"The Honduran borders and airports will be closing at midnight tonight for a week to limit travel and lessen the entry of corona virus."
We had just returned from our Sunday Holy Hour when Ryan asked us to gather in the sala for this quick announcement.
My stomach dropped.
I was tired. It was a long week, a full week of hosting a group of college students that came to the Finca for mission work. Their departure was a hurried because of the tightening restrictions of corona virus, which was something happening afuera en el mundo. Something we weren't thinking about even the week before.
But now it, this thing, was literally keeping me inside a country. I panicked internally, feeling suffocated by my lack of freedom.
Thus began one of the longest emotional weeks of my life.
------------------
Within two days I decided to go home. I read organizations like Peace Corps and JVC International were sending their volunteers and missionaries home. I saw the call from the US government for all citizens to return home. I talked to my family and discerned it was best to pack my bags.
This corona thing was bigger than me. Being a missionary was hard enough under normal circumstances, but being one during a global pandemic was a whole level higher. I couldn't possibly commit to staying when I didn't know when I could see my family and friends again.
I felt sustained in spirit and supported in my decision. No one pushed me one way or the other, what I'd learned about my heart and Jesus in my 8 months away was more than I'd learned in my 3 years in Boston, and I really felt like a new chapter was on the horizon.
I bought my flight. Informed all the kids and tias I was on my way out. Cried a lot. Felt uncomfortable in community. Wrapped up the few projects I could. Wrote heartfelt notes. Packed my suitcase. Even had a despedida (a little farewell party). I was literally ready to leave the next day.
And then things started getting dramatic. Flights were cancelled. Other countries I was supposed to fly into for layovers closed their borders. Road barricades were put up all over Honduras. Towns were on lock-down. We weren't even sure if the airport was going to reopen. It got to a point when I googled, "boats out of Honduras" and was asking myself if I knew anyone with a private jet.
It all seemed waaaaaaay doomsday-ish. And rushed. And, quite honestly, hasty.
I began to feel unsettled and re-questioned myself: Is this how I want to end my mission in Honduras? What will I be going home to? Do my parents really need me? What could I be doing here instead? Where can I best serve? Am I prepared to be stuck inside the Finca, inside Honduras...indefinitely?
That last question made my stomach churn.
-----------------------------------
Enter one of the longest-emotional days I've lived.
I felt numb, like things were just happening to me and I was following along.
I bought a (new) flight (my third purchase after many cancellations) and my immediate thought was that someone needed my seat more than I did. But I kept it. And sat out the majority of the day in our office ironing out travel details.
When we all gathered for community night, I couldn't shake the feeling that the campfire kumbaya moment wouldn't be the final image of my friends that I carry home.
Why didn't it feel like this was the end? Maybe I wasn't supposed to go. After wrestling this internally and externally (with a lucky few), it was late. Rolling into the next day kind of late.
I sat in the office with Emily, sobbing and unsure what I was being called to do. Why was my heart breaking open again? Why did I feel broken? Holding my shaking hands she asked, "Melissa, are you saying yes, Jesus to this new mission?"
R e a d y or n o t.
"Are you ready to boldly say yes, Jesus even if that means you'll be here much longer than you thought - possibly another birthday, another Christmas - without seeing your family and friends?"
My heart throbbed. R e a d y or n o t.
"Are you saying yes, Jesus because you truly believe He is your sole Provider, that He will take care of you, and He will not abandon you?"
If I actually believed this, why was I acting like I didn't? R e a d y or n o t.
Finally I was able to speak en una voz alta, "Em, I'm going to stay."
---------------------------------------
Telling people you changed your mind about leaving mission during a global pandemic isn't the easiest thing to do. Especially when it's difficult to describe in your first language.
I was dreading telling the kids and the tias. Mostly because it felt humiliating and I'd already put everyone through an emotional wringer. We'd had the send-off cake, palabras and gifts were given. I'd had so many conversations, felt uncomfortable and sad. Everything was tied up neatly with a little farewell bow.
The last thing I wanted was to face everyone again and explain that I had (re)chosen to stay.
The camino between every encounter to share this news felt like a minuscule version of a walk to Calvary.
First to my community. Yes, Jesus. Then to our director. Yes, Jesus. Then to each of the houses. Yes, Jesus.
No matter the joy I saw on faces, the hugs I received, the words of relief, the literal dancing with raw chicken juice flying off of knives that occurred, I waited for someone to roll their eyes or be angry.
Maybe I thought I deserved it. Maybe I thought they'd feel betrayed and second-best because I ran at the first sign of trouble. Maybe I thought they wouldn't trust me.
But the opposite happened. I've never been shown such mercy and love.
-----------------------------
During this time life is a different kind of same here at the Finca.
I still wake up to the sound of the ocean. I spend a lot of time tutoring kids in math and reading. We have our weekly spirituality schedule (praise God we're some of the few that are able to receive Jesus). I wash my clothes by hand and lately have taken more bucket showers than regular ones. We spend a lot of time with the kids, trying to pour fun into their lives.
Our days are still packed, just in a slower, more present sort of way.
We've been lucky to witness firsthand how Honduras has pulled through for it's people by bringing hundred-pound bags of food to every family in rural communities or literally flying the Holy Eucharist around in a helicopter so people can be close to Jesus while we're all asked to quedase en casas.
It's been lightening to experience hope in this time of uncertainty. Am I worried about what's ahead? Absolutely. Sometimes it's crippling. But ready or not, I'll get up each day and fight the battle of "No puedo," on our back porch, sounding out syllables with our kids who need an extra push and love.
Do I wish things were different? Heck yes. I want things to work the way I planned them with a vacation home in the summer and being reinvigorated with visits to loved ones. But ready or not, I'll be praying every day for an increase in humility and trust because Jesus already has it figured out.
I surrender because ready or not, our community and mission has changed. And in the meantime, we'll be riding this out in a rural pocket of paradise.
-----------
Current theme song: Ready or Not (Drakeford)
We had just returned from our Sunday Holy Hour when Ryan asked us to gather in the sala for this quick announcement.
My stomach dropped.
I was tired. It was a long week, a full week of hosting a group of college students that came to the Finca for mission work. Their departure was a hurried because of the tightening restrictions of corona virus, which was something happening afuera en el mundo. Something we weren't thinking about even the week before.
But now it, this thing, was literally keeping me inside a country. I panicked internally, feeling suffocated by my lack of freedom.
Thus began one of the longest emotional weeks of my life.
------------------
Within two days I decided to go home. I read organizations like Peace Corps and JVC International were sending their volunteers and missionaries home. I saw the call from the US government for all citizens to return home. I talked to my family and discerned it was best to pack my bags.
This corona thing was bigger than me. Being a missionary was hard enough under normal circumstances, but being one during a global pandemic was a whole level higher. I couldn't possibly commit to staying when I didn't know when I could see my family and friends again.
I felt sustained in spirit and supported in my decision. No one pushed me one way or the other, what I'd learned about my heart and Jesus in my 8 months away was more than I'd learned in my 3 years in Boston, and I really felt like a new chapter was on the horizon.
I bought my flight. Informed all the kids and tias I was on my way out. Cried a lot. Felt uncomfortable in community. Wrapped up the few projects I could. Wrote heartfelt notes. Packed my suitcase. Even had a despedida (a little farewell party). I was literally ready to leave the next day.
And then things started getting dramatic. Flights were cancelled. Other countries I was supposed to fly into for layovers closed their borders. Road barricades were put up all over Honduras. Towns were on lock-down. We weren't even sure if the airport was going to reopen. It got to a point when I googled, "boats out of Honduras" and was asking myself if I knew anyone with a private jet.
It all seemed waaaaaaay doomsday-ish. And rushed. And, quite honestly, hasty.
I began to feel unsettled and re-questioned myself: Is this how I want to end my mission in Honduras? What will I be going home to? Do my parents really need me? What could I be doing here instead? Where can I best serve? Am I prepared to be stuck inside the Finca, inside Honduras...indefinitely?
That last question made my stomach churn.
-----------------------------------
Enter one of the longest-emotional days I've lived.
I felt numb, like things were just happening to me and I was following along.
I bought a (new) flight (my third purchase after many cancellations) and my immediate thought was that someone needed my seat more than I did. But I kept it. And sat out the majority of the day in our office ironing out travel details.
When we all gathered for community night, I couldn't shake the feeling that the campfire kumbaya moment wouldn't be the final image of my friends that I carry home.
Why didn't it feel like this was the end? Maybe I wasn't supposed to go. After wrestling this internally and externally (with a lucky few), it was late. Rolling into the next day kind of late.
I sat in the office with Emily, sobbing and unsure what I was being called to do. Why was my heart breaking open again? Why did I feel broken? Holding my shaking hands she asked, "Melissa, are you saying yes, Jesus to this new mission?"
R e a d y or n o t.
"Are you ready to boldly say yes, Jesus even if that means you'll be here much longer than you thought - possibly another birthday, another Christmas - without seeing your family and friends?"
My heart throbbed. R e a d y or n o t.
"Are you saying yes, Jesus because you truly believe He is your sole Provider, that He will take care of you, and He will not abandon you?"
If I actually believed this, why was I acting like I didn't? R e a d y or n o t.
Finally I was able to speak en una voz alta, "Em, I'm going to stay."
---------------------------------------
Telling people you changed your mind about leaving mission during a global pandemic isn't the easiest thing to do. Especially when it's difficult to describe in your first language.
I was dreading telling the kids and the tias. Mostly because it felt humiliating and I'd already put everyone through an emotional wringer. We'd had the send-off cake, palabras and gifts were given. I'd had so many conversations, felt uncomfortable and sad. Everything was tied up neatly with a little farewell bow.
The last thing I wanted was to face everyone again and explain that I had (re)chosen to stay.
The camino between every encounter to share this news felt like a minuscule version of a walk to Calvary.
First to my community. Yes, Jesus. Then to our director. Yes, Jesus. Then to each of the houses. Yes, Jesus.
No matter the joy I saw on faces, the hugs I received, the words of relief, the literal dancing with raw chicken juice flying off of knives that occurred, I waited for someone to roll their eyes or be angry.
Maybe I thought I deserved it. Maybe I thought they'd feel betrayed and second-best because I ran at the first sign of trouble. Maybe I thought they wouldn't trust me.
But the opposite happened. I've never been shown such mercy and love.
-----------------------------
During this time life is a different kind of same here at the Finca.
I still wake up to the sound of the ocean. I spend a lot of time tutoring kids in math and reading. We have our weekly spirituality schedule (praise God we're some of the few that are able to receive Jesus). I wash my clothes by hand and lately have taken more bucket showers than regular ones. We spend a lot of time with the kids, trying to pour fun into their lives.
Our days are still packed, just in a slower, more present sort of way.
We've been lucky to witness firsthand how Honduras has pulled through for it's people by bringing hundred-pound bags of food to every family in rural communities or literally flying the Holy Eucharist around in a helicopter so people can be close to Jesus while we're all asked to quedase en casas.
It's been lightening to experience hope in this time of uncertainty. Am I worried about what's ahead? Absolutely. Sometimes it's crippling. But ready or not, I'll get up each day and fight the battle of "No puedo," on our back porch, sounding out syllables with our kids who need an extra push and love.
Do I wish things were different? Heck yes. I want things to work the way I planned them with a vacation home in the summer and being reinvigorated with visits to loved ones. But ready or not, I'll be praying every day for an increase in humility and trust because Jesus already has it figured out.
I surrender because ready or not, our community and mission has changed. And in the meantime, we'll be riding this out in a rural pocket of paradise.
-----------
Current theme song: Ready or Not (Drakeford)
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