|
|
            
|
|
Reflections on Honduras
A sermon preached by Becca Orrick, Youth Ministry, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Bethesda, Maryland on Sunday, September 19, 2004.
If I had to sum up my summer experience in Honduras in one word I would call it “random”. Random the way I was the one helping and the people I met were the ones needing the help. Random the way the teenage girls I saw were the ones pregnant and I was the one telling them. Random the way the way the kids there would run around with no shoes and scabies all over their bodies and be perfectly content. Random that I was born to an American mother and hence I can become anything I work at, and that the teenagers I met there were born to Honduran mothers and essentially already have their fates cut out. The little girls I’d see running around would become mothers to many kids, due to not having access or not believing in birth control. The little boys attempting to play football in the streets with the balls we brought for them would most likely work picking coffee, trying to support their growing family, but knowing they wouldn’t be able to.
The kids I saw just as easily could have been me.
I learned of the kindness of strangers on this trip. Every day, as soon as the medical clinic opened, local kids would be there waiting to help. They gave up their week off from school to help ensure that the maximum number of people from their community were treated. I became friends with many of them and we’d pantomime and laugh and speak in broken Spanish as we tried to communicate with one another. They were fascinated by the hand-held translator I had, and one boy took great delight in showing off his "moonwalk". If the locals there were able to see what Americans live like here in Bethesda, they would be shocked out of their minds.
Here we just have so much stuff. My house is filled with things that just sit for days, weeks, even years until someone decides to use it. We have an electronic piano that has faithfully sat in the corner of the family room literally collecting dust for at least the past six years. I have piles of clothing that can’t even fit in all my drawers. Why do we hold on to all this stuff? Why do we fill our houses with all these material things when the end result is ignoring the very people we live with? Why do we pretend we need it all? In Honduras, the houses are small and virtually empty. There’s nothing to do inside except sleep or eat, so people spend their spare time socializing and hanging out outside. Thoreau said it, and I’ll say it here - having more stuff does not make you happier.
I went to Honduras with a group of about 25 doctors and 30 teenagers. Most of the teenagers came from an Episcopalian church in Baltimore called Church of the Redeemer. For four out of the last five years this church has set up a medical clinic in the center of the town of Atima. The medical clinic served about 3000 patients and was held inside a gated compound that is normally used as a preschool and elementary school for kids in the town and in the surrounding areas. Hector Madrid, the rector of our companion parish in Sequatepeque, Honduras, was able to somehow find me in the clinic. I gave him gifts from St. Luke’s for Sequatepeque. This year, I was informed, the medical clinic was less chaotic than it had been in previous years, because the town’s priest, Father Mendosa, had assisted us in deciding who needed medical care. Even so, all was not perfect with the system because Father Mendosa tended to favor Episcopalians over people of other religions when deciding who was sick enough to see a doctor.
My first impression of Honduras was that it was wild, desperate, and beautiful, all in extreme ways. Riding up to Atima we had a man protecting us standing up at the front of the bus with a gun. We’d swerve around steep mountain cliffs and he’d hold on, even when the door would occasionally swing open. Going through the occasional city, our bus would swerve dodging horse and buggy systems, other buses, and people attempting to sell fruit. The scenery was absolutely gorgeous. It was foggy and green and mountainous and wonderful. As we got higher into the mountains, we’d see poorer and poorer villages with houses made out of trash, paper, and anything that could be tied or nailed together.
It’s easy to forget the poor in the world when all we see is luxury, but for the poor it is a constant struggle. Consider for example the albino family who lived in Atima. This family had three albino children. The kids had scabs and boils all over their exposed skin, but they could not afford sunscreen to prevent it from happening.
Every day we’d be followed by an entourage of kids holding our hands and walking beside us to breakfast, lunch and dinner where Father Mendosa’s wife would make our meals. His house was nicer than most; it had a gated entrance leading into a three room house with a sofa. Furniture was considered unnecessary and a luxury only for the rich. As we ate, little eyes and hands would peer in watching us.
As I walked through the town, little hands would always grab ahold of me. I remember in particular three little kids, two girls and a tiny boy, who were always by my side. With silken black hair and big brown eyes, they’d walk with me, a girl on each side holding my hand, and the little boy dragging my thumb. In church the last day, the oldest girl started stroking my leg, the younger girl rested her head on my shoulder, and the little boy grasped onto my hand. It was a simple act of love, knowing no fear, having no reservations.
How often here in America do we not do something because we are afraid? How often do we refrain from looking the people we pass on the streets in the eye because we’re fearful of what they’ll think? How often do we hold ourselves back from fully living because we’re scared about what could go wrong? How much can we learn from these little trusting kids who have nothing but know no fear?
There’s a big world out there, there are people who do evil things, but there are also saints. And when it comes down to it, fear accomplishes nothing. A mind who is afraid can’t think clearly, can’t enjoy fully, can’t love truly.
Ironic isn’t it, that it sometimes seems like we are trapped in our luxury, tangled in the very fabric that is supposed to free us. We abide by the rules of society, follow the norm, work hard enough so that we have time to relax occasionally. For all our wealth, we are a busy, stressed out people.
It doesn’t have to be this way.
The people in Honduras weren’t stressed out because they hadn’t been taught that they always had to be doing something productive. They hadn’t been taught that they should feel guilty if they were doing nothing except sitting on the sidewalk watching and observing. There’s a difference between enjoying life and being lazy.
It’s interesting the way different cultures have different concepts of time. Our definition of time seems to be very cramped, but in reality it is only as cramped as we allow it to be.
We have the option to slow down, kiss those we love, smile at strangers, appreciate how alive we are here, now, right this moment. And if we dare to, we may just find out that we have all we ever really need and so much more. An old teacher of mine who fought in the Vietnam War told our class that any morning he rolled out of bed and had his feet hit the floor was a good day. Let’s make today a good day.
We are so lucky and we don’t often realize it or appreciate it. And the next time you say God Bless America, please say God Bless the World also. God knows the world needs it.
|
|
|
|
