Joy Is Resilient

Our visitations last Thursday to families in our nutrition program took us through the heaviest fumes my lungs have yet braved. With burning eyes and failing voices, we walked through white smoke so thick that shadows cut visible swaths of black in the milky air. Though worried for her, it was no surprise that Maudelia's two year-old daughter, who she carried at her side, carried in turn a coarse and incessant cough.

As we rounded a corner of the single-room school that services the area, I noticed a boy gazing down at us from his perch in the leafless branches of a tree that barely rose above the corrugated metal separating his house from the next. He wore only tattered shorts and splashed mud on his chest. He looked to be well past seven, the age at which Nicaraguan children begin their schooling.

After trading his name for mine I asked, "Y porque no andas en escuela?" And why are you not in school?

In the broken Nicañole that Chureca teaches its children, he patiently explained that he was not permitted the luxury of an education because the house could not be left unattended while his father worked in the trash.

Left with a piercing feeling of impotence and that now familiar loss for words, my gaze fell through the fumes to my feet and the mange-riden animal not far from them. The seconds passed, and not knowing what else to say to my new friend whose unfortunate predicament I had just reminded him of, I absent-mindedly directed my next words to the dog at my feet. "Qué nota, perro?" What's up, dog?

Laughter suddenly burst through the air. Surprised and confused, my downtrodden spirit eagerly soaked in his broad smile and careless cackles. And, in that moment, as his laughter infected the air, I knew that it was no less real than the smoke it joined.

As living conditions range, nothing that I have known has any liberty to call itself Chureca's peer. This reality in mind, I am constantly perplexed that thoughts of my mornings in that desolate place are inexorably... joyful. Though seemingly quixotic, I cannot ignore that each visit brings cheer with a frequency almost insultingly disproportionate to the surrounding destitution.

Nicaragua's second discourse, taught in strife witnessed and smiles wielded, has been that whether life exists in privilege or penury, whether found on marble floors or shattered glass, joy is resilient.

A Thank You

I have always wondered at the mechanics of gratitude. It is a particularly trying dilemma when I feel, or know, that I am incapable of returning the kindness received. Attempts and failures to duly thank those incredible lives that have been placed into mine have led to the following realization, that every action holds the potential for two orders of dedication.

First, there is the direct recipient of the action. The soul on the other end of the hand we hold. Second, there is the indirect recipient. That is, the name in which we reach out our hand, or the recipient of that action's honor. With dual beneficiaries, each action may thus be given twice. My suspicion is that the latter beneficiary is equally, if not more, important than the former. I pray that I will come to understand the latter more intimately. And so, a thank you.

To that brilliant woman who has so often opened my eyes to the beauty and power of creativity, I dedicate my leadership in our creative arts program. To the man whose wisdom I cannot ignore, though he himself may be oceans away, who has dedicated his life to job creation, I dedicate my involvement with our budding business development program. Finally, for that angel of a woman I am blessed to call my mother, to whom I owe my nurturing and my life, I dedicate my role in our children's nutrition program, which provides oatmeal, milk, and vitamins to Chureca's malnourished children.

The immeasurable love I have been shown throughout my life may only begin to be paid tribute through reflecting that love forward. And so, it is with these dedications that I fully enter my year of service.

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Attempts to match my words to my deepest emotions expose that I am given to use of the phrase, "there are no words to describe." Though my affinity for hyperbole perhaps leads me to overuse the construction, there are times I will defend the appropriateness of the title "indescribable." The term has rigidly applied to relationships with loved ones, materializing in thank-you's and goodbyes. One week ago, a pile of trash shattered my understanding of that steadfast and hallowed word.

It has taken a week and three return trips to come to terms with my inability to describe Chureca. It is so bad. So bad. In a way, when I say that there are no words, I mean that there are too many; more accurately, too many to be efficient. That place is so bad. So bad. Words have incredible power, but if I may be louder I must be.

Last Tuesday we walked the long and sodden path out of the dump in near silence. The occasional glance over my shoulder revealed again the circling of those black and outsize birds. That ominous cloud fixed in Chureca's sky reminded me with renewed sorrow that what I neither dared nor desired to describe survived my wish that it had been a terrible dream.

In my room at Vanderbilt a small flier that once caught my eye hung just above the light switch. It read, "Compassion = Action." If I may be louder, I must be.

The Smoke Was A Beacon

I do not claim to portend the will of God, but I am certain that there are instances in which an aspect of his incomprehensible plan is made known to us, a phenomenon that often requires only that we open our hearts to the possibility. Whether words itching to be extended to a stranger or a turn made inexplicably attractive, there are times when an action demands fulfillment independent of any moral criterion. This is the experience to which many Christ followers refer when they use the term "called," and something like it has been tugging at my heart, whispering the word "Chureca" into my very being. A number of dear friends have seen and attempted to describe Managua's city dump, where over a thousand pairs of hands dig through scrap for daily sustenance, where selling a thirteen year-old daughter's body in return for first pick on a new truckload of trash is an accepted reality and children huff glue to stave off hunger pangs, and it has been these tales that have been my clarion call and have drawn me hence.

There are frequently discarded chemicals that require only the heat of the Central American sun to ignite. Combustion of these chemicals often produces thick, noxious fumes. Last week the team's familiarization with Managua took us to the historically prominent and monument-laden hill overlooking the city. The view of Nicaragua's capital and the adjacent lake was beautiful, save the blemish of a strange plume of smoke rising from the city's northwestern edge.

From my vantage point I stood, safely horrified by what I assumed must be a devastating blaze, waiting for fire engines to scream relief to affected lives and end the torrent of smoke riding the wind into the distance. I turned to see Leah, realizing that she too had been captivated by the sight of the plume.

"What is that?" I asked, startled by her dire expression.

"Chureca," she said with the glaze of pensive severity cast over her eyes.

It is a powerful thing to look for the first time on a destination of unknown but certain importance. Knowing that I would soon stand within that white squall, understanding that the smoke was a beacon, I nodded as if I had not already accepted the challenge of its call, and turned to rejoin the group, still listening for the sirens that never came.

Tomorrow, we will know Chureca.

To Know You Are Not Alone

I suspect that if we are honest with ourselves, our favorite places will ultimately draw their appeal more from the people we knew them with than any quality provided by the flora, the buildings, or the landscape, however magnificent. The tales our lives here are to tell will serve better than any picture to relate the qualities of the team that surrounds me, but to suffice until those stories are written...

Top left to bottom right: Me, Adam Horn, Jan Margaret Rogers, Kelly Michaelis, Daniel Gehrig, Andrew Hemby, Lauren Page Black, Amelia Graves, Anina Hewey, and Leah Croker.

Nicaragua's First Lesson

Each place in the world, with its unique history, geography, and people, has its own lessons. If you are silent in a place long enough, you can hear the secrets that a culture bestows subtly on those visitors willing to listen. Reflecting on the past two weeks, having spent them with a family on a packed upper lower-class street in downtown Managua, I feel that I have heard Nicaragua's first whispered lecture. Woken every morning either by the proximity of our neighbor's PBC pipe shower or the volume of the avocado and mango hawkers shouting their prices outside our padlocked front gate-door, and frequently falling asleep soaked in my own sweat, as well as that of the children whose nightly street games begged our participation, unable to take my dripping shower with the water cut off, I listened. The life of the average Managuan will teach even the most recalcitrant student that here, the delineation between surroundings and self is not quite so rigid as its American contemporary.

A fly makes his way across the screen of my laptop. A pause to think takes my eyes to his spasmodic jaunt, his movements often too fast for my eye to process. My thoughts formed, I avert my eyes without incident. Two weeks ago I would not have suffered the intrusion, but here his erratic stroll is welcome.

My Newly Moored Ship

I am sitting in the open-air living room of what will be my home for the next 13 months, on a couch that is less than five feet from rain falling on the stones of the front porch.  The Managua airport, only slightly over two hours from Miami International, did not feel much more foreign than our South Floridian departure city, but the feeling of strolling in my own back yard did not last.  The Manna micro-bus picked us up, driven by two delightful '08-'09 Program Directors, or "PDs" in Manna jargon, and I volunteered for the front passenger seat.  Soon we were zipping along the main road that runs across the Nicaraguan capital's northern edge.  The humid air ripped through my already oily hair as our route traced miles of dimly lit street bordered by cement buildings painted with signs, slogans, and graffiti, men leaning confidently on exterior walls as children ran occasionally visible between the shadows cast by their dark playgrounds.

The miles thinned the buildings and further dimmed the light on the street as we distanced ourselves from Managua proper, and twenty, maybe thirty minutes brought us to our neighborhood and the Manna house, our new home.  Even though it is my first time in this house, I feel as though the friends that, on spring or summer service trips, have spent time in this very room welcome and warm me to a place I know has meant so much to them.  It was, after all, their stories that so captured my heart and drew me here.

1 Corinthians 12:22

If nothing else, I pray that a year in Nicaragua reveals the truth of Paul's assertion in his first letter to the church in Corinth that, "those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable."  Show me why I need Nicaragua.  In our indigence, your surfeit.

Looking Ahead to Nicaragua

To picture what my life will look like one week from today and thenceforth would exceed my creative foresight, but it is atypical that I have yet to try.  Any trip or event of consequence has always been preceded by those daydreams in which I am already the man I aspire to be.  And, always prolouged by the acknowledgment that I have a long way to go, that I proved too timid or weak to say what I dreamed I would say or take that action I promised my imagination I would.  Yet, with only seven days separating me from Nicaragua, no tales of what I would do have been fabricated, no improbable standard has been set.  Strangely, my eager imagination has laid dormant in anticipation of this, my greatest adventure.  With a college diploma has that imagination convinced itself to tame the reckless hope of youth's wild dreams, or could it be that my heart has finally shown the courage to promise those dreams a better story than they would dare to predict?