The truth is, I have come to take some things for granted here. When I sit down to write, my day to day activities don't seem important anymore. Things that used to be strange and crazy, aren't so odd anymore.
For example, the house I visited yesterday is one of the more humble homes that I've been inside, but I know many, many people who live in similar structures.
Erika and her family, for example. They were 8 people living in a much smaller space with four walls, a window (no glass or screen) and a door of cloth. I never made it inside of Erika's house because it was not safe to leave my car parked alone and I was also never invited. But I always wanted to go.
I have to admit I was surprised when I posted an image of the house on FB yesterday and people made the "Wow" face or the "Sad" face. Now I realize I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was. The house I visited yesterday was not what most people imagine when they think of a home. It was made of pieces of wood nailed together with spaces in between. On the back they had metal roofing. I know that storms always roll in from that direction, so I imagine the metal was placed strategically to keep out the rain.
What I expected to shine through in the photos, was the pride, joy and the peacefulness that is found in that home. I felt it. I know it well. But I guess unless you've been here and know the people, poverty is poverty and it's hard to imagine someone being proud of that sort of home.
I think the piece that is missing is that it's hard for most North Americans to imagine someone (especially a young person) who has never finished first grade. Once you insert that reality into the fact that this country is poor, with over 40% unemployment rate the last time I checked, then you start to understand why just having a roof over your head is a blessing.
My intention is not to shame anyone. I am simply reflecting on how my reality has changed since moving to Honduras.
While I am writing, I am also cooking dinner. I just reached into an egg carton and pulled out this egg.
If I found this egg with chicken poop in a carton in the US, I might feel angry and cheated. Here, I have learned that it doesn't matter how the egg is packaged, it's the inside that matters. (Yes, I did cook my dinner with this egg. And yes, I do see how this can apply to many more situations, but I won't go into them now.)
As I look around, I understand how it would be hard for someone who doesn't live here every day to understand life in Honduras. I know missionaries who live in Honduras, who have lived in Honduras for 10+ years, and still can't communicate in Spanish. They don't have a clue how the majority of the people live here. (Although they believe they do.) They serve within their ministry and develop friendships with other North Americans, but they don't know what life is like for the average Honduran.
I must admit. That aggravates me. Not very Christian of me, is it? I just don't understand why a person would move to another country and never venture out of their comfort zone. I'll even go so far as to admit that I question how well they can serve the people, because unless they really know them, they can't understand their needs.
If I sound judgemental, I guess I am. I admire the missionaries who are out there "doing life" (as much as safety and cultural limitations allow) with the people they serve. I admire people who find the delicate balance between serving and being one with the people, because the reality is, we will never truly be one no matter how deeply our relationships are rooted.
I admire people who put themselves out there, who see the need that God is showing them and reach for it, even when it is way out of their comfort zone. That is who I want to be and that is how I want to serve.
Luke 22:42
"Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done."
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