And though we are far away from you whom we love, we are surrounded by 'amor' here.
Here is love.
In the jubilant face of ten-year-old Antonio when he pulled from his pocket the friendship bracelet he made... and proudly presented it to Alison.
In the earnestness of a father we met in Chonco who said that his greatest dream was to send his daughter to high school. And the tears that came to his eyes with the quiet statement that followed: "I know I won't be able to."
In the tight grip that a young boy kept on the tiny hand in his, not abandoning his little brother even in his curiosity of us.
In the dedication of the young female school teacher in Santa Cruz, who rides a scooter twelve kilometers from town to instruct children, all of whom will probably finish their schooling in sixth grade.
Here is love.
I write at the end of another exhausting, exhilarating day. The feral dogs and ubiquitous roosters awoke us this morning, long before the sun did. Savoring the papaya, watermelon, french toast, and yogurt and granola was diminished a bit in our urgency to get to the work site before the heat zapped our energy and ambition. We dropped most of the men off to hike up to the site while the rest of us rode on to Chonco to visit the school. Compared to the one-room schoolhouse in Santa Cruz, their three-room school felt enormous. Beth brought red heart lollipops for all of the children, who received their treat with both shyness and delight. We left books for the classrooms and walked back down to the bus with the sound of the children's singing still echoing in our ears.
Gloria told us that another church group that worked in Chonco included a woman named Mary who was 72. Too frail and unsteady to climb the treacherous slope up to the community, she remained at the base, watching, perhaps, the young children play soccer on the little field by the stream. Mary returned the following year with the mission team, fully prepared to watch again. To her surprise, she looked up the slope and saw concrete stairs that the men in the village built just for her. The villagers call them "Mary's Steps."
Here is love.
Ah, the progress we made today! Hundreds of homemade concrete blocks and hundreds of pounds of homemade mortar between them make almost a complete house. The walls are finished! More importantly, through the painstaking instruction of our men, the Hondurans now know how to build a house from start to finish. While the men have labored with sand and cement, the women have sewn curtains for their homes and dresses for their daughters.
And the children, the gorgeous, gorgeous children, played "Loco Ocho" and sang songs and made Valentines. Several of the older children, tongues out in fierce concentration, wrote between the stickers they pasted all over their red hearts, "Dear Alison, I love you. Thank you for playing with us."
Here is love.
I am writing in my hotel room, as the rest of the group is eating a pizza dinner in town. (I promise that I am not being punished; I am, rather, injured and Drs. Mike and Jo recommended I not move.) Outside I hear a game of soccer in the alley; I peeked out to watch and saw teenaged boys using a torn rubber ball for their game. The condition of the ball matters not; their intensity rivals that of the players on the Honduran national team. Yesterday every shop we entered featured men in a corner huddled around a small television set tuned to a soccer game. The cry of "Scooooooooooooooooore!" may be understood in any language.
Antonio, the little boy who has stolen all of our hearts, does not go to school. Why, we are not sure. But he loves to be around us, and today he carried several bags of sand up the precipitous slope to the work site. He and I ran back down the mountain, whooping with glee, yelling, "Rapido! Rapido!" When Sally gave him a granola bar in appreciation for all of his hard work, he accepted it with genuine gratitude. I saw him take a bite of it, then he raced back up the mountain. When I reached the top, I spied his little sister with most of the granola bar in her hand.
Here is love.
As we walk along the paths, cows, wild dogs, turkeys, chickens, and ducks casually wander in front of us. At first it felt startling and bizarre; now it just normal. Before my spectacular fall on a rock this afternoon with dear Patty McCracken, I was walking along the road when a little tut-tut cab drove up. The driver insisted that I get in, bag of sand and all. I did, and although I do not understand much Spanish, I could comprehend that he was speaking from his heart. "Muchas gracias," he said. "Thank you for all you are doing for our community." If only I could have told him how our lives have been enriched just by being here.
Here is love.
Here is God.
Happy Valentine's Day.
--Shawn Henry
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