Learning the Art of Hanging Out

On Friday I left AFE after my Pilates class. I left AFE because I wanted to begin my work on their sponsorship program, but couldn’t that wait until later that afternoon? I also left because I don’t know how to hang out – Honduran style. I realized this when I got home and couldn’t get any work done because Rey had taken the internet. Why wasn’t I at AFE hanging out with the kids?

I know how to hang out American-style. It often involves doing something at the same time, and talking about our leisure activities. We might go out for lunch, go shopping, or go to a movie. I was especially good at hanging out with American teenagers (in my mind, at least), since I was well-informed about every WB drama, Justin Timberlake song, Face book app., etc.
Hanging out with AFE’s Honduran teenagers is different. My great opening line: “what did you do last weekend?” brings the response: “nada.” They really did do nada. They are poor; they don’t have the means to go out to eat, go shopping, or go

to a movie. They probably didn’t even leave their neighborhood. They may have spent a lot of time drawing water from the spring to wash their clothes by hand, sitting around and talking with their friends and family.
So I don’t know exactly what to talk about, but I keep trying. My problem is complicated by my less than stellar communication skills. Even after nearly two years here I can’t always understand the kids at AFE, who speak a broken, informal sort of Spanish. I have, however, polished the phrase: “Olvídelo.” (Which means “Forget it” when they don’t understand me.)

However, hanging out in Honduras doesn’t mean the conversation always has to be rolling. Sometimes people come over to our house to hang out and just sit on our couch, not saying anything. To me, this is incredibly awkward. My American upbringing drives my mind into quick intensity, trying to think of every possible conversation opener, just in case the conversation wanes again. Why can’t I just be content to sit there, to share company together, listening to children playing outside and the breeze rustling the trees? I feel comfortable doing nothing by myself, but why is it that I absolutely can’t do nothing with others?

I am still working on the art of hanging out. It is a humbling process, yet I know it will reap great rewards. Hondurans are teaching me that one of the greatest gift we can give others is something we Americans seem to value about all else: our time.

Society Wedding

I never thought I’d relate to Paris Hilton, yet I found myself striking a demure pose, on the arm of my handsome escort (Rey) while cameras flashed around me.

Doctora Leslie Flores was marrying Steve Evans – a smiley businessman from Florida who had first come to Honduras on a mission trip to AFE. It started as a joke: “You’re single? You should meet Doctora Leslie!” (This is what happens when you are a beautiful, accomplished, 37 year old doctor in Honduras. You get set up.) Pastor Jeony and Jessi were the original matchmakers. Later, others joined in the matchmaking fun. After a year’s worth of visits back and forth between the two countries, it was obvious to all that the two were in love and a wedding date was soon set.

Rey and I were fortunate enough to be invited to this glorious event. And it was glorious; in Honduras you can’t get away with a private wedding in a pretty location. You must have 12 – 15 bridesmaids in ball gowns, more flowers and tool than can be measured, table arrangements dripping diamonds, string quartets, etc. I learned that the Honduran women at these events often wear formal evening wear (think grown up prom) and spend the entire morning in the salon cutting, coloring, and styling their hair and nails – similar to our bridal party tradition in the states, except these women are only attending the wedding, not involved in any way!

This is all assuming you have the means to put on sucha wedding. Many people, such as our former nanny, simply call their permanent boyfriend "husband" because even the thought of a wedding it too extavagant.

However, at this ceremony that celebrated two people from different countries brought together, I read the background stories of the bride and groom in the brochure, and thought to myself: does God have one particular person in mind for each of us, or is it more like there are a variety of people with whom we are compatible, and it would work with any of them as long as seek God together?

When I look at my own marriage I can’t imagine it working with anyone other than Rey, and when I met him I felt I had already known him for the majoiryt of my life. But what about other circumstances, such as a spouse passing away, when the grieving widower finds another person he is “meant” to be with? Mysterious musings…the reason I am thinking of such things is that I am about to present a purity ring to a friend, and tell her to wait for the one God has planned for her. Perhaps Pastor Jeony said it best in his simple explanation: maybe God has a Plan A, but He also has a Plan B. We just hope that when we get to heaven we don’t find out we’ve been living out Plan X!

Halloween in Honduras

We began the night at a Halloween Party in the Gibson’s community. Elijah dressed up like a puppy, I as a kitty. When he saw my cat ears and whiskers, he began giggling with delight. He immediately knew what I was and was enchanted with the idea that we could dress up as animals. He started making cat sounds: “meow!” “meow!” and then I began making dog sounds: “ruff ruff!” Douglas, one of Rey’s disciples at AFE, must have thought we were crazy as this was his first Halloween experience.

The party at the Gibson’s community lacked for nothing a good Halloween party should offer. The kids were dressed up in amazing costumes. Michael Jackson’s Thriller set the mood. There was a smoke machine, lights, and even a catwalk for the costume context. We could have been at a Halloween party in the States, except that everyone spoke Spanish.

Before the party finished we headed back to the Miller community for a church rally. Apparently Halloween is an evil holiday in Honduras and many churches gather for prayer meetings on this night. Our church, Amor y Vida, was not having a prayer meetings as much as a small group rally. I think Elijah actually had more fun here. It had all the elements of Elijah’s ideal party: brightly colored balloons, cheers and shouting, singing and dancing. Elijah sweated the night away in his furry puppy costume, waving a balloon and clapping at the appropriate times. After our skit, we headed home to put Elijah to bead. And just as many new parents do, we fell asleep as soon as Elijah was in bed. Overall, it was a good bicultural celebration of this American holiday.

Grandparents Week of Fun

Last week my parents were blessed with supernaturally cheap flight tickets to come visit us in Honduras. I was especially excited for my dad to see how we live since he had yet to visit us here. Elijah recognized my parents right when they got off the plane. He spent a week loving and playing with them. By the end of the week he was saying "pee pee" for "GP" and "abue" (abuelita) for damma. Not sure why Elijah is chosing to speak to my mom in Spanish, but we'll take it!

Most of our good pics were accidentally erased by one family member who thinks himself particularly savy with technology...but here's a couple of us preparing for Halloween and visiting the children's museum here in Teguc.
By the end of the week everyone but Elijah was completely exhausted!

The Pains of Toddlerhood

How can such damage occur in 30 seconds?

A minute before nap time I thought to throw meat in the crock pot to give it the allotted time to cook. But time is measured differently when there is a toddler on the premises.
It started with a simple bottle of soy sauce, strangely misplaced[1], and teetering precariously on the counter. As I reached for the balsamic vinaigrette with one eye on Elijah, suddenly the glass bottle was tumbling to the floor. CRASH! Glass and soy sauce everywhere.

Naturally, Someone wanted to come to me through this new, glittery black path. A sideways chair served as a barrier as I began to sweep and mop up the damage. Then stopped. Wherever did Elijah find matches when I can never locate them?

“No!” was explained, a couple of tears wiped, and then he was sitting on the couch, innocently enough. I thought it safe to throw the raw beef in the crock pot. I was wrong. Bump..bump..bump…I glanced his direction again. Elijah had the miniature arm of our tiny Honduran kitten in a vice-link grip and was using it as a lever to hit the furry little head against the wall.

“Nooooo!” In one bound I was over the chair-barrier, prying Elijah away from the kitten with raw meat all over my hands. Wailing ensured, and continued until I turned on the facet and allowed him to “play” in the water to wash away raw meat…perhaps glass and soy sauce?...and kitten fur. The kitten nursed his wounds quietly in a corner. Will he survive a tremendous toddler?

Finally it was time for a nap. This is how the struggle went down: I turned off the water. The toddler got a crazed look in his eye, lifted his stool above his head, and ran screaming as if into battle. I waited quietly in his room for the spirit to pass. Suddenly he appeared with a big smile on his face. “Ball-ball” he said sweetly. (He thinks it’s hilarious to call me “ball” instead of Mama, and Rey’s encouraging it). Soon all was forgotten as tiny arms griped my neck, and his eyes sparkled as he planted slopping kisses all over my face. As I laid him down to sleep, I noticed small shards of glass sticking out of my feet and blood running down my legs.

[1] This “reorganization” is not limited to soy sauce, it also includes a cell phone, turned to “silent”, stuffed under animals in the crib, a full bottle of milk in the Tupperware drawer, day planer with the cereal, I could go on and on.