with pictures of people who have sold documents, and people were encouraged to report them should they approach anyone.

I visited an Episcopal Church in Guate. I learned that there are two congregations, one comprised mostly of folks from America and England, and one comprised of people native to Guatemala. English is spoken at the first and Spanish at the second. They are served by different priests, and they never have combined services. I was invited to preach at the English service, and while I had asked about the Spanish one, I was relieved to know that the Bishop hadn't been informed, and it therefore did not happen.

I had a wonderful conversation about the diaconate and it's non-existence in Central America. The Bishop of Guatemala is also the Presiding Bishop of that province, and we talked about my understanding of the permanent deacon and the importance of that office in places like Central America, in which justice issues prevail.

I have little sense of how the church is engaged in justice issues or even what their mission work looks like. I did hear a too-familiar conversation about repairing the roof. I would have liked to talk to the priest of the Spanish congregation in Guatemala City, anywhere really, about what service ministry looks like in Guatemala. I had no opportunity to do that. I was thinking about going to the churches in the northeast, but Hurricane Mathew was there as was a recent outbreak of dengue fever, which I've come to understand is kind of like malaria on crack, and I opted against going.

There are adventures to be had in that area. Apparently El Rio Dulce is not to be missed. However, I'm not feeling very adventurous of late. Oh, sure, yesterday I jumped off a bridge and climbed higher and steeper than I ever had in my whole life (or ever will again, probably!) to see the most beautiful natural wonder I've ever seen (Semuc Champey -- google that) and then swam in the pools of that wonder. And yeah, it was cool swimming in a cave by candlelight.

However, after weeks of words of caution (Put your camera away. Don't wear a backpack. Only ride the bus if you absolutely have to. Don't go far by yourself? Did you hear the gunshot last night? No, that wasn't a car backfiring.) and prohibited activity due to dangerousness, my sense of adventure has waned some. As I was making plans for this trip, Edie (a wonderful mix of friend and mom) said to me, "My fear is that you have no fear." She saw fearlessness, I think, in my sense of adventure. These days, I'm wary ... and weary. I hadn't come to Central America to be a tourist. I had wanted to engage with people on the street, and that has not been a prudent idea solo, and no one I've connected with has been willing or able to venture with me. The words of caution have seeped into my being, it seems, and I've developed a sense of fear that I don't believe I had before I left.

And I can't help but wonder what living in that kind of fear does to a person -- to a people -- year after year after year. It's paralyzing and hopelessness-inducing. It's noted in the conditions that don't seem to change. It's noted in gangs ... and not the government ... having control of things. It's noted in folks saying "There's nothing we can do."

I don't like what it's doing to my spirit. I'm losing my sense of humor, and I'm finding it difficult to be gracious. And it's only been nine weeks. I kind of want to come home before I'm confronted with more of the darker side of my personality. I don't believe conditions here have created what I'm discovering I don't like about myself. I believe its stripping away the layers that make me suitable for civilized company and exposing a base core that is at once authentically and uncomfortably human.

I'm off tomorrow to Flores to see the ruins of Tikal. They are, reportedly, THE ruins to see. That will be my final adventure in Guatemala. I had also wanted to see the villages from which people in my parish have come. For a variety of reasons, that didn't happen either. I would venture back here with those folks, and if other friends or family express an interest to visit, I would come back then, too. I may also come back to talk more about developing the permanent diaconate.

Oh, who am I kidding? I know better than to make grand statements about what I will and won't do. God tends to mock me when I do that.

A Transition made easy by ...

Transitions from one country to another have not been easy for me. I find myself a bit reluctant to step away from what is familiar and step toward, yet again, the unfamiliar. I had the same thought this time, with one added "bonus." Something I ate or drank on my last day in El Salvador didn't settle well. Actually, every couple weeks, my stomach seems to register an objection about something. Never beer, thank goodness. Curiously enough -- and sadly -- I think a couple times it may actually have been a bag of water.

Anyhoo, I only mention feeling less than stellar because I don't like travelling when diarrea and / or vomitting are distinct options, and I was going to be travelling to Guatemala the next day. I went to dinner with my host family, Reverenda Irma, and her husband Padre David, and tried to tell them "Thank you." I told them that travelling alone is not an easy thing, and it becomes a very important thing for a solo traveller to have a safe place to be, and before the lump in my throat robbed me of my ability to speak, I opened my hands and said in a whisper, "Muchas gracias." Irma reminded me that I always have a home in El Salvador whenever I return, and David reminded me that El Salvador needed a deacon. We walked after dinner and talked about the cost of living, square meters of homes, and the need to live behind bars. I noted that it was my first nighttime walk in a long while and how it was yet another sign of their hospitality and one more reason for my gratitude.

Irma drove me to the bus station very early the next morning, and I really wasn't feeling well at all. I slept fitfully on the five-hour busride, and in addition to feeling physically ill, I was feeling sorry for myself and travel-weary. I generally enjoy looking at the scenery and could barely muster the energy to do that. Occasionally I did look out the window, wondering mostly how close I was to the next bathroom. When I looked, the views, like everywhere else in Central America, were breathtaking. The Pan-American Highway really is an experience all its own. It's similar to a rollercoaster, I think. For much of it, it goes up and down and all around. There's barely room on either side. On the inside track is a mountain and on the outside track are kiosks (yep, just for fun, that's what I'm calling them) selling a variety of things, and just beyond these sticks-and-plastic bags structures are deep, wide, lush valleys speckled with people's homes. That contrast is really quite familiar to me now, and my thought was, "I'm not sure how much more of it I can take."

That thought was amplified on my taxi ride from the bus station to my hostel. I just could not take in one more thing.

I arrived at the hostel and was greeted by Marie, the owner's mother. She showed me to my room and offered me a glass of water. I settled in the living room to watch "Mama Mia!" with two other Americans, and Marie offered us tea and cookies. The other Americans are Andrea and Monica. Andrea is in Guatemala for a few months volunteering with an organization who provides micro-loans to indigenous people. Monica has spearheaded an organization that builds houses in Tijuana, Mexico. The three of us talked about our work and our travels, and it was lovely relaxing in English! Marie took us to a nearby French restaurant for dinner. I did not order the octopus but did enjoy a tuna salad and a tiny helping of real mashed potatoes.

We returned to the hostel to find Marco, the owner's brother, who works with an organization called Techo Para Mi Pais Guatemala. Please check out the website: http://www.untechoparamipais.org/ As I listened to Marco describe the program, I thought it sounded very familiar, and I found a card I'd received from some young people in Nicaragua who had been in the streets of Leon and in the mall in Managua collecting money. It was indeed the same program. I remember thinking, when I had read the card, that it was the only sign of servant leadership I had noted in Nicaragua. And here I was in a hostel with various signs of servant leadership dining and conversing with real live servant leaders.

As many of you know, I have made very few plans for this trip. I've been more of the mind of going where the Spirit leads me, which generally seems to include saying "yes" to invitations offered and staying still when there has been no invitation. It has served me well, I think. I awoke this morning having rested well, despite too-active dreams, and went to church at St. James Episcopal Church. I was warmly welcomed by the Anglo congregation and invited to lunch. I said yes. I spent a lovely few hours seeing their home, hearing their stories, learning a bit of local history, eating a wonderful meal, and seeing a few of the sights. I've returned to my hostel -- and everyone should come to Guatemala City and stay here: http://www.quetzalroo.com/ !, to really good coffee and good company. It seems this transition is complete, and I am at ease once again ... thanks to Servant Leaders and the Holy Spirit.

Musings of the Day

I visited La Puerta Libertad and the beaches there. Wow! The black sand is a wonder, and the waves are unbelievably strong! It´s an amazing feeling standing in that particular part of the ocean and hanging onto the arms of a new friend, Josue, as the waves washed over us. It´s even a more incredible sensation to be swept away by them ... and to know that they are almost as strong going out as they are coming in. The sun was strong, too, but there was a strong breeze. You know how when you´re in a swimming pool or a lake and there are spots of cold and spots of hot right next to each other? That´s what the air was like today.

I think my favorite part was as we were walking out of the ocean, and Josue asked me how I was, and when I said I was fantastic, he asked, ¨Sin miedo?" It means "Without fear?" He, like Carlos yesterday, took very seriously their tasks of showing me the sights, doing what they could for me to enjoy the day, and being sure, all the time, that I was safe. They held my arm as we crossed the street. They kept their eye on me on the bus. When I stopped to take a picture, they stopped, too. I had bristled at being told that places were too dangerous to visit on my own. It was an amazing gift, then, to have these young men spend the days with me so I could enjoy their country "sin miedo."

I wrote my name in the sand. I´d never done that in black sand. I had to write it twice in order to take a picture of it. I mused on the joy and futility of writing one´s name in the sand and believe that everyone should do it every chance they get!

More musings ...
A smile exchanged can mean "I see you."
We never know what beauty or ugliness is behind beautiful and ugly doors.
What will be mine to confess when I return home?
If you´re going to spend $5 on a margarita, you ought to really, really, really enjoy it.
A bus driver really should not have a sticker of Guadelupe and a sticker of a swastika on the same bus.
"Perrito caliente" doesn´t sound as edible as "hotdog."
The effort to speak English with me, given embarrassment at one´s pronunciation, means much more than someone being fluent.
People here have hearing like bats!
Every place I´ve visited so far has had hints of it´s glory days, and I wonder at the era and what it takes to restore it.

It really has been a wonderful day. It will end with the family and I going out for pizza in a frightfully inadequate attempt for me to say "Muchas Gracias!"

Un Dia Fantástico!

I spent the day sightseeing with a wonderful guide, Carlos. He was supposed to practice his English, but instead, he put me through my paces in Spanish. I´m expressing myself better but still not comprehending much of what comes when I don´t know the context. I have five more weeks. Here´s hoping!

Carlos and I visited Santa Ana. My travel book recommended it and so did Peg Woodburn, who lived here for a time. The place did not disappoint. We visited El Teatro (The Theater). It was absolutely beautiful! It was Carlos´ first visit to it, too, and we were able to tour it without a guide and take pictures. We saw a few churches, too. Roman Catholic, mostly, with statues and such that emphasize the violence with which Jesus died. Carlos and I agreed that the images don´t offer a lot of hope, and we´re both grateful to be Episcopalian.

We did some walking, which I always enjoy. It really is the best way to see a city. We rode a lot of busses, too, only this time the destinations were well worth the bus rides (unlike the place that shall not be named). El Lago de Coatepeque (Ko-ah-tay-pay-kay) and El Volcan Ilamatepec (Ee-la-ma-tay-payk) (a lake and a volcano) were beyond description, and my photos will not do them justice. It was the most beautiful place in all of El Salvador. That´s not just my opinion. I asked Carlos, a native, if there were more beautiful places in El Salvador, and he said there were not. I´ve decided to retire there. We sat for a time; Carlos had a soda, and I had a beer. It was raining and breezy ("fresca" is the word here) and very relaxing.

We left there (me reluctantly!) to go to Las Ruinas de San Andres (Mayan ruins). It, too, was beautiful. Tranquil. It was another place that Carlos had not visited, and I was pleased to share that with him.

Much occurred to me throughout the day. I saw a Church that was called "Iglesia Cristo es la Respuesta" (Christ is the Answer Church) and thought, "Okay. Christ is the answer. What´s the question?" I thought a lot about tables (not sure why), the various ones at which I have found myself on this journey, how unifying and equalizing they are, what the Lord´s Table really means for us, and what a privilege it is to prepare it for the Eucharist. I thought about the theology that says that the most important thing is to believe that Jesus Christ is Lord and Savior and that failure to believe that results in eternal separation from God. I thought about the millions of people in the countries I´ve visited who do in fact believe that, and I´ve wondered what benefit it has had for them ... and what harm. I thought about my nephew, CJ, who is as old as Carlos, and the opportunities he has that Carlos simply does not. I thought about the money I spent on brunch for me and Carlos and the people begging in the streets just outside. I thought about the bags of water for sale for 15 cents that, when empty, will be thrown onto the ground and find their way to the water sources that makes bags of sanitized water necessary.

Much tends to occur to me these days, hence the blogging, huh?

Anyway, I returned to the house really quite relaxed and in time to watch Scrubs.

It was a really great day!

Gracias a Dios!

The Church in Costa Rica

I´m two countries and one month out of Costa Rica (CR) and haven´t written about my experiences there. I´ve been wanting to do the Church justice, and I´m a trifle concerned I´ll fall short. So, Marta and Bishop Hector, if you´re reading this and I have something wrong or I´ve left something out, please post a comment or e-mail me, and I´ll take care of that.

Here goes ...

I arrived in San Jose, CR, having received a warm invitation from Bishop Hector Monterroso (who has been bishop for seven years) and everything else being coordinated by Marta Davis, the Companion Diocese Officer. I was given a safe place to sleep and delicious meals shared with wonderful people. I had looked at a hostal and decided to accept the Bishop´s offer to stay at the Diocesan House for the duration and was very touched by the look of relief on his face when he learned that I was staying at the house rather than elsewhere in the city. It was hospitality at it´s best ... and it gave me comfort to know how well strangers are welcomed, whether we be angels or not.

The Bishop and Marta took me to Hogar Escuela, which translates to Home School and means, more accurately, School Home. It´s a program that seems to be part daycare, part pre-school, part after-school, and part day-treatment, with it being fully staffed with educational, nutritial, and medical professionals. The entry about the garden was inspired by my visit there. The school and the Church attached to it have received loving care and attention from the diocese and from relationships it has built with dioceses in the U. S. The Bishop and Marta talked often of the international relationships that have been eseential to the nurturing of the Diocese of Costa Rica. I experienced a bit of those relationships, as two groups from the U. S. came while I was there, one from North Carolina, with whom CR has the longest standing relationship, and one from Wisconin, the Diocese of Fond du lac. Angie Smith, from Wisconsin, was part of the initial "wouldn´t it be great if" stage of the new school being built in Heredia and the Church that has recently been planted there.

A new church being planted is no small thing anywhere, and in CR, it´s really quite a statement, reflecitive of the priorities set by the Bishop: Expansion of the Church, Theological Education and Formation, and Christian Testimony to Service. The sites of the Episcopal Church in CR follow the once-upon-a-time railroad from Limón to San Jose. The oldest Episcopal Church in Central AMerica is El Buen Pastor (The Good Shepherd) in San Jose. There´s an Episcopal presence at all in Costa Rica because the laborers from the West Indies brought with them their Anglican tradition. The shift from the Anglican Church to the Episcopal Church is a story I don´t have.

The Bishop arranged for me to visit two other areas, Limón and Siquirres, and the churches there. I celebrated Mother´s Day at St. Mary´s in Siquirres, a day that this year coincided with the Feast of Mary (Aug 15th). The Bishop confirmed a number of young people, too. I was invited to read the Gospel in English while a priest read it in Spanish, and apparently our picture was sent to a newspaper, La Extra. I didn´t see it. That afternoon, I went to Limón and was hosted by Marcia Scott, a retired school teacher who prayed and sang with me. She showed me her church of St. Francis, and we prayed Morning Prayer one morning at St. Marks. She introduced me to some food I may actually try to cook back home and walked with me every morning. She accompanied me to the beach and to my canopy tour, though she declined to zip, and has said she´d welcome anyone who wanted to visit Costa Rica and needed a place to stay. I would gladly recommend her. Again, hospitality in top form.

My favorite experience in Limón was my time with The Mother´s Guild, the oldest organization in the Episcopal Church in CR. A group of about 8 women, one of whom was a deacon, visited two elderly women (one of whom was also a deacon!). These visits included singing, scripture reading, reflections, a bit of a sermon by the deacon we visited, and prayer. I was moved by the invitation at both homes to offer the closing prayer. These women´s first language is English, and it was spoken with a beautiful lilt reminiscent of their West Indian heritage, and I imagine their gracious spirits and love of God are part of that heritage as well, and I was blessed to share that fellowship.

I returned to Siquirres for the follwoing Sunday and was asked "to give the word, " which was an invitation to preach. I accepted the invitation, grateful that it was an English-speaking congregation. I was hosted by the priest of St. Mary´s Sonia Richards, and her husband. I was well-fed and well-informed. I practice the tiniest bit of Spanish, but as we all spoke English, we often resorted to that.

When I returned to San Jose and the Diocesan House, the group from Wisconsin was there, and I was among friends again. They graciously invited me to go with them to work on the new school being built. I spent the day digging trenches and remembering why I´m so very gratefl for the education that allows me not to have to work so hard. The construction crew members are from Nicaragua, hard-working, focused young men who make next to no money and stay at the site, sleeping in a makeshift lean-to that can´t possibly protect them from all the rain. The Wisconsin Group also invited me to dinner with Padre Jorge and his family. Padre Jorge is the priest at the church growing in Heredia. He and his wife provided a wonderful meal of new foods I actually tried and enjoyed, and wine, which is always good. I practiced a bit more Spanish, and conversations flowed as they tend to when one is among family and friends.

The Church in Costa Rica has committed itself to working with women and children. This commitment has received national attention, and while the only recognized church in Costa Rica is the Roman Catholic Church (others are considered "asssociations"), the government has financially invested in the programs initiated by the Episcopal Church. It´s one more relationship cultivated by the Bishop and reflective of the priorities he set forth for the diocese.

I wrote in an entry about Managua all the things I hated about the place. Many of those things were true in Costa Rica as well, although the level of desperation is significantly greater in Managua than in any other place I´ve visited. (Note: The unemployment rate in Nicaragua is about 70%, compared to the 10 to 20 percent in other countries I´ve visited so far.) While the conditions were similiar -- and photos would help to illustrate that -- the difference for me was the presence and activity of the Church. The Costa Rican Church is ENGAGED! And engagement means change and hope for more.

I´m grateful to Bishop Hector, Marta, the Wisconsin Group, and to the priests I met for bringing into sharp focus the absolutely essential responsibility the Church has to God´s people. I´m grateful my Costa Rican experience stands in sharp contrast to my experience in Managua, but beyond that, I´m grateful that there are loving, committed, hope-filled people working with and for these of God´s people who need the salvation that comes with the justice that is the Good News of Jesus Christ.

I´m grateful, too, for the example of the Church in Costa Rica. I hope I follow it a fraction as well.

Things that make me smile ...

The little girl who smiled at me as she drank the bag of water she was able to have because I gave her a penny.
New friends waiting patiently while I put together a sentence in Spanish.
Men in cowboy hats carrying machetes.
My hostess making a special meal for me because beans were otherwise on the menu.
Little boys and homemade kites.
Sleeping with the windows open when it´s raining outside.
The Merlot Hotel -- Peg, that´s for you!
A sign that said "Donde sus amigos." (For those of you who don´t know Spanish, that reads "Where your friends.")
That I get Spanish jokes ... every now and then.
Margaritas on the beach.
Yogurt containers being used as coffee cups at coffee hour.
Invitations.
My Jose Cuervo flipflops, which I received from a woman sweeping the floor and not wanting me to have to walk barefoot ... as she then had to.
Living the truth of "Mi casa es su casa."
Mid-day siestas.
Churches you can´t get to from here... and the people who attend (and attend to) them.
Pretty much any vista of the countryside.
De Colores!
Local beers.
Turtles eating tortillas.
Toddlers being the same in every country.
Rows of brightly colored gingerbread-type houses.
"Coffee black" meaning "coffee with sugar."
Bathrooms with toilet paper.
Books of Common Prayer.
Pepsi in glass bottles.
Grandsons with their arms around their grandmothers.
Parades of pararguas (umbrellas) of every imaginable color.
Couples riding bicyles built for one.
Cattle grazing on the side of the road.
And hammocks!

I hated Managua! And the Church was no better!

I know. Hate is a strong word, and if my nieces and nephews are reading this, they´re probably saying, "Aunt Janet, we don´t say that word." And I don´t ... typically. It´s a word, though, and a feeling that came up entirely too often in Manuaga. I´ve hesitated writing about it because I didn´t like the thoughts I was having or what of me they reflected. However, the experience stands in dark contrast to other experiences here, and I need to share it.

I hated it! I hated the noise and the pressure and the ugliness. I hated the 15 passenger vans crammed with 23 passengers and that little bastard who "helped" me off the van. I wasn´t moving fast enough, I guess, and time is money! I remember jerking my arm out of his hand and knowing that if he touched me again, I was going to hit him! I hated the taxi drivers hovering / lurking, all of them asking if I want a taxi-- like I can´t see them sitting there and could ask for a cab if I needed one! I hated the creepy little man who spoke to mek in English, warning me about where it was safe to walk and touting himself as someone I could trust. I hated the beeping that meant any number of things -- You´re in my way. I´m on your left. Do you need a cab? Get out of my way. What the hell´s the hold up? You s.o.b. I hated the jingling bells of the ice cream carts that sold stale, already-melting ice cream sundae cones. I hated the internet / phone center -- the only available option -- that had no concept of customer service. I hated the greed, desperation, and entitlment that robbed me of my chance ... and willingness ... to be generous. I hated feeling all the time like a mark, like someone -- some thing -- to be used as a means to an end. I hated the streets with no names or numbers and their being too dangerous to walk ... even in the daylight. I hated nothing being tourist-friendly and whatever it was that prevented people from seeing just how badly tourism is needed. I hated the dilapitated buildings and neglected parks. I hated the pretty monuments that honored a revolution that has had no visible lasting benefit to the people. I hated the contaminated water and the unbelievably excessive littering that contributed to it. I hated the sparkling metro centro (i.e. mall) steeming with all kinds of life ... in too close proximity to the shantytown suffocating from all manners of death.

And I hated the Church for it´s inactivity and excuses. By "the Church," I mean the Episcopal Church. I´ve met with people from each diocese I´ve visited so far. In Panamá, Costa Rica, and El Salvador, I was well-received and well-informed. Folks were eager to share all that was going on in their country (each country is a diocese) ... mostly because things were happening. I´ll tell you more about some of that in another entry or two. The Church in Managua was different. (Disclaimer -- I understand that George Porter, the dean of the cathedral in Bluefields, and the churches there are active and thriving, and I want not to generalize my thoughts / feelings about the Church in Managua to the Church in all of Nicaragua.) I didn´t have much exposure to the Church in Managua, and that was the beginning of my opinion. I had no contact with the bishop, aside from the exchange of peace at the Mass. One young man I met offered to show me another church, and I enjoyed the celebration there. The priest, however, didn´t talk with me about his work or the work of the church. He engaged in a kind of healing service that was too charismatic for my taste ... and a little too much about his reputation. My chaperone was suspicious of the practice, too. My chaperone was a young man (17 yrs old) who wants to be a priest ... and the Church will be blessed to have him. (I plan to return to Nicaragua for his ordination to the priesthood ... and again to his consecration as bishop!) He´s frustrated with the inactivity of the church as well and has much to say about the practices and policies of the bishop, too. I also spoke with a deacon. I´ve been very curious about the role of the deacon in the churches in Central America. There are deacons in Costa Rica and Nicaragua, and all of them are transitional. They serve as priests-in-training. The deacon I spoke with confirmed that. I asked the questions I usually ask about location and membership, justice issues, and the Church´s relationship with the communities in which they´re found and with the government. I learned that the priests are too busy to do much about justice issues. I´m not willing to accept that. I understand there are elderly and sick to visit ... and if that´s all that get´s done, then the church is dying and priests serve as little more than keepers of the crypt. I learned that the church passes resolutions about justice issues, much like we do in the U.S., but this deacon was unable to tell me what gets done with those resolutions after convention. I told her about the Episcopal Public Policy Network and how the role of the deacon, at least as I understand it, is as a bridge between the church and the world and a symbol and model of service ... and how all of that mandates communication with the government and the support and work of the priest and the congregation to carry out the resolutions passed. The deacon told me that there´s no point in talking to the government because the only recognized church is the Roman Catholic Church, and the government is corrupt anyway. My unspoken thought was ... Great! It takes the Church back to the first days when the church was illegal ... and engaged, vibrant, radical ... and changing the world! And there was nothing to lose! Why not be the force to be reckoned with?! The never-to-be-silenced voice speaking for the voiceless?! The deacon added that the people are too much pacifists to engage in the work I was talking about anyway.

It was with that sentiment that I realized all I was getting was excuses, and it was with that sentiment that I added my anger at the church to the anger -- hatred! -- of the city in which it stood. There are so many issues the church could be doing something -- anything! -- about and just isn´t. And "The Church" has no business touting itself as "The Body of Christ" if it´s not going to at least attempt to care for its members.

The whole thing grieves me in my spirit, and I share the experience in the hopes of moving through it. It has, however, served one good purpose. It is informing my view of the Gospel, the work of the Church, and the role of the deacon ... indeed of all servants of God.

And I´m so very pleased that my experiences with the other Churches in Central America are informing my views as well and that those experiences stand in sharp sharp sharp contrast to the Church in Managua. I look forward to sharing that with you, too.

Listening

It´s a primary task of a servant leader, of a Christian wanting to live and work as Jesus did, and of a good friend. It´s part of my job back in Wisconsin, and it´s certainly what I want to do here in Central America. I mentioned in another entry, I think, that people speak English in many places I´ve visited so far, and it´s been easy to listen in those places. I understand what I´m hearing, and just by virtue of sharing the same language, I seem to have permission to ask questions.

It´s different when the language isn´t shared. I may very well be able to form the initial question in Spanish, and I may even understand the general message of the response. My fear is that I wouldn´t understand enough of the message to respond well ... with an appropriate emotional response or a follow up question that would indicate that the other person has been heard and understood. This matters when the topics are casual things such as the weather, holidays, or the movies. It matters with less casual topics, such as family, the work of the Church, and government policies and practices. It matters most -- and I feel the weight of it greatest -- when the conversation is about fears and failures, hopes and asperations, and visions of God´s reign in the world.

I carry in my heart the weight of my inability to listen particularly to the victims of nemagon poisoning. I wanted very much to spend time with the people who live in the shantytown I mentioned in my first entry about Managua. They´ve been living there for five years, a protest for the use of the pesticide that has left hundreds of people dying, without compensation, recourse, or hope. There´s no missing this shanty town. You can´t get the mall without passing it ... and right across the street is a project constructing houses that will be used by government officials. The injustice is blatant! The disregard for human dignity and life is palpable! And the United States´role in it is ... well, I don´t know a word strong enough to finish that sentence.

I wanted to hear the stories of these men, women and children who live under shelter no more sturdy or permanent than too-worn tarp or old black plastic garbage bags. I wanted to hear the stories I can´t read on the internet (even if I could find a recent update!). I wanted to hear them, and I wanted them to know they´ve been heard.

What I hear well is Scripture. It speaks to me clearly. Sometimes it speaks the words I need to hear for myself -- words of hope, mercy, and direction. Sometimes the words are those my soul can´t summon to my brain, words that would express my thoughts and feelings in a way that I could share them with others. And sometimes, the words are those I can imagine others saying ... praying. Psalm 44: 23-26 is a resounding example of the latter, as I hear the protesters lament:

Awake, O Lord! Why do you sleep?
Rouse yourself! Do not reject us forever.
Why do you hide your face
and forget our misery and oppression?
We are brought down to the dust;
our bodies cling to the ground.
Rise up and help us;
redeem us because of your unfailing love.

My only consolation is that God hears, listens, and responds infinitely greater than I ... and without fail. What I´m left to do is learn the language that closes the communication gap. I pray that my mind and heart are open enough so all that´s left to be opened are my ears.

Please God, let it be so.

Just an Update

Greetings, Followers and Others --

I´ve had a rather emotional time here in Nicaragua. There´s certainly more to write about my experiences here, and in addition to those experiences and reactions to that, a friend died, another -- my oldest friend! -- is moving to the east coast, and I recalled the last weeks of my mom´s life. I´ve internalized more than ever the importance of friends and family, and I´m grateful to you all.

I leave for El Salvador in the morning and will update again when I have a chance.

Paz!

Managua -- Not my favorite place!

I´ve been here about 24 hours, and I´ve already seen all there is to see ... or at least all that´s safe for me to see. I was transported to the one place it was apparently safe enough for me to tour solo. It was the Parque Historico, also known as the Loma de Tiscapa, high on a hill overlooking the city and Lake Managua. It´s also the former site of the Presidential Palace. I say former, because it was destroyed by the earthquake in 1972 (I think; here we go with dates again). There were a couple expositions to view, one of which was regarding "The Nights of Torture." It´s a horrifying story of men being tortured for being enemies of the state (i.e. political prisioners). I stood in the space that was the dungeon. I want to read the story in English (and can´t find it in short order on the Internet), because it´s one of those stories that defines a nation, I think, and so much of it was lost in translation.

I was guided through the story and the space by Ulises (his first name is Roger, and he prefers Ulises -- his spelling, not mine). He´s a college-educated tour guide who works for the mayor. He practiced his English, and I practiced my Spanish, and we did rather well. I lamented to him that the Lake of Managua and the ruins I could see from the Historical Park were too dangerous for a tourist, and he offered to show me around, which he did. We did that on foot, and he pointed out a lot of things. We walked through the Arboretum; there was shade! We saw construction in the works. Apparently, the government is building houses for the personnel who work for various government agencies.

We also saw something ... I don´t know the word to describe it. It´s a commune of sorts of abodes "constructed" of plastic bags and tarps -- nothing more solid -- in which live people who have been contaminated by the pesticides in the banana fields. It´s about one block wide and two blocks long, and there are barely paths that wide through it. The material for pictures was endless ... and entirely too intimate to capture digitally. I have photos from a distance (which I can´t post from this Internet place). The government doesn´t bother ... and doesn´t bother with ... the people who live there. I don´t know how long they´ve been there, and there are no signs that they´re leaving soon.

Ulises and I moved on toward the water. We saw a big theater -- Teatro Nacional Rubèn Darìo -- which is one of the few buildings to have survived the 1972 earthquake. We saw the new National Palace -- Palacio Nacional ... and children begging. Five children ran up to us begging ... and I mean begging ... for the water we had. We gave it to them. One of the children followed us a ways. Ulises didn´t respond to him for the longest time, and I followed Ulises´lead. Ulises eventually gave him 5 còrdobas (it´s about a quarter) for more water. I asked, then, about the best way to respond, and he told me that giving money was not the best idea. He then told the story the boy was telling: the boy´s mother sends children out in search of money or water or food ... the basics! ... because she´s sick and cannot work.

I´d been warned about this. It was the reason I was supposed to not go there alone. Lesson learned. It was really quite unnerving. It was the same kind of unnerving that greeted me last night. I arrived via the bus and was staying at the hotel 0perated by the bus line. I wanted to walk around and get my bearings. IMMEDIATELY upon exiting the building several taxi drivers asked if I wanted a cab. That is par. That happens every time I step outside or pause too long on the sidewalk. Taxi drivers beep in the hopes they can snag another fare. As I walked last night, I was informed that it was too dangerous. ("Peligroso" is becoming a frightfully familiar word.) One man called to me from across the street asking if I wanted a taxi or was looking for a hotel. I said no to both and continued walking. When I came around again to the hotel, he spoke to me in English about it being too dangerous and how helpful he was. He told me about his aunt´s restaurant and offered to show it to me. I declined and returned to my hotel. (He greeted me the next day -- Hey, there´s my friend, he said. And I was warned by someone else to be careful about him.) It´s dark here at 6, and it´s not okay to walk ANYWHERE after dark. I stopped somewhere for batteries for my camera (it´s been dead for two days, and I felt like I lost a limb!), and the woman at the store cautioned me, too. I appreciate people giving me that information, and it´s stifling not to be able to walk around when and where I want to.

Which is why I enjoyed the tour this a.m. with Ulises. We walked and walked. The Casa Presidencial is opposite the Palacio Nacional and next to the ruins I was drawn to -- Las Ruinas de la Catedral Vieja (the Ruins of the Old Cathedral). It was built in 1929 and destroyed by the earthquake n 1972. We found the lake shore. We couldn´t walk in the water -- more signs indicating danger -- but the view was incredible! We stopped for a beer -- more research! -- and exchanged e-mail information. Ulises also talked with me about things to see outside of the city, and we´ve planned a trip to a waterfall in Masaya (read Messiah) on Saturday. He´s volunteered his time! How fantastic is that?!

I´ll attend church services Sunday morning. There is an Episcopal Church one block from where I´m staying. How providential! I´m not crazy about the neighborhood, but it´s apparently among the safest in the city, and the Church is a good sign. I´m considering flying to Bluefields early next week. I don´t necessarily need to spend more time on the Carribean Coast, as too many people speak English. However, getting out of the city is not an easy thing to do. There is a bus that apparently goes to Leòn, Masaya, and Granada, but there are none that go elsewhere, apparently, only directly to destinations in Honduras and El Salvador. I may want to visit Granada, because the Lake of Nicaragua is there. There are also a couple volcanoes to visit, I think, and I´ll want to talk with Ulises about that. There is a growing Episcopal Church in Bluefields, so that would be good to see. From there, I may fly directly to San Salvador, as the bus ride between Managua and San Salvador is 12 hrs long. OY!

The views on the trip from the border of Costa Rica to Managua are FANTASTIC, and the views (from the high places) of the city are really quite breathtaking, too. It´s really quite sad that the place is so dangerous and the people so desperate. That desperation is what is so unsettling and disquieting. It´s difficult to be present to it -- perhaps because it heightens my own feelings of vulnerability and hints at my own sense of desperation-- and I´m not doing well with it. I´m embarrassed by my response, by my wanting to escape. That´s what I´m sitting with currently. I´m in a city that in several ways is not welcoming, and I´m trying ... trying ... not to judge the people by the circumstances in which they find themself and to which they are responding.

May God help me!

Spanish ... or Not

As most of you know, I serve with two congregatations in Sparta, Wisconsin, one Anglo and one Hispanic. While my Hispanic brothers and sisters are very generous about my Spanish, they certainly deserve better than they get from me. That was the primary reason for my coming on this trip. There are other reasons, of course, and God has a way of making that quite clear every day. Learning, listening to, and speaking Spanish, though, really were the primary reasons for my taking this journey. And it´s coming. Despacio, pero esta viniendo! Aprendo y comprendo mas cada día. (Slowly, but it is coming. I learn and understand more every day.) However, I have found myself in the part of Central America where people generally speak English.

In Panamá, I landed in the Canal Zone, which was established by the Americans when we were there helping to build and manage the Canal. The church I first worshipped in, St. Luke´s Cathedral, was founded by a U.S. Army physician. The current Bishop, a black man from Panamá, offered his homily in Spanish and English, and there were more than a few people who looked and sounded like me. I met a woman who had been born and raised in Panamá, lived in the U. S. with her husband during their professional days and retired to the place she knows as home. There were others, though, who looked nothing like me and spoke English with the most beautiful cadence and accent.

These folks were my introduction to the West Indies´ influence here in Central America. West Indians provided the hard labor necessary for construction ... of the Canal in Panama and the railroad in Costa Rica. The people I was meeting were decendents of those men and woman who came to Central America to work and raise their families. Not all of them worked in construction. As communities of laborers built up, other services were needed, and people from back home came to provide those services and soon became businessmen and women -- professionals.

The West Indians were not allowed to worship in "white" churches. I don´t know when that changed, exactly, but I was told that the racial issue in Panamá followed the same pattern as in the United States.

It was curious to know who spoke English and who did not, and my own preconceived notions (prejudices, I´m sorry to say) were challenged. I met a priest 15 or 20 years older than I am who spoke no English and one of her parishioners who spoke it well. In fact, she interpreted for me and the priest. This parishioner was an 80-year-old black woman. Imagine my surprise -- and utter joy -- at hearing her say "okey-dokey." I´m not even sure my very WASP-y grandmother says "okey-dokey."

People of West Indian heritage are why English is so prevelant on the Carribean Coast of Central America. I´m aware of the town of Bluefields, Nicaragua, also on the Carribean Coast, for whom the primary language is English. (I´ll be visiting there sometime in the next couple weeks, as there is a growing Episcopal Church there, too.) However, English is fading. The newer generations, I´ve been told, seem to be denying their black heritage and want to be known / identified only as Spanish-speaking Costa Ricans -- Ticas!

Some families choose to send their children to "English schools" to insure that their children are bilingual, even if the parents themselves are not. Private schools teach English as core curriculuum; public schools do not. There is an Episcopal School in Panama -- St. Christopher´s -- from which children will graduate fluent in English and Spanish and conversational in French. Mandarin is also offered. The Episcopal Schools are the best in Panamá. Families register their children as infants in the hopes that there will be space available when the time comes. Costa Rica may very well be following in those footsteps, but that´s another blog post.

Most of the services I´ve attended have either been in English or have been bilingual ... and heavy on the English. I´m wondering if that´s going to have to change. There are a couple generations now for whom Spanish is their first and preferred language. They are generations not found in the churches here, and I have to wonder if the language issue is part of that. In all fairness, they are probably the same generations not found in the churches in the U.S., and language isn´t the issue there. Or is it? In order to listen to the reasons the generations are not in the church and to hear what they need and hunger for, language is the issue. In the U.S., we can´t speak of traditional worship when the generations are clamoring for justice and spiritual growth. In Central America -- and here´s hoping my Central American colleagues speak to this -- the church can´t speak English when the hearts of its people grieve and celebrate in Spanish. In our communities, we are called to love people where they are. And maybe ... just maybe ... we´re called to speak to them in the language their hearts best understand.

I´ve been grateful for the English that has allowed me to receive and absorb as many of the personal stories and as much of the history as I have in these few weeks. And I´ll be grateful, too, to move into those areas that will empower me to return home and speak to the hearts of my Hispanic brothers and sisters in the language their hearts best understand.