The Book Miracle Continues... By Guest Author Jennifer Burley

As we were leaving New Life Children’s Home in Jalaca, Honduras, I promised to return when I had collected 100 more books for the library we started there.  The need was so great and God just laid that on my heart in a way that I could not ignore.

I selected 100 books that I felt would be appropriate and began a campaign in our church.  I prepared a chart with each of the titles on a little cut-out book.  People were encouraged to adopt a book for $10 and place the money and the little cutout in an envelope we provided.  That money was then given to the church as a designated donation to the Honduras Book Project.  Through this project and some individual donations, we raised $1305.

I placed a book order for 50 books with amazon.com (using my own credit card account) and soon the books began to arrive, a small box or two every week. I placed orders in increments of 50 items and when I had spent about $950, I turned in receipts to the church for reimbursement. A check was mailed to me, but it never arrived!  When I called the financial secretary after a reasonable time to check on it, neither of us had a clue concerning where it might be.  She canceled payment, wrote another check and I went to the church to pick it up. (Not taking a chance on losing another one!)

Because I wanted the financial secretary to be able to close out that account at the end of December, I placed a final book order with the remaining $350.  The books began to arrive and the shelves in my guest room began to fill up.  Just when I thought all the books were in place, another shipment arrived – duplicates!  Because I am not a frequent online shopper, I assumed that I had made a mistake.  Having already spent all the money collected through the church campaign, I resigned myself to absorbing this extra cost and considering it a donation to the New Life Children’s Home library.  I must admit, a part of me was a little bit excited because some of the teachers on our mission team had talked about how great it would be to have duplicates so that two children could read the same book at the same time and talk about it.  However, December was not the best time to absorb an extra expense.

On December 15, I received an email from amazon.com telling me that, due to a web site error, they had duplicated my recent order.  I was asked to respond to the email so they could credit my account for the duplicate charges.  In addition, the duplicate items do not need to be returned!  That means an additional 37 books are headed to Honduras with the next Spring Valley Baptist Church mission team in July 2012!

When God puts His hand on something, no one can predict the outcome!

The Container

           A deep rumbling filled the road. The earth vibrated beneath our sandals. We all froze – there, there! A rousing cheer lifted from the children and echoed through the valley. “The truck is coming! The truck is coming!”

           Little feet ran alongside the fence – awaiting the arrival of the huge flat-bed truck, its tires imminently sounding on the drive. Bright smiles beamed across faces, slick with sweat. Deep sighs – This moment was so long in coming – too long. Six months late.

           For six months, these orphanage founders had awaited these food parcels. For six months, they clung to the knowledge that medicine was on its way. For six months, they knew computer supplies were coming, one of their few links to the outside world. For six months, they prayed for tools that would make their lives – and the lives of their students and for the whole community – better. Finally, that day arrived.

Miraculously, that day coincided with our last day in the village – our very last one in Honduras. We were actually scheduled to be touring the Valley of Angels. But, knowing that strong hands and backs would be needed was reason enough for six men, a trio of women and a couple of kids to stay behind. Thank God we did. We had no clue what the day would hold.

           The container had been sitting in port – after having been filled by friends and supporters in Texas. The Honduran authorities had not released it for one reason or another - day after day, week after week, month after month. Every day the missionaries spent in the city trying to jump through the hoops of bureaucracy to get it released – was another day kept from vital work at the orphanage itself. So, for months, this load of food, a push lawn mower, medicine, clothes, school supplies, furniture, lumber, bicycles, and several brick-making machines – all this sat and waited.

           Evidently, the port officials would open the container periodically to inspect and for one reason or another, hold it in quarantine for more time. (Please excuse and forgive any inaccuracies; any mistakes in understanding the full grasp of the situation, I take full responsibility for.) Finally, thankfully, miraculously, one day it was released. Our last day. A miracle came to Jalaca!

           The men (our six volunteers and assorted men and older boys from the children’s home) climbed in the huge open flat-bed truck just after lunch. They were headed to the city to claim the items with a couple of locals and several armed police guards in full uniform carrying assault rifles. Their job was to bring all the contents of that huge container home safely and the armed guards were there to ensure those truckloads made it to their final destination intact.

           Eric recalls seeing the container for the first time – he remembers it as a mountain, an overwhelming mound of stuff. “That mound was never-ending. You’d think you’d gotten to the end… but, then you realized that as you moved things around to reach the back, you still had all this stuff piled along the sides of the container. And the bags and boxes that were broken? Stuff was everywhere!” Of course, once the first truck load was filled – higher than one would ever imagine, one of the security guards and a man would stay behind to protect the remaining items in the container from being stolen. That left five of our men, a guard and a few others to discover places to ride. Since the front of the truck was reserved for the driver and his partner, everyone else just had to find a spot of their own.  Most of the younger guys crawled to the top of the heap and rode jostling back. Several hung on to the back and sides of the truck – grasping the slats for support. So, when that truck rumbled up the road to the orphanage with those men and boys hanging all over it, it was like a party. You couldn’t help but cheer! “The truck is here! The truck is here!”

What else fits in a container? Huge beams of lumber. A bookcase or two. Boxes full of diapers. Books (written in English). Two cast-iron kitchen sinks. Doors. A wood heater. A cast-iron stove. Boxes of school supplies and crafts. Bags upon bags upon bags of clothing. Two to three bicycles, sadly all with flat tires. Fifty pound bags of food. (Picture those super-huge bags of dog food and then pretend that’s rice or beans or grain inside.) Plus assorted food boxes, cans and bags from smaller food drives – all tossed into heavy boxes. Two brick-making machines – hundreds of pounds each.

Brick-making machines. Just picture – how do you remove hundreds of pounds of steel from a high truck to the ground having virtually no tools to do so? Thankfully, the tractor had been fixed just recently; gratefully, too, it had been a stop during the prayer-walking experience. Otherwise, I don’t believe that little tractor could have handled the weight and awkward size of those pieces of equipment. Ahhh though… the brick-making machines may have a huge impact on the vocational education of the children. In a community where people build homes from sheet metal, pieces of wood, cardboard and whatever they have, how vital a role those bricks will  play in the whole village! This equipment will give people a chance to work and contribute to society.

           So, what does it look like to have a massive truck back up to the front of the Mission House porch to bring desperately-needed supplies to the orphanage? Again, overwhelming for people who are used to cooking for four and used to running to the store whenever we need anything. For Georgia and Jim, a full truck-load looks amazingly like Christmas! Even more than Christmas! Everyone affiliated with the children’s home was ecstatic and so grateful to see the piles and piles of gifts from people who just really wanted to lend a hand.

As one of the first food boxes came out though, Ron (Jim & Georgia’s son-in-law) whisked up to a box and pulled out the first food container he laid his hands on, looking expertly for the expiration date. Expired. That box was too late. It had been in port too long. Heart-breaking! (Worthy to note: New Life Children’s Home has an organized system, a great way of keeping up with the dated food products and medicines. Volunteers had organized these items earlier – putting the medicines and products in the front that needed to be used first. The newer products, having the later expiration dates, were organized behind the first ones.)

Again, when we Americans looked at the truck, we saw those cheaper brands of black garbage bags – they literally looked like they had exploded throughout the truck.  All their contents were spilling out and littering the floor, now being stepped on as we quickly tried to empty the truck and let it return for their last loads before dark. Even food was now spilling out from gaping holes in some of those fifty-pound bags, sliding on the floor of the truck and now the porch itself. We saw smashed boxes, expired food, dirty clothes, frustration. We saw that perhaps there were things we Americans could do to prevent such a mess when the gifts actually reached Honduras.

Again, though, all the Hondurans saw was wonderful! They were so grateful and appreciative – for everything and anything!

We worked quickly – we had to. Men’s work boots skidded and slid on that slick rice. A carpet of grain littered the porch where it just dripped off the back of the truck. Every so often, we’d grab a broom and try to sweep up the spilled beans and rice so volunteers could safely navigate the porch and maybe even save some of that food. Those fifty-pound bags of food were soooo heavy practically everyone just had to stand back out of the way. The strongest of the men would form a line – a lot like the lines firefighters use when hoisting. They would toss the huge bags from one to another, stacking them in tall stacks on pallets on the front porch. The children could not possibly have moved these bags.

Everyone pitched in though – even the armed guards. Eric recalls seeing that guard dressed seriously in his all-black uniform and that shiny assault rifle hanging from his side. Wasn’t he surprised to see the guard reach over and begin passing food? And how surprised that guard was when a huge bag of flour opened – just to spill a puff of white all over the front of that man’s uniform and sift down over his rifle! 

           And the children! They were such troopers. Since the older boys were helping with the manly work, the middle boys and a few younger ones assisted at the mission house. Once all the items were moved from the truck to the porch, the men would quickly pile back onto the truck and head bouncing back up the mountain road to retrieve yet another truck load of stuff. While they were gone, the women and children’s work began. The food boxes and cans had to be relocated to the storage building. The younger boys took it upon themselves to move the food and toiletries. Those huge and heavy boxes – ones I struggled myself in picking up – those cumbersome loads were eagerly, smilingly taken by those sweet boys. They had a hard time picking the heavy boxes up from the floor; they much preferred to have the boxes hoisted up to their little shoulders. “Gracious,” they would smile before turning and making the trek to the storage building. Honestly, I hated to see such young things working so hard – and intended to move as many boxes myself. However, each time I would lift a box from the floor and prepare to haul it myself to the shed, a smiling faced-fellow would pop up right in front of me and motion for me to hand the load to him. Each would smile and start out strongly. As some walked though, I noticed their steps become more halting and their shoulders, more droopy. A few walked until the boxes shifted and fell. As the boys trooped back and forth from the house, young ones would stop to assist, helping fallen brothers up and on their way again.

           One middle boy stayed at the storage building, a commissioner of sorts. He would listen as each of us shared the contents of the box and point, directing the items to their proper location. What an important job for a youngster! Toothpaste and tomatoes, shampoo and soup – he knew right where each item would go.

While waiting for the next truckload to return, we would have small break times. We would take a few minutes to organize what was on the porch – these kids were all expert sorters: School supplies to the left of the front door; clothing to the right. Furniture, here; computer supplies, there. Of course, those huge bags of beans and rice were stacked to the far right of the porch. As we sorted and moved, we encountered those broken bags and boxes – and the articles within. There was one huge box all the children were attracted to – it had a very cool and modern looking picture of a scooter on the front. I lifted the corner and looked inside. I sighed. Diapers. (Of course, they needed diapers and would really use them. But, that box? That box thrilled the children to no end.) Their eyes would light up as they passed by, envisioning themselves on that cool scooter. “Non, non. That’s just a bad old box,” I informed them, lifting the corner for them to see. Awww…

The children would gently sift through the spilled containers. They’d rub their little tummies and “ooh” over vegetables in a mismarked box. Yes, vegetables! They would browse the pictures of English-written books and magazines, noticing the styles of the women and giggling. When some adult discovered a box full of shoes, invitations were made. Little feet scrambled into sandals, flip-flops, and crocks. It was truly a celebration! The clothing articles that littered the porch were held up next to little tan bodies. Children gushed over their appearance. I carefully dug through one bag to discover a hand-knitted hat – a knitted hat for a Honduran.  Who would ever have imagined? One of the precious boys looked at me. I held up the olive green hat and said, “Hey! This would look great on you. Try it on…” (Half-joking, I might add.) Did I mention the huge olive-green buttons encircling the whole top of the hat? The boy put that hat on as we all oohed and ahhed. “You can have it, if you want.” “Gracious,” he smiled back at me. I want you to know that sixteen hours later, that child was still wearing that olive green, knitted hat as we hugged good-bye.

None of us realized how much stuff could fit into a container – literally three full and overflowing trips to town with the huge truck and lots of willing hands. Looking back, it was all such a blur. But, we estimate it took about nine hours. Nine straight hours of bumping up and down that mountain road those four and a half miles to the town, loading and loading, and then coming back to unload. The men never stopped until the last brick-making machine was set in place after nine p.m. I look back with mixed emotions on that day. Exhaustion. Some disappointments. Frustration. Expired foods, burst bags, grimy clothes, misleading boxes and flat bicycle tires. Yet, there was celebration over amenities to make life easier, foods and medicines to make little bodies healthier, tools to educate and enable them to provide better futures for all.

Once the extraordinary strenuous day was over, several of us gathered to debrief. We shuddered to think about all those piles of items, all those foodstuffs and more, being brought to the orphanage without someone there to help haul them. We were so thankful that God’s timing was perfect.

Superman - Guest Author Zach Barnes

        Thursday was the first day I went to a school because I had been working other places. I had already played soccer with the kids in town. When we went to the first school, the elementary school, everyone was busy. Mr. Patterson was doing Recreation. Miss Allyson was talking to some children. There was a puppet skit going on. Brandi and I were sitting at the back, leaning against a wall. We were blowing up inflatable balls.

We looked over to see a kid we recognized from the town. We had begun calling him Superman. He was peering over the wall, watching us interact with the school children. Since we didn’t have anything special we were assigned to do right then, we started handing him crackers over the wall and doing things to make him laugh.

        Once we began to be involved in dealing with the elementary school kids, we still looked over to see him continue peering back over the wall. Right before we left the elementary school, while we were packing up our things, we saw Superman climbing on his bike and riding down the road back towards Jalaca.

        I think Miss Allyson asked one of the teachers about him. His name was Gary. He couldn’t afford the school uniform; so, he was unable to go to school.

        So we packed everything back in the truck and started riding to the next place, a middle school. We passed a very familiar boy wearing a Superman shirt on the way.

        The middle school was a much more frustrating experience. The Honduras middle school kids acted about the same as American middle school kids – difficult to teach, tough to keep their attention and somewhat disrespectful. Toward the end of this visit, I became very discouraged with the whole situation and the lack of responsiveness these middle schoolers had in comparison to the earlier elementary schoolers. As I was discussing my frustrations with my mom, she told me of her discussion with Mrs. Grooms and how if even one kid was impacted by what we did, then all of the frustrations would be worth it.

        As I looked around, I saw that familiar Superman tee-shirt and that face peering through that fence. Superman Gary had followed us a couple of miles from the elementary school just to hear what we had to say – all over again. And I couldn’t help but feel that maybe all we had done that day – just maybe – it had been for Gary to hear.  

(Photo courtesy of Amanda Ayers)

Pajama Party - Part II

Is there anyone out there who still believes that boys and girls are just alike? This pajama party illustrated all the ways they differ. What had been quiet, sweet, special moments with those charming girls became something entirely different with that adorable bunch of boys! The girls had filed into the room, in line, calmly and quietly looked across all the pajamas to pick something special for them. The boys came in clumps, hooping and hollering up the stairs, “Hey! Pajama por me, right? O-kay?” Finally, we gave up on the numbers of kids in the room. At one point, I think there must have been 5 or 6 boys shopping around. They appreciated the pajamas in a different way. For the most part, they all chose much larger sizes than American kids. I guess it was so easy just to get something big you loved and grow into it rather than be worried about it becoming too small too fast.

Of course, with my kindergartners being some of the biggest contributors, we had plenty of nice, smaller-sized things for them to wear. Even so, all the boys (even the biggest) were enamored by a pair of screen-printed teeny-tiny pj’s. “OoooOOOOoo… Mario!” they each said reverently. (Tiffany remembered noticing a Mario game in one of the older boys’ rooms on a shelf. By the way, she noticed it because there were so few toys in their bedrooms – and that had been the only electronic game that we had seen at all.)

Enjoy more sweet stories of our boys with their new pajamas:

Earlier during the

Pajama Drive

at school… It had been fun to see the huge variety of items that surfaced during the drive. The kindergartners and I would giggle from time to time about all the different types. One pair especially struck me – size 10, boys, red flannel, long-sleeved, plaid pajamas. It reminded me of those sweet family photos for Christmas cards when mothers dress up all their children in pajamas. Some young man had probably indulged his mother one last time for her favorite photograph.  When folding and packing those plaid ones, I wondered if a Honduran young man would be drawn to them. I shouldn’t have worried at all. When we laid out the larger size pajamas, most looked more sporty, more cool – tank tops and athletic shorts. Plus that one festive, red flannel, Christmassy-looking suit…

In walked that gang of boys. One quieter older boy looked down the sofa, taking in all the pairs of pajamas. Smiling, he walked – no, he was skipping - right over to those festive pj’s! He zipped into Lawrence’s restroom. We stood outside, eyebrows raised and fingers crossed. The door opened. Out he came – strolling with his head held high straight to the floor-length mirror. The perfect look! The perfect fit! Those Christmas pajamas had found a home – with someone who truly loved them – in Honduras!

Our Christian was the perfect recipient of the Batman pajamas. The sorters from the team had already raved over how cute those pajamas were. Once we met Christian, we couldn’t imagine seeing anyone else in them. Thankfully, he was really the only one the right size to wear them. Seeing him gaze at the cape in the mirror – and realize what it was for… precious! He put his arms straight out in front of him as he zipped up and down through the room. “Da da da da da da da da,” we sang. “Da da da da da da da da… Batman!”

 

Another older boy just was not sure about all this pajama ruckus. He seemed much more into looking cool. We knew that the little Cars logos and the cuffed pants were not for him. However, we really desired that each child get something new and special – just for them. Despite shaking his head and muttering, “No, no, no” we just knew he really wanted something anyway. (Mothers can tell these things. After all, he kept hanging around with everyone else. Even Osman had picked out some cool shorts and a baseball cap!) We held up each item, questioning with our eyes and over-enthusiastically nodding our heads. Each time, he shook his head, “no.” Somehow, we enticed him to look closely at a pair of USC pajama pants. All the other fellows sat around now, watching him hem and haw… “Oh, those are so cool!” We encouraged. “Yeah, all the guys at home love them.” Mrs. Jennifer countered with, “They just won another national title. They’re the best in the country.”

I don’t know what made him think those were finally okay; but, he did. Then, we faced the challenge of finding him a shirt... A long, thin, white cotton muscle tank shimmered near the bottom of the pile. “Oh, man! The perfect shirt! You will look awesome!” All our heads nodded and we smiled assuringly; he did not look convinced. With a questioning scowl on his face and his shoulders shrugging, he finally dragged himself into the bathroom. There we stood and waited, on pins and needles. He had already turned down every other single thing. “God, give him something special,” we thought.

All of a sudden, that door jerked open and POW! He sprang out into the main room with his long legs flying and his limber arms striking a variety of karate poses in mid-air. “AIIIIE- YAH!” he hollered.  Startled – to death, we all exclaimed and laughed. “Oh, you must like those!”

“AIIII – YAH! Ha! Yah! Ah!” Thanks, God. You provided even for this last one – the one who just knew he didn’t want anything at all. And yet he seemed the most excited and the most happy – and he certainly pulled the most moves of anyone all day long!



Still karate-chopping as he is leaving with his new pajamas slung over his shoulder!



Pajama Party - Part I

So many things were needed by the orphanage – sheet sets, toothpaste, light bulbs, Spanish books, hair conditioner… The list went on and on. Miraculously though, whole categories of gifts were filled each week as the team was preparing for their journey. One of our dentists gave toothbrushes to the children. A Gideon donated Spanish Bibles. Our resourceful librarian was in the midst of searching for favorite childhood books written in Spanish. What need could I help meet?

Day by day, I wondered what I could do. Wherever I went, my mind slipped to those thirty-eight children of all shapes and sizes. One afternoon as I watched my kindergartners play on the recess field with their fourth grade friends, an idea began to form: I had children of all shapes and sizes right in front of me. My kindergartners are some of the most compassionate and loving children I know – I am so blessed to have them in my life. They are constantly looking to make a difference in the world around them. And I just happen to know they have some terrific pajamas. At least once a year, we have a pajama day when we all wear pj’s to school and enjoy extended Reading Workshop time. When I shared with them about my upcoming trip, their faces lit up. “Oh, Mrs. Barnes, we have lots of pajamas. We’ll just give them ours.” We, of course, talked about the necessity of them talking with their parents before just giving away their clothing. But, they volunteered other sizes from their brothers, sisters and friends. We planned to advertise it in the school newsletter to ensure that we had plenty of cute pajamas in everyone’s sizes. Thus, the pajama drive at the Center for Inquiry was begun.

Before the school newsletter even was published, plastic grocery bags of assorted pajamas began arriving in my classroom – a Little Mermaid gown here, a Cars short set there. One of my five-year-olds brought in an adorable Baby Gap pair – teeny yellow and pink striped shorts and a hot pink tee. A darling little girl graced the middle of the shirt – she even looked Honduran. My kindergartner friend said, “I loved these; but, I’m growing out of them. You can have them for one of those little girls.” An older sister came in one day, bringing a bag full of shirts and shorts from all the kids in the family. Each day brought more clothes. Dainty, frilly gowns; billowy sleeves on tops; capris with ruffled cuffs. The girls’ pj’s ranged from absolutely precious to chic and cool. I knew the boys’ pj’s could be especially tricky. There were so many more boys to outfit than girls. Some would like screen-printed cartoon figures; some would like more sporty outfits. Others would just prefer sweats and tank tops. Little by little, week by week, the pile of pajamas grew. God provided plenty of pajamas through many generous-spirited children.

Once we got to Honduras, the days flew by. There was always so much going on. We could have just sent the pajamas over to the houses; but, I so wanted it to be a special time with the children. I also wanted each child to have a choice, to pick their favorite one – a privilege so many children here take for granted, but one those sweet children rarely receive. Finally, on our last full day when most of the team went shopping in the city, we knew it was the perfect time to spend with the children. Jennifer, Kendra, Tiff and I were so excited! Gary retrieved the full-length mirror from one of the upstairs bedrooms. (After the runway show with the dresses, we knew the large mirror would make this event even more special.) While Jennifer and Kendra lined up the smallest pairs of pajamas on the sofa and got their cameras ready, Tiff and I went to the girls’ house to get some girls. After lots of interpreting with young Shelly assisting, the tia agreed to let the girls go with us – three at a time, beginning with the youngest.

Shopping! “Come upstairs to shop,” we encouraged. The girls wandered in and looked at that little row of pajamas.  They were confused. “Pick what? Why?” Once the first one tried on the outfit, the other two quickly figured it out. We stood them up in front of the mirror.

They giggled and grinned, turning this way, twisting that. (I’m not sure they’d looked in a full-length mirror before.) We all oohed and ahhed; some men who were awaiting the container shipment wandered in and joined the fun. The pajama shopping had become more like a party.

 

Before we knew it, one of the little ones jumped up on the sofa and flipped right over. Their little faces just beamed. We couldn’t help hugging them. Two of the sweet things began changing back into their playclothes. We helped them fold up their new little outfits; they cradled them tightly next to their chest. The third little girl shook her head no and began folding up her playclothes to carry back. She was just going to keep her new pj’s on! We hugged them once more as Tiff took them back. The other girls realized now what was happening. They were ready! Time for more shopping.

As each small group of girls came and went, our hearts just soared. They were so appreciative, so thankful, so excited. Giving them our undivided attention, spending special moments with each one – just priceless.

There were so many little stories behind this big one. Enjoy some of the anecdotes…

When we told Mrs. Georgia we had lots of cute pajamas for the children – enough for them to choose their favorite pair, she just shook her head. “Most of these children have never even had pajamas before. Some wouldn’t want to take them off once they put them on. And they’d probably wear them during the day – just like regular clothes. Is that alright with you?” We just nodded our heads. Of course, anything they did with the clothes was fine with us. We were happy to give them something they would love.

The graciousness of the older girls was unbelievable. Since they had watched all the little ones leave their home and return with cute new clothes, they knew what was going to happen with them. However, they were not concerned for themselves. “Pah-jah-mah por tia?” We gawked. “Really? But, first let us show you what we have for you.”

 “No… pah-jah-mah por tia?” they pleaded. Thank God I had brought along lots of sizes and styles – we showed them three different pairs and assured them they were for the sweet tias who take such good care of them. They nodded, satisfied. Now they could select something for themselves.

During the school pajama drive, one of my dear grandmas peeked in my classroom one day. She had heard about our need and had come to school to pass along three boxes of individually-wrapped, brand-new pajamas for the children. What a saint! When I finally had a minute to look more closely at them, my heart sank. They were tiny – baby-sized. I knew that our children at the orphanage were aged 4 to 17. What would we do with baby pajamas? Well, I knew I should take them along – God would use them somehow. That last Honduras day, I remembered those boxes. You see, little Jeffrey, due to his health issues, was much smaller than the other children. In fact, one of those brand-new baby pajamas was just the right size. God knew – and Grandma knew – that those pajamas would fit Jeffrey perfectly!

Honduras Time - Guest Author Eric Barnes

We needed concrete.  Our plans for doing carpentry had been met with dismal defeat despite the fact that we had purchased two sets of cordless power tools to perform the tasks we were told would be ours to complete.  The lack of wood was a terrible blow to preconceived plans.  By the second day, we had finished all the projects we could with the resources we had and we were struggling to identify further ones. By the third day, we needed to come up with a plan. The falling water tower at the man cave in the orchard was the ticket.  After deliberating over different plans of attack, it was felt that using some block and concrete we could construct a proper tower platform and utility room to load the huge plastic water tank on.  It would be high enough to provide enough water pressure for the plumbing needs of the house.  So, we needed concrete to start.

In Columbia this would simply be a matter of a five minute ride to the Lowes or Home Depot using one of the several cars our growing family has acquired over the years.  But we were on Honduras time there and projects are placed on hold for months because of little things we take for granted.  The only chain saw had gone down on the first day with a bad chain and getting the right size at the closest hardware store turned out to be a failed mission that took an entire day.  The only set of tree pruners broke halfway through the pruning of the orchard project.  The fence project was on hold because the money that we sent had not yet arrived.  We were lucky that the spare part had come in for the tractor the week prior, for it had been down for months.  Without the tractor, so many things would not have been accomplished.

All of the drivers were elsewhere.  Ron and Jim were hours away trying to get the shipping container out of customs.  Lawrence was driving the prayer walkers into town.  Georgia was not feeling well.  Thank goodness the locals were not as particular about little things like driver’s licenses.  So Jerry and I loaded up in the small truck and headed out with our passports and a pocketful of limperas (Honduran money) to purchase some concrete at the local hardware store 18 miles away up the mountain road.

On the way out we commandeered Ozman, the bright and inquisitive 13 year old teenager.  Our spanglish was not going to do us any good if we ran into trouble from bad guys or the police.  Ozman’s was a nice linchpin between our two worlds.  He had proven himself capable of providing insight into big tasks around the orphanage and loved hanging out in the tool shed with the men.  So our quest had begun and Jerry and I were eager to get started.

Before we could get a few hundred yards out of the driveway, we were instructed by Ozman to pull over and give two local high school girls a ride up to their bus stop 4 ½ miles up to the top of the mountain.  Ozman is no dummy and he seemed to take special pride in giving these young, pretty girls a ride.  We had to smile with nodding approval and knew that it was a great coup for him. 

The ride out was rather humbling as we saw in a closer light the perilous roadway that we were to travel.  Deep ravines, huge pot holes, washed ruts on winding curves were enough to strain any road work budget of an American town with adequate infrastructure. It was hard to fathom how these rudimentary roads were maintained.  We caught sight of our answer as we passed a pick up truck loaded with big rocks and several men unloading them into the various potholes.

 

Our passengers were let out at the top of our valley.  They were left to wait for their bus to the school; which was still a significant distance away.  With no set time period for when a student gets to the top of the mountain to the bus stop, it is hard to imagine how school is conducted with any significant continuity.  Lawrence had already mentioned his trek to pick up the orphanage high schoolers every night when they get dropped off at the same bus stop, and we had no reason to believe these two girls would not be in for a similar long day just to go to school.

Now the black top highway that we found ourselves on was not marked with the tell tell lines that marked the various lanes of traffic in the United States.  No, the primary rule was make sure you give way to the bigger or faster vehicle coming towards you from either direction.  Naturally our four cylinder, diesel pickup was not one to cause fear in too many roadway competitors blowing past us.  Ozman was wide-eyed with youthful excitement and ignorance because he was going to town!  Jerry and I were wide-eyed and white-knuckled as we pulled into the city limits.

Talanga had about three main roads that gave the impression of the letter H if seen from the air.  Ozman was sure that our destination was on the first corner we came to.  That actually was looking pretty good considering a huge dump truck was trying to dump his load of gravel in the middle of the roadway that would be the cross mark of the H connecting the other two roads.  A traffic conundrum had occurred as people would drive around the dump truck to the consternation of the driver.  There were none of the traffic control workers on walkie talkies with big “stop signs” or “drive slow signs” like we have in the States.   It was, like the black top, every man for himself.  We thought ourselves very fortunate until Ozman said that what he thought was the place we needed was, in fact, a closed store.  We had to go through the construction to find our destination in our 4 cylinder rumble truck of doom. 

What to do?  The police station was right across the road.  Would Georgia’s assurances about our license situation hold true or would we find ourselves “Locked up Abroad?”  Do I push past the dump truck and over the gravel that was piled up in the roadway like everyone else or do we wait for the construction to end? The thought of waiting was not a pleasant option knowing our experience with “Honduras time” already.  Punch it!  Past the dump truck and close on the heels of a taxi we made it over the pile and well into the cross bar of the H, deeper into the unknown with the police station to look forward to on the way back out. 

Ozman was thrilled.  Jerry and I…well….onward ho!

We found the hardware store on the third road.  Ozman jumped out and ran up to the counter; as we instructed him, to order ten bags of concrete and get the proper price.  Now truly I felt this was going to be our Waterloo; but as it turned out, Ozman was a hit.  He came across as a normal, eager kid to the manager of the store and whatever mistakes were made in translation were quickly overcome because they saw in Ozman a mirror of themselves when they were that young.  It was cool to see and the same expressions of approval that happen every day in small towns across the USA were happening right there with Ozman.  In many ways I was so concerned about all of my own disadvantages in the situation that I failed to notice; until that moment, that this was a small rite of passage into manhood for Ozman.  It was an epiphany.  It was not about my task of the moment.  This was the orphan’s time.  His growing moment!

But now, back through town and past the police station where I had obviously; as a gringo, disregarded who knows how many traffic laws to get past the dump truck.  As we approached we saw; to our dismay, the two police officers now assisting the dump truck driver and directing traffic.  Oh, man!  Ozman was terrified.  He claimed that a friend of his had been stopped by these guys and shaken down for money for no reason.  What?!  I looked over at this Honduran man on the street and he directed me down an alley way. He actually whistled and kinda jerked his head toward the alley way (You know, like someone trying to let you in on a secret that is probably not really the kinda secret that ends up good.) What?!  Jerry, what do you think?  OK, let’s do it.

Now at this point I admit it could have gotten into one of those moments where the police officer is asking the victim, “What were you thinking going down an alley way just because someone told you to?”  I have asked the same question of different victims over the years and have seen my share of those who did not live after making those bad choices.  But any questions we might have had at first were laid to rest. We quickly realized that the alley way was actually a secondary road that came out by the local fire department with a vintage 1950s fuel truck-turned water pumper in the back yard.  Whew!  Yet another catastrophe averted!

Ozman was thrilled!  Jerry and I….well….onward ho!

We had been instructed to get some gas in the truck on the way back. OK, no problem.  How much is gas and who are these guys hanging out at the pumps?  Why is that guy carrying a shotgun?  Ozman, what do I do?  Here I am, a retired Detective Sergeant and no stranger to the worst of the worst of life; but it is an eerie feeling seeing all of that and not really knowing who to trust.  I pushed down the fear and got my game face on.  I gave the guy whatever Ozman told me to.  (We figured it up later and realized it was over $5 per gallon!)  When I turned around, Ozman and Jerry had gone in the store and bought some Pepsi Colas. They had left me outside trying not to stare down the guy with the shotgun, but still keeping an eye on him just in case. (Now really I am a Coca Cola guy, but trust me when I tell you that I don’t think I was on my “A” game here and to protest would have been fool hardy. I was happy to get what I got and to get out. This is probably a good time, too, to say that the man with the shotgun at the gas station was an armed guard. We saw them all over Honduras and they are there to protect the valuables. Honduras is a third-world country and very poor. So, shop owners, in order to protect their valuables, would hire guards.)

We got away and back home without further incident except letting some locals hitch a ride on the truck back down the mountain and into the valley.  After our two-plus hour round trip, the concrete was finally delivered. I think the round trip was about 36 miles. (If we had been at home we could have driven the 75 miles to Charlotte, ate a burger, picked up some supplies and driven back in the same amount of time.) We pulled up to the main house and grabbed some lunch before starting to work on the footings.

Jerry and I were thrilled.  Ozman?...well…onward ho!

During this whole week there were times where I would doubt my usefulness to the mission.  The frustrations of completing some tasks because the tools were broken or the supplies were not on site were surreal in many respects.  The concrete run was just another reminder of what we have come to call “Honduras time.”  But what I realize is what God has taught me here: that His timing is not my timing and my understanding is not necessarily His reality. This is, of course, a children’s home in a third world country.  God built the home just as he has created the flowers of the fields.  God has been the caretaker all along and He is in control.  Perhaps the story here is that Ozman and the other orphans are growing up and learning to take leadership roles in their home. A home that is enriched daily with God’s love.  I have been blessed by God to be a small part of that maturing process and have been humbled by the experience. 

(Photos courtesy of Maria Owens)

House-to-House, Door-to-Door, in Jalaca

Our whole family was excited to volunteer for this mission trip to Honduras. It was to be our last significant milestone as a family before our firstborn, Zach, would head off to Wofford College in the fall. I had visions of how our trip was going to be: working with teachers, sorting supplies given by the church, delivering pajamas to the sweet children, visiting in the schools, helping in the library, working at the feeding brigade, hugging on the orphans, helping anybody do anything. Except… I just really did not want to walk door-to-door, house-to-house in Jalaca.

I know, I know – this mission is all about God. But, honestly, inside, I just knew it would feel so awkward. No hablo espanol! I didn’t even know the language.

Well, on the first full morning of the trip, our Feeding Brigade team was given our first assignment. Sort supplies? No. Package food? No. Our first assignment was, you guessed it – walking door-to-door, house-to-house to tell people about Jesus.

I looked closely at my group, counting. Several women, a few teenage girls, a man, a Spanish interpreter and a guide. Maybe I wouldn’t have to talk too much…

We filled our backpacks – water bottles, sunscreen, insect repellant, a snack or two, pencils and paper. Usually, the feeding brigade people carried special slips of paper during their village visits. That paper would be exchanged later in the week for a whole bag of food. But, due to the power outage our first night, the papers had not yet been made. Thank goodness that the Bost’s had made some beautiful colored Bible verses written in Spanish about Jesus being the Bread of Life. We were set.

I took a deep breath as we began walking up the drive to the main road, turning right. The road looked more like a muddy driveway – ruddy, full of potholes and mud puddles. “Walking to town” sounded like it would be a stretch. Besides, I saw mostly trees around me, looking pretty rural. We crossed over a rushing stream and turned to the right again. The driveway was now starting to look more like a dirt path.

All of a sudden though, those trees opened up to reveal house upon house. Unbelievably, we were there – town, already! The houses were made of adobe, concrete, scrap metal – some even of sticks. Many of them were accented in bright colors – purples and greens, oranges and reds. You could tell immediately where some of the homes started. Their properties were clearly delineated by their gates.

Yet, the yards were even more bright and colorful with foliage galore. Huge, beautiful blossoms; fragrant bushes, towering flowers. I was humbled by the beauty around me. Chickens were everywhere – just wandering around. And dogs – oh, poor, skinny dogs, lolling around. As we continued walking up the path, village children began skipping along behind us, following and watching.

Some of the yards looked different. A few had an outdoor bath area next to the road, complete with shower stall, outside sink and clothesline. The outdoor oven (looking more like a huge mound) came next. Wandering dogs, chickens and pigs lay around the perimeter. All the homes – and homeowners - were welcoming though.

When we walked up, these people dropped everything they were doing to welcome us. Most motioned for us to come right inside; a few greeted us on their porch. Many of the homes in this village had no windows or doors – not like our homes at all. They just had holes – wide open to the elements. Some of them had fabric dropped down over the opening. Most of the floors, too, were dirt - swept clean. A few had concrete or even tile.

Wherever we were though – inside or out, on dirt or concrete, the homeowners scurried from room to room, collecting plastic stacking chairs so that each of us could have a seat. How gracious they were!

And how nervous I was! Our first homeowner had just lost her husband several weeks earlier. What do you say to someone whose whole life has just turned upside down? “Oh, we were just coming through town and wanted to stop and visit…” I listened closely to our eloquent adults chat kindly and share the purpose for our visit - just in case I needed to mimic them later.

We were so blessed to have Daniela, our young interpreter with us. Sweet seventeen-year-old, wise beyond her years, Daniela! She smiled often, listened thoughtfully and interpreted ceaselessly. I noticed, too, as we went that neither Daniela nor our guide had brought a thing with them. No water, no snack, nothing. Humbling. Once the chatting slowed down, someone would say, “We come from the United States to share with you about Jesus. Do you know and love this Jesus?” Daniela would quietly pass along our words in Spanish.

“Si!” Nodding of heads and crinkling of smiles showed on those that knew Jesus. Their bright faces showed His presence in their lives. Some villagers wanted to know more about Him. So, we shared more about Jesus – how He lived and how He died for them. We presented the plan of Salvation. A few totally rejected Jesus.

One of those who did – I will never forget her. Maria. She lived at the top of a hill, up a path that was barely wide enough for a horse to ride along. Her home seemed stark, compared to some of the blooming walls we had just passed. She had no smile on her face as she told us she would never ask Jesus in her life. “Why?” we couldn’t help gasping and questioning. Even though she allowed Ken to share with her about Jesus, her eyes turned away at times. Throughout his words though, his testimony of Jesus, her hands shook… and shook… and shook. Something very powerful was working on her. Remarkably, she allowed us to pray for her. You can bet all our hearts and voices lifted up prayers for this woman to have another chance, to have someone else come along. It was so disheartening, so depressing, so sad to turn and leave her there – with no hope, no faith, no Jesus. It literally hurt.

Sweet people, humble lives, kindness abounded. I’ll never forget the little lady who chatted amiably until we got ready to pray. For her to come to the throne of God, she took off her apron. So respectful. Another greeted us in skirt and high heels, moving quickly to get chairs, smiling and chatting. When we looked down though, we saw that her foot was disfigured and deformed. The pain from any shoes – much less, high heels – must have been unbearable. But, she only looked happy.

The men were memorable, too. The little man with the outside bath and kitchen, pig and dogs smiled heartily as he welcomed us into his home. He had some health issues – as many did. But, he had been praising God for the last sixteen years. I looked in his eyes and knew he would praise God for as long as he lived. What an example he must be to that village.

Juan Raymond made us all wiser and more thoughtful people as well. He didn’t even live in the town of Jalaca. He lived in the next village over. (If a Honduran says that Juan Raymond came a long way, it must have been an unbelievably-long way. They think nothing of walking miles!) But, Juan Raymond had heard that we were coming to town. So, he walked m-i-l-e-s for us to see him. He just wanted us to pray for him.

Suddenly, the shyness I felt – and the awkwardness – and the fact that I didn’t know any Spanish, it really didn’t matter at all. If a man walks MILES to hear our halting, stuttering, English prayers prayed over him, then halting and stuttering, I would do. Halting and stuttering, I could certainly do! We later met him on the road as he headed back to his hometown, smiling and waving. It’s amazing how a few hours in a foreign country can change a perspective that you’ve held your whole life long! Each of us on the team took turns talking with the villagers and praying over them. We halted and stuttered, murmured and muttered; but, God heard some beautiful prayers that day.

The whole morning was like that – one unbelievable occurrence after another. One humbling reminder after another that God was indeed in control – and honestly, here, now, all I had to do was show up and be faithful. A woman accepted Jesus and was saved – and promised to share the Good News with her children and grandchildren. Other promises for people to think about this Good News we were bringing. Some weren’t quite ready to ask Jesus into their hearts; they couldn’t stop doing some of the things they were doing. They did not want to come to Jesus until they lived like they felt they should. Yes, humbling.

No matter the situation, no matter their response – they all wanted us to pray for them. All of them. Interestingly enough, when we talked about Jesus, Daniela interpreted our message word-for-word. But, when we prayed, they prayed, too. Yes, even at the same time. How surprising for us to hear English and Spanish all mixed up – calls for help and words of thanksgiving. Heaven must sound like that.

Towards the end of our morning, we walked up to a house with a cross painted on the doorway. A sweet grandmother lived here. Children were everywhere – peeking into the main room from behind the fabric-draped doorways. We chatted.

When I asked her was there anything special that she would like us to pray about, she put her hand up and walked over to a doorway. She leaned over and scooped up a sleeping little boy to bring back to me. To me. She wanted us to pray for her grandson.

You see, little Anderson was sick – very sick. He’d been sick for two weeks. No medicine, no help from the clinic. A knot rose in my throat. This experience was surreal – people brought sick children to Jesus, to the disciples, to people who prayed convincingly. But, this godly lady was bringing her baby to me!

I placed my hand on his head. His little head was matted with sweat. My hand moved down his little neck, back and arm. His skin was clammy. I looked at that little body, drooped in her arms. Listless.

Thank God that when I am weak, He is strong.

Thank God that when I am speechless, He gives me the words to say.

Thank God for the humbling, unbelievable lessons I learned that day about my calling, our calling, to be His people wherever we may go.

Thank God that my visionary church, Spring Valley Baptist Church, commissioned 40 missionaries – some of us scared, awkward, speechless, and humbled - to share the Love of Jesus house-to-house, door-to-door with the people in a small Honduran village of Jalaca.

For my prayers have changed – and I am changed.

(Much of this entry was written in Honduras – as I was preparing my testimony to share with the congregation the following Sunday.)

* Photos Courtesy of Maria Owens

A Book for Everyone - Guest Author Jennifer Burley

I knew that God was sending me a personal invitation to go to Honduras when I learned that one of the needs was a library for the children.  I have spent two-thirds of my life organizing libraries, teaching college students and future teachers about children’s literature and encouraging children to discover the joy of reading.

My goal was to take 100 children’s books to the orphans of New Life Children’s Home.  I posted a question on Facebook asking which books people thought every child should have an opportunity to read.  I used those suggestions to search book stores and online stores for those titles in Spanish.  I was so excited to find Goodnight, Moon and Brown Bear, Brown Bear and Where the Wild Things Are, as well as simple Bible stories of David and Goliath, Daniel in the lion’s den and Noah’s ark, all translated into Spanish.

Many church members who had already participated in our various fundraisers for this mission trip gave money to me to purchase books.  Fellow librarians and former co-workers sent money earmarked for books for Honduras.  The response was overwhelming.  As we packed our supplies, I enjoyed hearing the teenagers in our group exclaim in delight when they saw their childhood favorites written in Spanish.

Even though most libraries are now automated and users can find books using an online catalog, automation was not an option in Jalaca.  It was necessary to set up an “old school” card catalog, handwritten with a title, author and subject card for each book.  Fortunately, I started my career in the pre-computer days, so I knew how to do that.

One day as Jennifer Barnes and I were working on the books – I was cataloging and she was laboriously copying the additional cards for the card catalog – one of the young boys came into the room.  He asked what we were doing and we explained that we were getting books ready for the library.  “Are they in Spanish?” he asked skeptically.  We assured him that they were.  When we opened one to show him, he pointed both index fingers into the air and did a “happy dance.”  We had no idea how much it would mean to these children to be able to read for entertainment in their own language.  Most of their reading was in textbooks.

Our Book-Loving Teenager Osman with Will

When we had completed cataloging the books, I realized that two little board books I had purchased on a whim were missing.  They would not have been a good addition to the library, but I felt bad that they had been lost.  On the day before we were to leave, we discovered some supplies in the side pocket of a suitcase.  Among them were the two little board books.  They were never supposed to be a part of the library.  By that time we had met little Jeffrey and Christian and I knew that these books were meant especially for them. 

We took 102 books to Jalaca.  I hope to return with 100 more.

Blocks

Part I: The Beginning

Meet Caroline. Christian. Wife. Mother of 4 young boys. Caroline regularly gathered things amidst her growing brood to give away to the less fortunate, to give back in some little way. Some clothes, toys, and a set of brightly-colored building blocks. The blocks were in perfect condition. But, since her boys didn’t play with them that much, she thought she’d just give them away as well. While the boys were distracted, she quickly stowed them away in the back of her van.

That next week, she found herself volunteering as a Vacation Bible School teacher at our church. Several events centered around the church’s upcoming family mission trip to Honduras. To an orphanage. Those blocks popped into Caroline’s mind.

As the boys chatted behind her in the van on the way home, they talked about their day, their classes, Honduras and the orphans. Caroline’s mind, once again, drifted back to those blocks.

The next day at Vacation Bible School, children were bringing things cited on a list to donate to the orphanage: toothpaste, light bulbs, clothes, school supplies. Nobody brought blocks. They weren’t even on the list. Caroline bumped into Allyson, our children’s minister. “Hey, Allyson. I’ve been thinking about those orphans; I have this set of blocks…” Allyson told her to bring them on. They could be added to all the other gifts.

Later, during a quick break, Caroline zipped to the van and brought those blocks, that pile of brightly-colored toys to the church. To God, to give. Just like He had whispered to her.

The only problem: it was such a busy day. Caroline didn’t see Allyson anywhere. She finally put the blocks on the registration table, hoped her message would be passed along, sighed and hurried to catch up with her Vacation Bible School kids.

Part II: The Packing Party

VBS had been great for the orphanage.  The children and volunteers – the church – had given so much: their supplies (clothes, Bibles, toiletries, dresses…); their money (through donations and fundraisers): and their hearts. To the packers, it looked like a mountain!

The team members had all been commissioned in both worship services that morning. They had dedicated themselves to this mission. They had also committed to bring items as well – tissues boxes, hair conditioner, diapers, Spanish books, pajamas… Plus, each of us had a week’s worth of clothing and shoes as well as bed linens and towels. (Much, we would use and then leave behind.) The men even had to pack mosquito nets and air mattresses - not knowing where they would bunk down that first night. Corporately, we had recreation items – soccer balls and basketballs for the children; puppets; crafts; and even brand-new, battery-powered saws and tools. Lots of stuff. Heavy stuff. Where would it all go?

Instead of Jesus’ miracle of multiplying fishes and loaves, we prayed for one of division – dividing all those items into each team member’s suitcases. We carefully watched the fifty-pound weight limit on each bag. Each pound over meant more money to the airlines - and less to the orphans.

Unbelievably, the mountain of supplies became a hill and finally dwindled to a few leftover items. That pile of blocks sat to the side, appearing to take up lots of space. Thank God, they were light though. As all the other items disappeared into bags, the teenagers were given the blocks and told to stack them in thin rows.

A long, dark green, army duffle bag held 50 pairs of pajamas; but, miraculously, the soft fabrics just shifted as those tall lengths of blocks vanished within. The pajamas seemed to nestle into the crooks and crannies of those blocks. Forty-something pounds. The team members sighed. Packing was done.

Part III: Little Christian

Ah, little Christian. He stole my heart, all our hearts. I first met him at our arrival. Some of the children were leaning against the fence, watching us as the bus drove up. This group was the biggest gathering of gringos they had even seen at one time – the forty of us. Most volunteers came in small groups, mainly teenagers on summer mission trips. Now, though, they had men – lots of them, to look up to and climb on. And women – to hug and hold. Teenagers, too… & children who were just the right size.

There was someone for each one of those thirty-eight orphans - and a couple left over! The children had already seen our luggage, that mountain of stuff, arrive earlier on a flat-bed truck. It sat waiting for our arrival. It had been a l-o-n-g day. Most of us had been awake since around 1:00 a.m.; but, we still had much to do on this first day in Honduras.

I remember Christian. He came right up to me and squatted down beside my carry-on bag. He could have fit perfectly inside it – had it not been jam-packed. He grinned up at me – and, before I knew it, he reached out, grabbed the silver handle, and rolled it along behind him – taking away all my belongings and my heart!

We all remember watching Christian watch us – from behind his fence and gate. While all the big kids were in school, he and Jeffrey stayed back at the house with the tias – resting and waiting for the schoolchildren to be dismissed for the day. The tias were so busy – hand-laundering children’s clothes, cleaning their homes, caring for Jeffrey. So, Christian spent time waiting… and watching.

One early afternoon found us with a few minutes to spare. Zach’s eyes met Christian’s through the fence. He went to the gate, called to the tia, and, through his halting blend of Spanish and English, asked if Christian could come out and play.

Zach, Tiff and Christian played on the swings and chatted. Jennifer Burley’s eyes lit up. She had seen those blocks earlier when she helped unpack and organize all the supplies in the Mission House. She had been waiting for this opportunity – Those blocks were meant for Christian!

As Jennifer and I retrieved the blocks and placed them on the porch away from schoolchildren’s wandering eyes, we whispered excitedly, “Has Christian ever even seen blocks before? Had any of the children ever held a single block in their hands? There were so many blocks in the bag. What would Christian do?”

Well, the independent Christian who drug heavy luggage and who insisted on clipping the safety chain on the swing all by himself – that Christian. His eyes just lit up when Zach and Tiff said, “Look, Christian! Look! Blocks!”  He could not get out of that locked swing fast enough.

His bright eyes widened and a huge smile crossed his face. He zipped over and sat down right in the midst of them. He began quietly taking the blocks, piece by piece, out of that huge bag. Jennifer used her Spanish knowledge to support his blossoming early childhood education – “rojo, anaranjado, armarillo”(colors) and “uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis”(numbers).

Christian consistently picked up a block, noticed its size and number of notches, and then stacked all the pieces with one notch together. The two-notches together. The fours. The sixes. He was very deliberate and thoughtful in his thinking.

There was a piece with wheels. Thinking that might add to his learning and fun right then, we oohed. “Oooo… Look, Christian. Wheels!” He looked at it carefully as we handed it to him, paused and then put it right back into the bag. “Maybe later,” we giggled. As he quietly continued working, a small crowd of gringos circled around, enjoying this magical moment.

Just as he was finishing taking all the non-wheeled pieces out of the bag, one of the towers wobbled when he shoulder lightly touched it. His eyebrow lifted as he noticed its movement. A glint came into that eye. And then, he abruptly pushed it over and fell right into the pile. We all squealed.

There are not many things as precious as watching a little one discover something marvelous for the first time ever. What amazing gifts – that gift of witnessing such a moment and that gift of those blocks.

Epilogue: Remember Caroline?

She was startled by the stories that began making their way back to her. You know, she was a wife, a mother of four boys. Busy, in Columbia, South Carolina.

But, she was also a mighty team member serving on the mission fields in Honduras that day.

Some of Caroline’s ending thoughts:

“I never realized how such a small thing could not only bring so much joy to another child, but how much joy it would bring to me and my family… What a blessing to me! It’s not often I get to see the joy brought to someone by such a small gift that the Lord led me to give specifically for the Honduras orphanage! It makes me realize that small voice inside me IS the Holy Spirit, leading and guiding me for His specific purpose. I am blessed! “

Thanks, Caroline, for sharing your story with me and then allowing me to  write it in my own way! If any inaccuracies exist, I take responsibility. -JMB                                      (Photos Courtesy of Amanda Ayers, Maria Owens, Emily Neal and Paula Patterson)