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)

Sweet. Few things are as sweet as a little girl in a new dress – designed by loving hands, especially for her. There’s just something about the bright, pure colors; the crisp texture; the whole package.

Multiply that scene. Picture now: 12 girls in 12 dresses. Just so sweet.

There’s a group of ladies at Spring Valley Baptist called the Sewing Sisters. (When I first heard of them last fall, I briefly entertained the idea of taking half a day off from school to go check them out. I wish now that I did!) I’m not really even sure who the members are; but, I would love to have the list. Because this story, Sewing Sisters, is especially for you:

Thursday afternoon, school was out for the day. The girls were doing homework and chatting quietly – all behind their gate. The boys, mind you, were reminding me of boys back home. Guess all their homework was done ‘cause they were shooting hoops, running through their yard, swinging on the swings.

Our group of Spring Valley women and girls were taking several piles of dresses to the girls’ place. Piles of pillowcase dresses. Somehow, these Sewing Sisters had found some of the most fashionable pillowcases available on the market and had transformed bed linens into delightful designer dresses. Hand sewn appliqués, perky bows at the shoulders, dreamy dresses. They had made plenty – I assume for the girls to have their choice of designs and colors in a range of sizes.

You don’t have to speak Spanish to picture what happened next. “Ohhh…” and “Ahhh…” sound just the same in English. Exclamations floated through those windows as the dresses were laid out. The girls’ eyes brightened with excitement. It wasn’t chaos though at all, not quite like you’d expect. The girls helped hold dresses in front of each other and nodded when the sizes and the desired patterns fit. Some sweet things tried on one dress and determined that it was absolutely perfect. They would twirl and tiptoe, float and flit through the home, peeking into other bedrooms at other girls and their chosen pieces.

Some other girls would try on a dress, peek in the mirror, look it closely up and down – and then proceed to try on another dress – almost as if they were shopping. I would have given anything at that moment for a full length mirror.

Then, our wise teenaged Julia brought out a gallon bag full of hair accessories. She had thoughtfully gathered these from her family and friends before the trip in anticipation of this moment. What pleasure the girls had in selecting favorite clips, bands, barrettes and bows to accentuate their new look! Little Sandy just couldn’t put down the band with a yellow duck sporting the top of it! Thank goodness her dress had a touch of yellow! Others had arms and hair-full of decorations. 

With all the flitting and twirling, you’d think it was perfect. Sadly, it was not. Heartbreaking, even at times. I heard a young girl’s voice sigh, “Ugly! I ugly!” I looked over to see Mrs. Debie holding onto a precious girl’s shoulders. The girl was looking down; but, Debie was not. Her eyes were right on that sweet face, whispering encouragement and praise, confidence and poise into those listening ears. Spanish or English, that girl knew she was loved. Special, gifted, made in God’s own image. Who knows what insecurities sweet children face? Memories of abuse, neglect and rape must drum through some of their brains. Thank God Debie was there to rain blessings down on that young girl’s heart. A few others suffered some during those moments. Some covered their faces with their hands. A few even ripped hair bows right out of their hair, after painstakingly pulling those lovely thick tresses up. What we felt would be an easy, fun time turned into sweet moments of crying and affirming, hugging and holding, coaxing and praising, loving and praying!

Finally though, the fun and frolicking from the front porch enabled us all to take deep breaths, wipe our eyes, and head outside. It seems some of the girls who were perfectly content in their beautiful new dresses had learned how to do a runway walk from Mrs. Paula, Mrs. Kelly, Mrs. Maria and others. Our children’s minister, Miss Allyson, was there to click the cameras and keep the show going. How precious to hear shrieks and giggles as the girls worked the runway.

- Photos Courtesy of Maria Owens -

The ruddy, pot-holed road between the Mission House and the children’s homes – many things can typically be found there. Wild horses, wandering cows, children on horseback gathering water for their families, fathers bicycling children to school miles away, workers coming for the harvest, our own orphans welcoming groups of volunteers. But, that day, a dozen elegant young ladies graced the path as they went to the Mission House to share their blessings and beauty with Mrs. Georgia. There again, we clapped and cheered, called and chanted as they walked. And we recalled Mrs. Georgia’s earlier words to us: raving, “Your ladies sewed dresses for each of our girls? No one has ever made individual gifts for each child before!”

So, thanks, Sewing Sisters, for your sweet, priceless gifts. Those girls felt beautiful and loved – maybe for the first time ever. I bet every time they glance at their own special dress, they will warmly feel that love all over again.

The Eyes Have It - Guest Author, Jennifer Burley

During most of our team’s first three days in Honduras, I was in the upstairs living area processing books for the library. Consequently, some of the experiences I had were not shared by anyone else.

First, let me share a little background about myself. When I attended North Greenville College (then a junior college) in the mid 1960’s, I chose Spanish as my language of study. Those two years are the only Spanish I have ever studied. While I still retained some basic “survival Spanish”, the two phrases that have always stuck with me were the ones the instructor used quite frequently. One was to improve our vocabulary – “como se dice…” which translates “How do you say…” The other was “cierren los libros” (“close the books”), which signaled that a pop quiz was on the day’s agenda. Both of these phrases would prove to be instrumental in my ministry in Honduras.

On our second day at New Life Children’s Home, I met Josue. Josue had a terrible sty on his eye. The doctor on our team said that warm compresses were the best treatment for that condition. At home, we would just let the water run until it was very warm and hold a cloth under the spigot. With fresh water such a precious commodity in Jalaca, I didn’t think that was an option. Instead, I found a shallow frying pan in the kitchen, heated water on the stove and poured it over a washcloth. Voila! A warm compress.

The second time I treated Josue, I used one of those long-ago Spanish phrases – “como se dice” - to learn the Spanish word for “eye.” I stored that word – ojo- in my limited Spanish vocabulary bank for future reference.

On the fourth day, one of our youth brought little Christian up to the house. He had fallen and had a small cut on his eyelid. I wondered how I could get that little fellow to close his eye so I could clean the cut. God gave me the words from that Spanish class over 40 years ago and from an encounter only two days ago. I was able to tell Christian in my limited vocabulary “cierren ojo”. He closed his eye; I cleaned his eyelid and off he went. God always equips us to do His work.

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One of the projects for the week was to lead a feeding brigade for the hungry in Jalapa. There were a number of things that had to fall into place for this goal to be realized. First, the feeding brigade team was responsible for distributing tickets to the villagers. A ticket equaled a bag of food – pretty important little piece of paper for hungry people. Mrs. Georgia said it had been a while since a group of volunteers had done a feeding brigade; so, the timing was especially critical. We were to distribute tickets through our walking door-to-door, house-to-house in Jalapa and sharing with the families. (I know lots of people have journal entries on that; so, why don’t you dash some thoughts off to me and I’ll post those soon from varied authors? Thanks!)

Due to the power being out our first night (any stories here?) and other extenuating circumstances, the tickets weren’t quite ready on our first visit to town. Other factors for the feeding brigade were the monies all balancing and the food being delivered on time.

As the week progressed and the days dwindled, we were afraid that our project would not be completed. However, as always, God’s timing is perfect. We received word that everything was settled and the food was being brought out to the mission house for us to sort. So, our eager feeding brigade team walked up to the mission house to prepare those bags.

In the old days, everything had to be measured out and individually bagged. Can you imagine? These days, things are more streamlined and efficient. There were boxes and bags of individually-wrapped items: cornmeal, rice, clover, bouillon cubes, cooking oil, oatmeal, salt, and cookies. The beans came in one huge bag; so, we had to measure and bag those items. But, considering the old ways, we were okay with this.

Basically, we made an assembly line of chairs and items to sort. We would pass a pink bag down the line and each member would drop their item in it. By the end of the line, a family would have a substantial gift. By the end of the bags, our mission would be complete.

So, we began the line: a bag of beans, a bag of cornmeal, two salts, bouillon cubes… We were starting to get the hang of it.

However, just a few bags into the whole process, we reached in to pull out cornmeal . The meal poured out of a gaping hole in the side of the bag. We all gasped! That hole would not have been a big deal at home; but, we knew 100 people would be present for that food and it looked like someone would be going without. An audible sigh occurred.

Someone said, “Pray. Let’s just pray that’s the only one.” So, we breathed our prayers and quietly continued our work, anxiously peering into the depths of those bags.

As we worked, we soon were chatting again. No more holes, no more spills. Weren’t we amazed when we got to the last few bags? There had been 100 servings of salt. 100 bags of cookies. 100 bags of rice. 100 servings of everything… but, there were one hundred and one bags of cornmeal!  God provided exactly what we needed – in an immediate, physical answer to our pleas and prayers.

None of us will ever look at cornmeal in the same way again…

What Now?

What do you do with a week in Honduras that has changed your life? When it’s over, I mean. How do you take those stories that you lived and heard and saw – and then go back to your ordinary, everyday, walking around kind of life in America?  My mind still reels with memories of the children, that container shipment, those dresses and pajamas, those books to dance for; my eyes still brim over with tears throughout the days. I bet there are other stories, too, that happened there without my presence or knowledge – some of the school evangelism events, the day trip to City of the Angels, the men’s crib, the children. We want to know about those memories, too. Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a complete picture of our amazing week in Jalaca, Honduras – that week that changed all our lives?

My friend and colleague, Tim, traveled to Rwanda a number of years ago, a mission sort of like ours. He was accompanying Immaculée Ilibagiza, a survivor of the holocaust there. Theirs was a mission of peace and forgiveness, yet one of sharing their story with people like me who didn’t understand what it was all about. His blog (http://timokeefe.blogspot.com) informed and inspired, horrified yet challenged me. My inspiration for this blog came from Tim’s journaling – to leave a mark on this important week. You can visit Tim’s blog to experience his amazing, miraculous trip as well and you will be further inspired by Immaculée’s book, Left to Tell. (http://www.lefttotell.com)

Therefore, I will pen my memories to the best of my knowledge. And I await your memories - you know, those journals you have all been keeping ;).Send any and all entries to my email at EJZTBarnes21@aol.com to be reposted as guest entries to the blog. I am counting on you to respond, too, and react to some of the entries that are published. This blog could be like a conversation, this back-and-forth commenting to be continued conversations on our week’s experiences. Please feel free to invite anyone you wish to visit our blog and share their thoughts.

I emulate Tim, too, in getting some of those ideas for his blog. The name chosen as the title for this blog is a direct quote from Mr. Jim; but, it wasn’t quoted to me. Like Tim, I try to listen closely to those around me and capture other people’s words and impressions. (My teenagers probably will laugh; my hearing is not that great. Or my memory sometimes. So, since I heard this at the Honduras airport and finally wrote it down several airports later, it might not be perfectly represented. But, the last three words definitely were exact. Forgive me for any mistakes I might make now… and in the future.)

At our last breakfast in Honduras, we feasted on McDonald’s biscuits. Most of the team members were stretched on connected tables across the width of the airport. I was privileged that Mr. Jim and Mrs. Georgia’s small table just happened to be right behind me. They weren’t really sitting there though. They were mingling, hugging the team members; checking on food orders; greeting people. Their table was actually more like a meeting place for them to find each other.

So, as I chewed, I overheard (okay, eavesdropped) Mr. Jim say something like, “Hasn’t it been the most wonderful week, dear?” She was quiet, I imagine, chewing, too. But, in my mind, I pictured her nodding and smiling. Jim continued with these memorable words, “Miracle upon miracle!”

Ah, folks. Remember who is speaking!?! This is Jim, the loving and faithful man who tried to start an orphanage through all the traditional organizations assisting him. According to those organizations, though, Jim and Georgia were too old. According to God, though, Jim and Georgia were just right. He implanted that miraculous ministry in their hearts and even when others did not capture the vision, they were faithful to see it through in other, less-traditional ways. Thanks to this lovely couple, thirty-eight children’s lives are changed completely from horrors of neglectful parents, prostitute mothers, abusive fathers, rapes, extreme hunger, poverty, terror after terror. Instead, their lives are now full of smiles and hugs, rice and beans, teachers who educate them, tias who care for them, Jim and Georgia who nurture and inspire them, and Jesus who loves them no matter what. Thanks to their commitment, this whole community is better-fed, better-clothed, better-doctored, better-equipped, better-informed, better-inspired to follow Jesus. And thanks to their mission’s mission, this whole country will be better prepared for the future as these precious children are brought up as educated, thoughtful, caring Honduran citizens with a vision for the impact they will make on their world. I am sure that this couple has sat back and shared stories in their mission house, the winds blowing through those open windows and the sounds of chattering children wafting through. I am sure they have seen their share of miracles – more miracles than we Americans could probably imagine. Yet, when they look back at this small seven-day period, Jim describes it as “Miracle upon miracle!” How blessed we are to have been a part of the miracle!