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.