Simple multiplication

Last month in a morning devotion with the Brevard, NC missions team, pastor Alan Perry assured us that God is still performing miracles of multiplication. He may not use fish and barley loaves these days, Alan said, but His love can start small and eventually reach thousands.

Such is the story with this mountain, you know. Pinalito has hosted over fifty Americans this fall! Some came up for short-term mission trips-- Christ Church United Methodist from Louisville, Brevard Community Church from Western North Carolina, and a quick visit by Light of the World Church from Pennslyvania. Nathan Sampson has joined us from Huntsville, AL for longterm missions. And, still others have come just to visit and encourage us-- thank you to Joe and Hallett, the Emery's and the Biddle's for celebrating Thanksgiving on the mountain with Faith in Action.
As we drive towards Pinalito, many have demanded to know WHY ON EARTH WOULD SOMEONE FOLLOW THIS ROAD?! And HOW, please tell, DID ALL OF THESE CEMENT BLOCKS GET TO THIS PLACE? Well, Rocky and Michael Beene are pretty amazing, that's for sure. But look at the caravan of vehicles trudging through. That is a miracle of God's multiplication.

Each of us arrived in Pinalito to serve one another and the people of the village. A work that began with Rocky and Michael's four hands has now multiplied into hundreds. This fall, when old Sofia entered this mission gates for her lunch, her plate was piled high with fattening American food: lasagna, cobbler, cheese grits. When Santos, Gabriel, Minor and the boys came to kick an orange around on the soccer field, they were surprised with a new leather ball and American teammates. When the mission sweet-heart, Flor, reached up to be held, she could count on willing arms.

Whereas we resident missionaries have often felt like tired parents—measuring our energy and finances when the village requests more attention—the teams represent the overflow of God’s heart. It’s pure and simple, inexhaustible love! I watched Amy Moore frantically tuck dolls into little girls arms, hoping not to get scolded for doting. Mom walked around for hours holding the Pinalito babies-- she wore an old t-shirts and shrugged with a big smile whenever the child's swaddling soaked through. For hours on end, Cindy and Leigh Anne listened to the complaints of the tired old ladies and men. Many just wanted to be touched and prayed over.

There's still more. New minds multiply the energy and imagination. That's one of the things that poverty does to us: our hearts connect to our heads and cause them to crank with solutions. Jimm Cox carried an idea list throughout the week in Pinalito. He wrote down the village needs from women's dresses to boys Tonka trucks, cruiser lights for the Nissan to school computers. Scott Irick invested in a video camera, and fell in love with Pinalito through its lens. Now that Jimm and Scott are back in the U.S., they are both pursuing their vision to share the news about Pinalito. Similarly, Gordon Strayhorn's gears were in motion as he visited houses, pointing out the misused or lack of wood stoves. (We have spoken with Helps International for a retraining project.) Gordon helped build the loft in the new children's room, and with usual creativity, suggested new plans (wall ripping) for a joint library/children's room. Meanwhile, his son Turner, tried to convince us to let him live in Pinalito for the next school year.

Thank you all for helping us with many half-finished painting and carpentry projects and "dotting every i" on the book and medicine organization! The Christ Church team laid tile alongside their Pinalito brothers, patient with both the language barrier and uneven cement floor! Thank you for loving the village, and for taking care of us. Koos enjoyed having a running partner in Alan and a roof spotter in Jimm. Melanie learned non-stop with many teachers in the clinic, and was glad to have more singers to drown out her tweaked guitar strings. And I am just overwhelmed with gratitude. (And I'm thrilled to be able to wear my jeans without a belt! Thank you cooks!)

Pinalito: Our Dysfunctional Family

Writing, I think, can be like running yourself through a fine-tooth comb. Depending on how tangled up you are, it can be pretty painful, if you ask me. Although all will end straight and pretty with your thoughts in a 12-font row, the process can be tough.So I haven't stopped to reflect on life in a while-- at least, not in the formal "upload now" manner of speaking. Instead, I've tried to adopt the phrase "takes a licking and keeps on ticking," without questioning why I feel so beaten. Thank you for continuing to write and encourage.

The rainy season is wringing out its final torrent on the mountains. If ever there was a hope of fixing the road between our two mission bases-- Pinalito and Matasano-- that hope is quite washed out. Entire Pine trees have slid down steep hillsides to block the passage. The ditches formed are nearly 40 feet deep, and scary to walk alongside, much less maneuver a vehicle. The erosion, so the village men have told me, is mirroring the landslides that they saw after Hurricane Mitch. Supposedly, we have about 15 days left.

Throughout the deluge, David and the government builders are faithfully working on the new Pinalito schoolhouse. For those of you that have seen Pinalito, the new building is behind the old school, hidden from view when walking on the basketball court. It is beautiful— sturdy cement block with wide outdoor walkways. Today, they were finishing the bathrooms. This is a project that requires the collaboration of the entire village, but it has been a disappointment as fewer and fewer men feel called to help their community.

Nevertheless, because of this work and the materials needed to continue, the longer "back road" to Zacapa remains open, and we are still able to drive out of the village for supplies and doctors visits.

And for many inquiring minds, I am excited to announce that the bread oven is up and running and we are enjoying hot sweet rolls twice a week. Of course, Pastor Domingo’s original idea with the bread oven was not to create a business for himself, but to teach an interested villager how to take over the enterprise after all of the legwork was accomplished. Alas, no one has come forward to learn how to mix and knead the dough, prep the ovens, or, for that matter, count the money. That part of the plan, I imagine, will take time. So here's an account of this season’s adventures:

1: Journal entry, Thursday September 20th: Lupita

I’m in the emergency room with Lupita today. She is another malnourished child of the village, Julia and Santos’s daughter, who I see off and on when Julia comes to help clean our apartment. We brought Lupita down this morning with the Nissan creaking and groaning. A piece along the drive shaft broke on our last trip up the mountain, so we are moving slowly in hopes that the vehicle will endure the rocks and ditches.

I have watched and worried about Lupita since last September. She has a sad, pie-shaped face with watery eyes, and her body is unnaturally fat. I wasn’t always sure of Lupita’s diagnosis, and I have often hesitated to send nutrition supplements and treats to her house (her Dad, so I hear, is a drunk, and I can never quite figure how to involve myself in the family.) Her fat appearance, I learned last winter from a village health book, is due to a form of malnourishment called “Kwaskiorkor.” It’s a deficit in proteins that inhibits her system from absorbing vitamins. Though Lupita is heavy with water and salts, her body is wasting away. This picture was taken last fall. There is Lupita, seated on the floor. She was terrified of me for many months last year, and screamed when she heard my voice.

Today, the child that I am sitting with is a textbook case of Kwashiorkor. Her body reflects that drawing in the healthcare handbook to a tee. I can hardly bear to write this—I am so ashamed that I didn’t catch it earlier. I should have insisted a hospital visit three weeks ago. By this point, Lupita can hardly move; her abdomen and ankles are so swollen. The ER doctors are commanding Julia and me around as though we were fools. Today, I feel the part.The nurses come and take blood from her little arm. Lupita is turned on her left side, and hardly moves when they prick her right wrist. Water fills the syringe. The child’s veins are sunken in her swollen body that acts more like a water balloon that a functioning system. The nurses remove the needle and move the elastic tourniquet to Lupita’s bicep. They turn up their noses as they rub her upper arm with an alcohol swab, her skin is filthy. I want to step in front of Julia to defend my neighbor against these impatient nurses, but I must put my head down. I know that Pinalito needs to learn how to care for their children—we cannot be soft on them. Lupita has suffered at her mother’s ignorance; she winces now as the syringe finally fills with blood. Her eyes show her pain, even though her swollen face will not wrinkle into a cringe.

After they take blood, the nurses usher us into the pediatrics wing, where we wait for several hours. I have been to the Zacapa hospital several times this summer and fall, but never to sit and wait for hours alongside the rusty beds and plastic lawn chairs. The hall is large and open-aired, ending in a muddy courtyard with old crooked swing sets and clotheslines dripping with bedding. In order to stay in the pediatrics ward, a child must have a caretaker at the bedside throughout the day and night. There are not enough nurses to otherwise attend the children's needs. Dark-eyed mothers mill around the hallway watching us-- it must be strange to see American girls sitting next to a mountain woman with a child whose droopy eyes reflect her poverty.

Mid-afternoon, a high-heeled nutritionist enters the room to interrogate us on a similar subject, "Oh, how has this child been so neglected when there are Gringos nearby?” By this time, Pastor Domingo has come to accompany us. He answers the nutritionist's questions-- explaining that we are working hard, but we just can’t do it all. The village doesn't collaborate.... he explains Julia's reluctance to walk down the mountain when our vehicle was out of service, and the father, Santos's angry foot-stamping when we suggested that he take responsibility for his child. "We are trying to raise this village to their feet," he insists, "but they prefer to be carried."

We are all impressed however, when Santos arrives at the hospital the next morning, toting their hungry toddler in the Zacapa heat. He has come to take his wife's place at the hospital bedside. It will be nearly three weeks of waiting until Lupita's swelling goes down, and he will not be able to work. More importantly, Julia must return to nurse the toddler and to care for her other four children waiting on the mountain. Melanie and I take on the responsibility to care for this family. How else could right the wrong committed upon little Lupita?

2. Tuesday, Sep 25: Pinalito, My Dysfunctional Family

When we return to the village with a sleepy Julia and a smelly baby Melvin, we hit further unexpected obstacles. The house that Julia and Santos have recently bought had been ransacked by the previous owners. There is not a door nor window shutters to protect 24-year-old Julia and her little ones. After the first two sleepless nights in the place, Julia comes to my house wringing her hands. Troublesome men (or drunken, perhaps?) had been throwing rocks at the laminate sheets lying across the doorway. There are rumors floating through the village about another man in the house with Julia, and though she furiously denies it, I am unsure of how to react. I know that the villagers are often out to get one another out of jealousy and pride. This place, though isolated and impoverished, is not so different from an episode of 90210.

That day, Koos and I go down to measure the door frames. Sure enough, iron rebar is peeking out of the concrete block, remnants of the strong metal door and window shutters that were once welded there. The roof is also broken, and puddles from last night’s rain attract mosquitoes on the bedroom floor. Koos spends the next two days building a door and rigging the frame into the crumbling concrete. I visit every chance I get, if only to play with the children or to dress-up in Julia’s clothes and prance through the “neighborhood”. I just want to see these children smile.

Even after the door is securely attached, (THANK YOU, KOOS, THE MISSION HANDY MAN) I continue to worry about Julia and her children alone in the house at night. I toy with the idea of sleeping down there, although I know that they only have one bed and that the mosquitoes on her property are vicious. I don’t which makes me more uncomfortable: sleeping in these impoverished conditions, or knowing that Jesus, if He were here in Pinalito, would be down there slapping mosquitoes and holding those sweet worm-bellied children.

3. Sunday, 29th: Edgas

This idea of living outside the mission gates seems idealistic and weighty, and I push it into the corner alongside my half-packed backpack. I continue living within the razor wire of the mission—where, although we read our Bibles every morning over coffee, and sleep on beds with mattresses, we still struggle to live as a content community. I continue to pray in Monday night meetings with Carolina and Domingo and to plug through curriculum and budget development with the teachers. I focus on the communication and wellbeing of our small leadership team, but I realize painfully that I am missing Jesus’ point.

In the midst of my personal quandary, Jilmer’s two-year-old brother, Edgas, dies suddenly one Wednesday night. We are awoken by Carolina’s midnight knocking, rallying us to look for her husband and the men that went to the dying child’s house to pray. We don’t find them until 5:00 the following morning, when Domingo approaches Koos to request a three- foot coffin. The baby has died from a cold, so it seems.

It felt like the sun never came up that Thursday morning. Koos finished the plywood coffin, and carried it up the mountain to set the baby inside. We had a service in the church, then, as is the mountain custom, we left the sobbing parents, Emilia and Carlos to walk home in their grief. The rest of the family went to the cemetery to bury the box in a ditch seven hands deep. Having just given an English test, I stay behind for awhile. I tried to console Emilia, but I felt futile in the effort. I can hardly understand how these dear villagers suffer through their lives, much less their deaths.

So I resort to the thing that always makes me feel better: teach the village. In a matter of minutes, I am on the telephone with a nurse in the nearby village of Matasano, inviting her to come over for a health seminar the following Saturday. “The people are really scared”, I tell the nurse, “will you please help us come and care for them? I just don’t think I can watch another child die.”
Look closely at this picture. This is the mountain cemetary.

4: A Little Outside Help
The next day Santos returns, but without Lupita. His face is tired; I’ve never seen eyes so dark and sunken. His daughter, he explains, has been transferred to a nutrition clinic in the nearby town of Teculutan. She will stay there, under the care of 15 Guatemalan nuns, for the next month. I call Carolina on my cell phone that afternoon, remembering that she too is in Teculutan for a woman’s meeting. I tell her the clinic’s address, and she starts walking as we speak.

Carolina later comes over to tell me about the nuns that welcomed her into their clean, flower-filled clinic with open arms. “They know about Pinalito,” she told me, smiling, “they want to come up and see this place!” Carolina (a pastor’s daughter and wife!) jokes that she has never called anyone “Madre” or “Mother”, before, but there’s a first time for everything! There are nurses and nutritionists every day, she continues. There are gardens and toys, personal and intimate care for every child. There are even individualized meal plans from the kitchen—Lupita, because of her swelling, is on a no-salt diet. They expect her to be there for three months, and they are encouraging us to bring more sick children down.

I am relieved. This bit of kind collaboration, both from the Matasano nurses on Saturday and from the nuns in Teculutan, gives me the energy to finish up this blog. When I write, I might not comb all of my tangles out, but I need to know that we really can re-imagine this world. It is not easy or comfortable, but I need to know that Jesus really had something up his sleeve when He said, “Follow me.” With a little bit of help, I am reassured. My hands are working with many; let’s get to it.

For what can a beggar ask?

Last time I wrote, the Faith in Action crew was on their way down the mountain, and Pinalito was battening the hatches against the four-month rainy season. Although it is not exactly “Forest Gump in Vietnam” rain, Pinalito must prepare for isolation as the road quickly washes away, for coughs and colds and the dreaded flu as rainy afternoons drench the last set of dry clothes, and for stomach parasites as the puddles collect sewage. The corn prices rise, and will not decrease until the next crop is harvested at the end of August.



And what’s worse for the struggling villagers this year—it seems that missionaries have turned their backs.

Of course, that not true, exactly…for an angry parent still loves a child while she is grounded. I was frustrated with my neighbors after the corn, beans, rice and sugar were stolen from the mission without police or village intervention. When I stomped away from the small “committee” of men that afternoon, angrily shouting that I wouldn’t buy their children more food just so that it could be stolen, I didn’t turn around. In the weeks that followed the robberies, I often stayed in the apartment with the door shut, still sick with flu and whatever cough or cold that hit my weakened system. In those weeks, the weight of the village became overly cumbersome for my shoulders.

My discomfort increased with reports like those of Gregorio, the father of young Esmeralda, our epileptic patient, and Angelino, the step-father of tiny Nirsa, my elfin friend who survived a scary bout with pneumonia. After Ron Moro paid for Esmeralda’s stay in the hospital and all of her medical tests, Gregorio approached Pinalito’s wonderful pastor, Domingo, to ask for help from the offering basket, “forgetting” the fact that he had already received a large donation. Domingo only raised his eyebrows at his neighbor; denying the request. And I cannot forget Angelino, Nirsa’s step-father, who approached my door twice with a drunken swagger, insisting that I give money to help his step-daughter in the hospital, despite my recent visit to Nirsa and her mother in the pediatric ward to hand over a generous wad of bills. The image Nirsa’s tiny, malnourished body throbbed in my head as I considered Angelino leaning against the doorpost, reeking of moonshine.

As the line of demands grew outside the door, I was no longer joyful as I tried to clothe the poor and feed the hungry, for the responsibility was too great, and the people were pulling at my load mercilessly. I felt as though the yoke I have always carried in Pinalito—the yoke of being an American with money to help those in need—was askew, and I no longer had the energy to adjust the strap.

At last, my neighbors began to notice my stagger. “The Americans have changed!” they marveled to the pastor— “They won’t buy us food! They are turning away the widows—even the ones with children!”

Pastor Domingo nodded. He has the eyes of a wise old sage, and had his sermons ready for this day. The next Sunday, he reminded his congregation of the beggar at the gates called Beautiful—Acts chapter 3.

“One Sabbath, when Peter and John go to pray, they encounter a crippled beggar who was brought to sit daily outside the temple, at gates called “Beautiful”. This beggar, retells Domingo, “was doing pretty well in his location, taking advantage of the charity of temple-goers. Luke tells us that he had been crippled from birth. He was accustomed to putting his hand out every day. When Peter and John approached the gates and called for this beggar’s attention, he expected another coin or two. But Peter had another notion of charity: in the name of Jesus Christ, he commanded the man to rise and walk.”

“If that beggar had known that God could raise him to his feet,” Domingo continued, “he would have asked Peter for this miracle. Instead, he wasted all of his time reaching out for spare coins.”

The congregation didn’t need any further explanation. They understood what it meant to be the beggar, and realized that they needed to look further than the hands of us tired Americans. I, in turn, remembered my compassion when I realized that my neighbors simply didn’t know a life apart from begging for handouts. Like the beggar at the gates of the temple, their poverty seemed to be a habit impossible to break. They had never been taught to rely on their power of their own two feet.

The following week, Juan Carlos, the village “president” went down to Zacapa to solicit food for the village schoolchildren. He carried with him a petition from every parent in Pinalito. A few days later, a representative from a Guatemalan foundation is knocking at my door to find out how his Government can help these mountain people. The next Tuesday, he is back to take a census of women and children.



Pastor Domingo has continued to be the silent sage of Pinalito. Like Peter, he does not have gold or silver to give the beggars, but he knows what a poor Guatemalan economy can support, and he envisions how the people can move forward independently. Recently, he has been building a bread oven in his backyard. With the help of the villagers, they have crafted a dome out of adobe and mud, and it is slowly drying in the morning sun. On August 17th, Domingo and three villagers will fire up the oven for the first time, and he will begin to employ another baker and a salesman.

Domingo’s wife, Carolina, has also stepped forward as a leader. The woman is a real fireball, often speaking ten words before slowing down to explain the first. Together, Carolina and I have collected several boxes of donated clothing and shoes and inventoried them into a small monthly market. The clothing prices are greatly reduced, but she tells me that we must apply some value to every item that the villagers receive.

When Carolina held the market two weeks ago, I was in Guatemala City, and worried about how the people would react to the price tags. When I returned to the mountain however, Carolina laughed at my anxiety. “You better believe they complained about the prices! They grumbled and whined and demanded! But I stood firm! I know my people! And you know what… they shopped! They came to me with piles of shirts and dresses, but instead of paying me with spare change or tortillas, they handed over bills of one-hundred!”

These people have some money; she went on to assure me. The longer we assume that they are poor, the longer they will live as if they are beggars. That weekend, we collected Q150 from clothing sales. (About $20) Q100 went into the church offering plate, and the remaining Q50 will be invested in men’s jeans for the August market.

Domingo and Carolina didn’t stop there. The literacy classes that I have wanted to begin for so long have finally started. Carolina arranged a meeting with the Guatemalan literacy foundation, ConAlfa, and we learned how to put pencils and notebooks into the hands of the beggar. Here is a picture of the women’s class, which we hold three times weekly in my classroom. The women are working on vowels for now— they practice constantly, even in their houses, where they must sharpen their pencil with their husband’s or brother’s machete.
You know, the story of the beggar at the gates of Beautiful does not end abruptly in Acts. Peter heals the man, and he rises to follow the disciples into the temple, where he praises God and becomes an astonishing testimony to all who have seen his crippled body at the entrance each day.

Likewise, Pinalito has become God’s encouragement for me. I do not rise in the morning and think of the impossibility, but of what God can do through faith to raise up the beggar.

My joy, as always, continues with education. Maribel, my dear friend and neighbor, comes to my door every day at 5:00 for reading classes. Thank you, dear supporters, for giving us the opportunity to read together. This is Maribel using a computer reading game on one of the donated laptops.


When I care for my neighbors, I cannot simply fork over bills or bowls of chicken soup—with this mentality, my burden is too heavy to bear. Instead, Pastor Domingo and Carolina have taught me how to raise the people to their feet, and thus share my load with many.

Pinalito is in a "time of refreshing." Look at the building, with the mural by Julie Rais, that truly has become a community center.

This week was one which needs no further embellishment...

Flipping through this week's journal entries... Let's begin here. Sorry about the length

Wednesday, June 13th:

I just dropped off Jen Reed, Julie Payne and Meghan Knapke—visiting college friends— at the airport, and have settled down to write before check-out. It’s comfortable here at the Grand Tikal Futura Hotel, with vacuums buzzing in the corridors and rain pouring outside my window—except for the large tremor that just shook the building until the lampshade fell sideways.

Really, a minor earthquake just hit Guatemala! The maids are in the hallway now, talking about how many seconds it lasted… 50, they say. The women are far more unnerved about the quaking than I, because five minutes later; I have curled back up in my chair to continue with my quiet morning. There is no doubt about it; chaos seems normal to me these days.

This past week in Pinalito with my college buddies was a great example. I had hoped to treat my friends to a full-scale Guatemalan adventure vacation, complete with delicious mangoes and fried plantains, morning hikes to the villagers’ houses with a thermos full of Pinalito coffee, and three days of creative revamping of my library.

By their second day, however, I was reminded NOT to have expectations in such grand adventures. I got a flat tire before we even started up the mountain, and on top of that, you see, the rainy season has started in Guatemala. As the sky turns gray, work is second priority; projects get left undone and life returns to a snail’s pace. The roads are washed out, and our pickup truck only serves us to the nearby village of Matasano. Although the girls were primed and ready to hike into the village, the 250 pounds of books and teaching supplies that I had excitedly insisted they bring became a two-day load for local horses.

(I’ll skip over the pee-drenched babies and lice infestations, girls… you all can attest to an adventure for sure. Thanks for coming down to help!)

Thursday, June 14th:

We spent the morning driving around Guatemala City again, searching blindly for a store that might have power inverters for the new solar panel that Melanie has invested in. As we finally pulled into the parking garage of Pricesmart, the Sam’s Club style warehouse that is sure to have everything, we received a phone call from Pinalito.

“Where is the Epinephrine in the clinic? There is a little girl in Anaphylactic shock—she is vomiting blood, and has had several seizures.”

Esmeralda, the daughter of Rugina (one of my working women) and Gregorio, is 5. She is the cleanest, best-dressed, and most spoiled child of the village, if you ask me, but for good reason. Two years ago, her sister Milagro died in a night of seizures, leaving Esmeralda as the only little girl in her family of five boys. Since then, her mother lives in constant worry that is etched into her face. Today, that worry is justified. This is a picture of Esmeralda last November:



Melanie and I do our best to describe where the Epinephrine might be, and then we get on the road for Zacapa, stopping only to pray in the store parking lot.

On the way out of town, the rain starts. It’s a deluge. I cannot see ten feet in front of me. As Melanie and I pass through the mountains, rocks start to fall from the cliffs. The traffic slows to a crawl as everyone weaves through. Our air-conditioner is broken, and we have to leave the windows open to keep the windshield from fogging up. It is a scary trip. We have our cell phones in hand throughout the trip. We follow Esmeralda’s status from the highway: Ron Moro (Rocky Beene’s brother) finds the Epi pens, give her a shot, carries her to Matasano, and then drives her to the hospital. Esmeralda stablizes. She is put on an IV, and falls asleep in her mother’s arms.

Melanie and I arrive in Zacapa at midnight, wet and exhausted.

Friday, June 15th:

After breakfast, we head to the hospital this morning to see Esmeralda. She is in the pediatrics ward, held tightly by her exhausted mother. We pay for a cefalagram, a juicebox and a new dress. The results show possibilities of Epilepsy. This infirmity, to be sure, will plague Esmeralda her entire life. Ron hands Gregorio, Esmeralda’s dad, a fistful of cash to help out.

I head up the mountain with Ron and the boys around 2:00. The road is worse, and clouds are looming. The hard rains are quickly creating trenches over five feet deep. We arrive in Pinalito around 4:30, just in time to shut the doors before another deluge arrives. Ron and the boys have to spend the night in Pinalito. They try to wash dishes, clean the house, and teach me some basic plumbing. Unfortunately, we have no water. The tank at the top of the mountain has clogged with debris.

Saturday, June 16th:
The widows are lined up outside my front door today at 8:00. Today is the day that I give widow’s food each month, and although several are still getting the hang of a schedule, there are 13 at my door today, ready for their monthly allotment. Around 9:00 am, Ron and the boys leave the village with a villager’s loaded-down horse in tow. I am nervous as they walk away—no one else will be up on the mountain with me this week. It’s been a long time since I’ve been up here flying solo. Melanie is taking a break in town this week, hanging out with a visiting team from North Carolina.

Of course, there is no time to be nervous. The needs of this village keep my legs and mind churning. My little friend Yolanda comes early in the early afternoon to tell me about her sick baby sister, Nirsa. I am worried immediately. At five years old, Nirsa only weighs eighteen pounds. I can’t imagine that she has much of an immune system. On top of that, she is one of my favorites—a spunky, rebellious little girl that can entertain the room with her pointy face and sharp expressions.

When her mom arrives with Nirsa wrapped in a vomit-covered towel, I race for the doctor’s manual and a stethoscope. Her breathing makes me think pneumonia—fast and shallow, but when it comes right down to it, I am as nervous as her mother. I have no idea what the problem is, and I nearly panic when her mom asks me, bluntly, “She is going to die, right?”

I give Nirsa a Salbuterol breathing treatment, like the ones my grandmother used to receive with her emphysema, antibiotics and a bottle of baby Tylenol. Although her mother is not happy about the idea, I insist that we bathe the child with warm water. Nirsa is too weak to fight the bath, although her face shows that same pointed impatience that used to make me laugh. This time, I can’t laugh, especially as she throws up an entire round of antibiotics.

Sunday, June 17th:

I run to Nirsa’s house to check on her before church. The doors and windows are closed. Everyone has left. I ask around a little bit—they walked down to the hospital in Zacapa. I am scared to think that my little friend might be worse, and, at the same time, relieved that I do not have to be responsible for her.

I spend my day in church and chatting with the pastor’s wife. I pray for Nirsa, and make plans to walk to Zacapa with her stepfather as soon as possible.

Monday, June 18th:

More widows arrive at my front door as I chat on the phone with Mom over coffee. Anxious to take care of the remaining eleven ladies, I go the food storeroom to give out the remaining rice and beans.

As I unlock the storeroom door, I notice a trail of ants carrying pieces of corn, and I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. There are several sacks of food missing, and corn is spilled all over the floor. Immediately, I turn to the one window in the storeroom. It has been broken—the welding pulled out so that any small Guatemalan can squeeze through. At least eight bags of food were stolen… 800 pounds of food for the widows and students program.
We call the police and join together of committee of men. Several people in the village whisper names in my ear—pointing fingers as to who the robber might be. “Nino” I hear most often, and I demand,
“Come on, men! Why don’t we just go over to his house and demand that he gives the food back…. There is at least eight men here to gang up on him!”

Upon listening to this, Max, my friend and co-teacher, immediately pulls me aside, warning me that this is dangerous stuff, and that there are men in Pinalito that I should steer clear of.

This is a side of my little village that I haven’t seen. I am crushed by it. We call the police to help in the matter, but they will not walk further than Matasano. Pinalito is officially isolated for the rainy season—the law does not reach this high.

Tuesday, June 19th:
I wake up with nausea and stomach grumbling that pin me to the bed. My head is spinning, and what’s more… we still don’t have water. Nothing with which to flush toilets, wash dishes, or wipe my face clean. My misery hits hard this morning, and I wonder why on EARTH I have chosen to live here. Women are outside, waiting for me to give them any remaining widow’s food, or medicine at the clinic, or a load of clothes to wash in the slimy water at the bottom of their outdoor sinks. But I can barely open my front door… how can I face Pinalito today?

At 9:15, I finally manage to unlock my door to feed the dogs. I tell the women on my porch that we have to wait for water before there is work today, and then I nearly fall back into the apartment. When I wake up again at 10:00, it is to Carolina, the pastor’s wife, boiling some horrible jelly of cornstarch and water for me to drink. “It will make you better,” she assures me, and leaves it by the couch.

Later on, I hear the water dripping. Carolina has insisted that the men fix the plumbing at all costs, three days without water is long enough. Julia, my dear house-helper, is inside washing dishes. She brings me a hot cup of coffee, insisting that a really bitter batch will make me better, guaranteed.
The next time I wake up, it is to Sofia, the slightly senile old woman who we make lunch for everyday. Sofia usually comes into the kitchen door and waits until there is a bowl for her on the table, and today, she is doing the usual… wandering around the porch and kitchen, trying to figure out when her rice will be ready. It takes her a while to notice that I am lying on the couch. When she does, she comes over to shake my hand.

“Sofia, I just don’t think I can make your lunch today… can you come back tomorrow?” I ask. “I am sick today.”

She croons something that I don’t understand, and shuffles through her little old plastic bag. Finally, she takes out a crumpled packet of rehydration drink that we always give at the medical clinic—like salty Gatorade. Sofia must have had this little packet for “just in case” moments. She hands it to me, insisting that I drink it.

“Poor Sarita," she pats my shoulder. "You rest."

Yeehaw!

“Now he who supplies seed to the sower and bread for food will also supply and increase your store of seed and will enlarge the harvest of your righteousness. You will be made rich in every way so that you can be generous on every occasion, and through us your generosity will result in thanksgiving to God.”
2 Corinthians 9:10- 11

Thank you, dear friends, for your support. This is our new pick-up truck, which I drive very slowly and carefully down the mountain roads, right Dad?! It is a huge blessing to Pinalito... Here I am loading up new Singer sewing machines!

reflecting on the year... and read on for results!

It’s time to sit still and write for an hour-- how difficult these days! I have had a hard time pausing for reflection this spring it seems… there is so much going on! What wonderful friends I have for badgering and requesting updates; thank you for you interest. I do in fact, have a lot to say.

Today is May 5th, Derby Day. This time last year, I had just returned home from my initial three-month stint in Guatemala. On Derby Day, though still emaciated from a travel bug, I celebrated at Churchill Downs with old friends. I remember chatting on the bleachers between races and announcing my decision to become a missionary. The first taste of Guatemala had whetted my taste buds, I had found a place to serve the poor, and I couldn’t shake Pinalito out of my head.

I spent the next two months working in Louisville. I approached Christ Church United Methodist about my ideas, then researched education, poverty and rural development, wrote Power Points and letters and generally, tried to plan for an experience that has proven impossible to prepare for.

You all have read the chain of events that followed, slightly chaotic, from there. Education had been the plan, but survival became the reality. Feed the hungry. Heal the sick. Clothe the naked. And hike like you have never hiked before!

I have woken in the morning to rasps at my metal door, “Neccesito un doctor!“ I need a doctor for my daughter… her baby will not come.
I have spent the day in my kitchen, caring for the malnourished. Melanie and I take turns at the stove to provide food for what seemed to be unquenchable hunger.

I have fallen asleep to the shouts of men as they fight a spreading crop fire down the hill from my apartment.

Throughout the fall, I learned to put my big plans on the back burner. That was a season for learning- building relationships, making mistakes, and persevering with God. It's easy to tread ahead on your power for a while, but whew... the workings of one tiny village is too much for one blind-sided idealist to direct.

Now listen, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.’ ‘Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, ‘If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that.” James 4:13-15


I write this wordy preface today, not to bore you all, dear friends, but to assure you that any success has not been my own. The season has changed in Pinalito. The missionary number has tripled. Short term teams have come to paint and plan for me. Koos Hagg, from Christ Church, has built bookshelves and bulletin boards, rewired the electricity as well as old computer systems. Money has come; I have bought a generator (see the yellow machine in Koos's hands below!) notebooks, pencils, and paid Max, a wonderful teacher and co-dreamer from Pinalito.

On April 11th, Max and I gave out invitations to fourteen 4th, 5th, and 6th graders. “Extra Class!” The invitation announced… “Computer classes, English, extended math and language sessions… in the new Pinalito Library!” The students were asked to fill out a questionnaire regarding their career goals and their views of Pinalito life. The next Wednesday, we held interviews for interested invitees invitees to expound on their answers to the questionnaire. Eleven students showed up for interviews. They were dressed in their finest, and very nervous. Eight want to be teachers-- this is one of the only professional roles they know. Tono wants to be a radio host. Jesus wants to be a veterinarian. Balodomero an electrician.

We started classes the following Tuesday, April 24th. Only four showed up, but I wasn’t discouraged. This is Guatemala, you see. The next day, I didn’t have enough desks to go around for the fourteen that came. I laid down the law, and Max explained my Spanish mistakes. You must come on time. You must come every day. I expect respect and responsibility. You are allowed three strikes, then you’re out.

This Tuesday, we will begin our third week of classes. There are a twelve consistent students. Nine young men, ranging from age 9 to 20, and three young women, ages 14, 15 and 16. This is a picture of the computer class. (Joe, note you Dell CPU on the computer cart!) We are starting at the basics-- how to turn on the CPU, and how to use the mouse. They are both fascinated and frustrated with the arrow, and the patience it takes to land on the “Start” button. Today I have written next week’s lesson plans-- a review of basic math concepts, games with chalk and magnets, and English verbs and introduction words.

The road for their education will be long and challenging. I couldn’t be happier with the work. If there was a routine to be had in this mission field, I think I have found a perfect one. It is not an academic mind or computer know-how that will save these kids, but the time I spend getting to know their names and sitting beside them while they learn to carry their sums. I truly love these people-- there’s my profound reflection of the month! I am only mist, I gather, and my ambition is nothing. But to demonstrate my love inside this classroom--with books and computers and school supplies that came only as God could plan-- this is success in servitude.

An ah-ha moment on Continental Airlines

In case you skipped last month's entry, suffice to say that I began my year in Pinalito a little out of sorts. Tired from self-imposed CHAOS at home, where I consistently forgot to take time for myself, I returned to the mountain in hope of a short rest. No luck there. Pinalito swung into action with catch-up work. Six weeks away had weakened the basic programs of Faith in Action. Children were dirtier than I had ever seen them, and their undernourishment accelerated by the lack of food, vitamins and clinic medicine. (This photo is Maria, age seven. She is suffering from "wet malnourishment" in which her body does not have enough protein. She is severely under-weight, pictured here in size 2 clothing.)

Before we could recover the scaffold, however, the mission house and apartments filled with the wonderful Cashiers, NC mission team, and our attentions turned to construction and program revamping. We welcomed Koos Hagg, a wonderful servant from Louisville, as well as Michael and Rocky Beene, the heads of FIA, who returned to the mountain after eight months on furlough… and thus we started the grind of team building. After last year’s Pinalito experience in which I was my own boss—chasing my own ideas and responsible for my own errors, the initial change on the mountain made me want to pout in the corner!

In addition, I received a phone call from my Dad on March 6th, asking me to please fly home for my grandmother’s funeral. Desperate to see my family, I wandered around the Guatemala airport in an unsettled daze until I finally managed to schedule an early-morning Continental flight. The airline clerks at the counter were surely glad to see me out of the country!

On the plane, I picked up the Bible and started to read Luke. Although I’ve never been one to get really absorbed in the Bible, I didn’t put the book down until I landed seven hours later at Louisville’s Standiford Field. That day, instead of seeing the words as rules or inspiring "one-liners," I fell into a conversation with the red print on the pages. I was stressed over many issues... I just didn’t think that I had the stuff to leave my boat and follow God.
A) I like to be in control, even if it’s on an isolated mountain.
B) I know I’m supposed to love all of these poor people around me, but they sure can drive me crazy sometimes.
C) I’d rather be accepted as “normal” in the world, not flagged as a fanatic, but the more I work as a missionary, the more I want to know this Jesus character.

So I kept reading. The details were puzzling me; religious advice was colliding in my head as I read parable after parable. The crowds in Galilee must have felt the same way, because finally, in Luke 18:26, an onlooker asks Jesus, "Who, then, can be saved?" as if he was at his wit's end! Woe to the rich man and woe to the lawyer… the rules can add up, the arguments get overwhelming! But Jesus, the teacher, answers, "The things that are impossible with man are possible with God." Jesus never said yes or no to the crowds, you know, but He prods us on. Eventually, my heart understands the storyline. God is real. His love is profound. I can trust this much. Jesus explains it pretty well, after all.

When I arrived at home in Louisville, I had ditched my bad attitude and my pout—the last of my knots was unlocked by my brothers’ teasing and some Alabama sweet tea. I was joyful at my grandmother’s funeral. I spoke at the church service—Linden United Methodist, where I was baptized—and told my grandmother’s friends and family that God is real, and His love is profound. I don’t know much more than this, but I feel good about my sweet grandmother, and my role in the mission field to boot. The final hymn, the "Hymn of Promise," sealed the deal. In our end is our beginning…in our time, infinity. God’s word is not a vehicle for self-help or self-righteousness. It is selfless—explaining that when we die to ourselves, we will live in Him instead.

So, today is March 27. I’ve just had a great week in Pinalito with an old friend, Michelle Coleman, whom I met six years ago at Camp Merrie-Woode. Michelle was a wonderful addition to the mission field this week— she is always positive and curious, posing questions that constantly affirm my love for this work! She came at another exciting upswing in mountain life, for last Wednesday afternoon, Melanie and I received a Nissan pick-up truck for use in the mission field! Three days later, the internet-technician visited Pinalito again, this time to install antennae and receivers in both my apartment and the community center classroom! We are wired!

Immediately, life has become easier and more efficient on the mountain. I received an email from UNICEF with information on hygiene and food supplements for undernourished children, and I was instantly able to schedule a meeting in their Guatemala City office. I printed out lesson plans and curriculums for the upcoming after-school program, and have scheduled interviews with the selected students. Dr. Mark Jackson has changed clinic-life by helping me with dermatology via email and digital pictures. Old frustrations with infections and pox are less burdensome now; there are potential cures! On top of all of this, I was able to make hotel confirmations for Michelle from Pinalito, and then DRIVE down the mountain instead of hiking!

Interestingly enough, in this week of huge blessings, Michelle reminded me that this is the season of Lent. (I couldn’t fathom why anyone would turn down peanut M&Ms or Zacapa ice cream for dessert, but then I remembered…) Without the purple stoles of Sunday church and Mom’s hot-cross buns, I had forgotten the tradition of making a sacrifice during this season. Of course, my usual sacrifices don’t really work here on the mountain; my chocolate is already rationed for desperate moments, I don’t have a TV, nor can I indulge in the newest clothes trends. But Lent isn’t necessarily about chocolate and TV time, is it? It’s more about dying to yourself—ignoring your own desires and emotions, like Jesus did when Pilot approached him. He figured, ‘Hey… it’s for a greater purpose, why not die on a cross?’ That’s pretty good motivation to stay on the mission field, too.

And God is able to make all grace abound toward you; that ye, always having all sufficiency in all things, may abound to every good work. 2 Corinthians 9:8