"Yo hablé con un angelito anoche, y sabes que el me dijo?" (translation: I talked to a little angel last night and do you know what he told me?), she asked brightly in the middle of our morning homework session about Honduras' Independence.
"Que te dijo?" (What did he tell you?) I asked, knowing sometimes her brain needs little thought tangents to sucessfully continue on in lessons.
"Me dijo: Tu puedes. Y Melissa, ya se que yo puedo." (He told me: You can. And Melissa, I know that I can.)
I broke out into a huge grin, trying to keep it cool. "Por supesto, ya sabia. Tu puedes." (Of course, I already knew that. You can.)
-----------
I've been in Honduras for 272 days. And I'm realizing the fruits of simply being here. Like physically being here. Being a missionary is probably the one job in my life I haven't workedworkedworked until I burn out and end up half a person.
I remember within my first few days (maybe even hours) at the Finca, I felt a call to just be. And most days I've really lived into that. Of course I do what I need to for my tutoring sessions and get my chores done to keep our house clean, but for the most part I'm just here. Or that's what it feels like.
-------------------
And then one day you wake up and you're DJ Mel. Or you're covering the older boys' house for the first time and think you're entertaining them (and probably trying a little too hard, embodying the energy of Maria Von Trapp); and then they (yes, all five teenage boys) take care of you. Or you're welcomed with a sweet hug and called Fitz by one of the older girls while you casually chat about how difficult physics is.
One day you're casually walking to the library and you find yourself being tackled by your fav little boy as he sprint-jumps into your arms screaming, "MELI-MELI-MELI! Podemos jugar LI-FE juntos?" Or you're proudly watching your student sound out and read words she would've scoffed at just 3 weeks before. Or you find yourself receiving the life story of a beautifully faith-filled mujercita, and realize as you're crying with her that she's entrusting to you a huge part of her heart.
One day you wake up and think, wait-wait-wait, but I wasn't even trying that hard.
(And also, wait I can sorta kinda speak Spanish.)
But I've learned you can't hide. I could do the bare minimum in a week (just last week I spent every free minute I had in the missionary house), and still the kids, tias, staff will find ways to connect with you.
In walking from the church to the houses chatting about the books they're reading. In whistles and waves as they walk by our patio. In awkward Honduran fiesta fashion with weird downtime to play "leona tiene hambre por choco-chips" with the littles. In talking about gardens and food and prayer with the tias that love on us so well. In goofily dancing ballet (all those lessons are finally paying off, mom) to the music next door with the little person who looks up to you the most.
Over half of being on mission I've come to know is our simple presence. And saying yes to the big-little things. Like hugs. And food (even when you're full). And 15 minutes of chatting or dancing around the kitchen.
-----------------
These kids, I tell ya.
They've done more for me than I'll ever be able to do for them (not that it's a competition). In this weird place where I often find myself thinking, where am I right now? What exactly is this lugar that's constantly changing: people, protocols, schedules, recreation. One week doesn't ever look the same.
But that's part of the beauty of the Finca and the relationships that I'm finding myself in. The Finca and the people inside open it's gates to you, exactly as you are. It takes all the brokenness and goodness inside of you and if you're open to it, will show you the intimate details of your heart's feelings and wonders. It will make you stronger and more whole, while tearing you down reminding you that you're oh so little.
It's such a weird time to be a missionary. We're tired. But I have to admit, the longer I'm in the middle of nowhere Honduras, the more I understand why people say yes to another year.
It's hard to beat a kitchen ocean-view or hugs from the big-hearted 14-year-old vecino. It blows my mind to think that we could've been in school this entire time, burned out by lesson plans and MIA library books, but instead I hit my pillow exhausted after a day of random chores and watching the kids learn how to catch a baseball or ride bikes.
It's the importance of cheering them on in the smallish victories of life. Like celebrating with ice cream after servicio or giving out high-fives if they finish homework early on in the week. I see it in their faces when I f-r-e-a-k out if they read 5 words in a one-hour session because the little progression they makes is proof that they're more than capaz. When I hear them call my name and come sprinting to girafa ole me because they can't wait to hear the cuenta I'll tell them before bedtime.
You guys. It's so simple. By just being around and showing up when you have only 7% more to give, they take notice. Quickly the sliver of love you have is multiplied and given right back to you in the form of mammones and smiles.
And even though it's not as shiny on the outside (read: I won't have spent my year creating the best library program the school has ever seen or executing all the special ed stuff I'd hoped) it's good and so important that we're still, that I'm still, here.
Exhale padres, I'm coming home in December.
-------------------
Just wanna shout out to Mother Mary for loving on me so well.
If you're in a funk, I recommend picking up your Rosary. I've re-added it to my daily prayer and it's done wonders to soften my little heart.
"Que te dijo?" (What did he tell you?) I asked, knowing sometimes her brain needs little thought tangents to sucessfully continue on in lessons.
"Me dijo: Tu puedes. Y Melissa, ya se que yo puedo." (He told me: You can. And Melissa, I know that I can.)
I broke out into a huge grin, trying to keep it cool. "Por supesto, ya sabia. Tu puedes." (Of course, I already knew that. You can.)
-----------
I've been in Honduras for 272 days. And I'm realizing the fruits of simply being here. Like physically being here. Being a missionary is probably the one job in my life I haven't workedworkedworked until I burn out and end up half a person.
I remember within my first few days (maybe even hours) at the Finca, I felt a call to just be. And most days I've really lived into that. Of course I do what I need to for my tutoring sessions and get my chores done to keep our house clean, but for the most part I'm just here. Or that's what it feels like.
-------------------
And then one day you wake up and you're DJ Mel. Or you're covering the older boys' house for the first time and think you're entertaining them (and probably trying a little too hard, embodying the energy of Maria Von Trapp); and then they (yes, all five teenage boys) take care of you. Or you're welcomed with a sweet hug and called Fitz by one of the older girls while you casually chat about how difficult physics is.
One day you're casually walking to the library and you find yourself being tackled by your fav little boy as he sprint-jumps into your arms screaming, "MELI-MELI-MELI! Podemos jugar LI-FE juntos?" Or you're proudly watching your student sound out and read words she would've scoffed at just 3 weeks before. Or you find yourself receiving the life story of a beautifully faith-filled mujercita, and realize as you're crying with her that she's entrusting to you a huge part of her heart.
One day you wake up and think, wait-wait-wait, but I wasn't even trying that hard.
(And also, wait I can sorta kinda speak Spanish.)
But I've learned you can't hide. I could do the bare minimum in a week (just last week I spent every free minute I had in the missionary house), and still the kids, tias, staff will find ways to connect with you.
In walking from the church to the houses chatting about the books they're reading. In whistles and waves as they walk by our patio. In awkward Honduran fiesta fashion with weird downtime to play "leona tiene hambre por choco-chips" with the littles. In talking about gardens and food and prayer with the tias that love on us so well. In goofily dancing ballet (all those lessons are finally paying off, mom) to the music next door with the little person who looks up to you the most.
Over half of being on mission I've come to know is our simple presence. And saying yes to the big-little things. Like hugs. And food (even when you're full). And 15 minutes of chatting or dancing around the kitchen.
-----------------
These kids, I tell ya.
They've done more for me than I'll ever be able to do for them (not that it's a competition). In this weird place where I often find myself thinking, where am I right now? What exactly is this lugar that's constantly changing: people, protocols, schedules, recreation. One week doesn't ever look the same.
But that's part of the beauty of the Finca and the relationships that I'm finding myself in. The Finca and the people inside open it's gates to you, exactly as you are. It takes all the brokenness and goodness inside of you and if you're open to it, will show you the intimate details of your heart's feelings and wonders. It will make you stronger and more whole, while tearing you down reminding you that you're oh so little.
It's such a weird time to be a missionary. We're tired. But I have to admit, the longer I'm in the middle of nowhere Honduras, the more I understand why people say yes to another year.
It's hard to beat a kitchen ocean-view or hugs from the big-hearted 14-year-old vecino. It blows my mind to think that we could've been in school this entire time, burned out by lesson plans and MIA library books, but instead I hit my pillow exhausted after a day of random chores and watching the kids learn how to catch a baseball or ride bikes.
It's the importance of cheering them on in the smallish victories of life. Like celebrating with ice cream after servicio or giving out high-fives if they finish homework early on in the week. I see it in their faces when I f-r-e-a-k out if they read 5 words in a one-hour session because the little progression they makes is proof that they're more than capaz. When I hear them call my name and come sprinting to girafa ole me because they can't wait to hear the cuenta I'll tell them before bedtime.
You guys. It's so simple. By just being around and showing up when you have only 7% more to give, they take notice. Quickly the sliver of love you have is multiplied and given right back to you in the form of mammones and smiles.
And even though it's not as shiny on the outside (read: I won't have spent my year creating the best library program the school has ever seen or executing all the special ed stuff I'd hoped) it's good and so important that we're still, that I'm still, here.
Exhale padres, I'm coming home in December.
-------------------
Just wanna shout out to Mother Mary for loving on me so well.
If you're in a funk, I recommend picking up your Rosary. I've re-added it to my daily prayer and it's done wonders to soften my little heart.
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