They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. I suppose I could take a picture for you, but I guarantee that it wouldn't do justice to what I am seeing. For example, if I had taken a picture, you wouldn't have known that I almost had to change my pants because of the ungodly noise that just came out of a bird in the tree next to me. But, now you know. If I had taken picture, you wouldn't have known that the temperature in Siguatepeque right now is, in a word, perfect. You know that temperature where you can't really even tell if it's hot or cold, it just is? Well, because I didn't take a picture, now you know that. So, instead of taking a picture, which is apparently worth 1,000 words, here is 1,000 words.
Things move slower in Honduras. I suppose it may be that way in any Latin American country, but since Honduras is the extent of my travels in Latin America, I will liken it only to Honduras for the time being. Sure, the minute hand still takes 60 minutes to complete a full circle, but for some reason, everything operates slower. Everything is so fast paced at home. You must get to work on time. If you're early, you're on time and if you're on time, you're late. I haven't seen that here. Here, it's okay to stop and talk to your neighbor, or stop to pick a lemon. And let me tell you, the lemons are huge.
Every morning so far, after my eggs or cereal or oatmeal or bagel and after my orange juice and after my time with God, I hear in a loud Honduran voice, "Rrrrrroberto!" Of course, there is no mistaking that Tungo, my fellow carpenter/maintenance man extraordinaire, is greeting me good morning. He usually thinks of a phrase overnight to ask me how to say in English. This morning he wanted to know how to say "la luna esta bonita por la noche," which, of course, in English means, "the moon is beautiful at night." Then, throughout the day, he will correct me when I conjugate a word incorrectly or when I accidently put "la" with a masculine word or "el" with a feminine one (he's a real stickler for that). We talk in Spanish throughout the day, which is comforting to know that I can and he understands me. He leaves like clockwork at noon for lunch because it is, after all, the most important meal of the day (to a Honduran at least). I usually work until I reach a stopping point then walk back to my house to fix lunch. The past few days, it has been turkey on white with two pieces of lettuce, a Kraft singles slice of American cheese, and a tomato which I am not sure will ever ripen. Oh, and of course mayonnaise. I usually drink water because I haven't been able to make sweet tea yet. Sweet tea, normally, would be a paramount task when preparing a kitchen, but the reason I do not have any has everything to do with the fact that I bought milk in a bag. But before I tell you how those two relate, allow me to take you to the place where I bought said bagged milk.
They say that Del Corral is the nicest supermarket in all of Honduras. That's probably because it's one of the only supermarkets in all of Honduras. Most of them aren't the "super" kind. Del Corral is the Publix of Honduras, or if you're from North Carolina, the Harris Teeter of Honduras. Well, actually, that comparison only works if every other supermarket in America was a hole in the wall on the side of the road. But you get the point. They have American brands, but you will pay through the nose for them. Even still, I splurged to get the authentic Quaker Apples n' Cinnamon oatmeal to which I am so accustomed to eating, and the Double Stuffed Golden Oreos.
So back to the milk. I knew I wouldn't drink a whole gallon of milk before it expired, so my only other option was to buy a quart of milk in a bag. After being assured that it was the same milk, just packaged differently, I decided to buy it. (Sidenote: some of you remember in elementary school when they stopped selling milk in cartons and started to sell it in bags? Well, needless to say, this brought back memories). Jump to the following morning after I bought groceries. I wake up to the thought of Frosted Flakes, better known as Zucaritas. As I get my milk out of the refrigerator, I begin to foresee all kinds of misfortune stemming from this bag o' milk. First of all, how do you pour milk out of a bag? Secondly, how on God's green earth do you store milk in a non-resealable bag? Well, being the cunning fellow that I am, I decide to pour my milk from its bag into the half gallon pitcher that I found in my kitchen. Genius! All of my milk-related problems are solved! Now, flash forward to lunch time. As is custom, I am prepared to drink sweet tea with my meal. So, I start to make my tea only to find that…….there are no more pitchers in my house. Panic. Search every cabinet, every drawer. Alas, no pitcher. This only means one thing, I have no apparatus in which to store my sweet tea. What a costly blunder I have made! I put milk, a drink of which I only partake out of necessity, in the only pitcher I own whilst shunning the possibility of being able to have sweet tea, which, everybody knows, is the most delightful drink a man can drink! You can be assured that I won't be making that mistake again.
After lunch, I return to, "Rrrrrrroberto!" Naturally, I respond with "Tungooooo!" I have been painting an on-campus apartment for married seminary student while Tungo does electrical work/corrects my Spanish. He tells me the English words that are hard for him to say. He gets "kitchen" and "chicken" confused. I've never thought of those words being difficult to say. In all fairness, however, he probably doesn't think "taladro" is hard to say either (that's the word for "drill"). The afternoon clicks on by, slowly, but not painfully so--delightfully. Sometime in the afternoon you can start to smell the burning trash. Think of an odd mixture of sweet and hot smells and you have burning trash. It really stings the nostrils. It's not so bad though. Late in the afternoons are so pleasant. I can hear three 8, 9 and 10 year olds LARPing Star Wars while a three year old tries to tag along. There is a constant breeze; a nice relief from the intense sun that has produced temperatures north of 80. The heat dissipates quickly though. By 4:30, it starts to be that kind of weather I was talking about, where you can't feel it, it just is.
The evenings are easy here. The crickets produce a constant chirp. The breeze blows my blinds into a clanking nose if I leave the windows open, which I usually do. I pass the hours with my buddy J.I. Packer, or with my guitar, or with the apostle Paul, or with King David usually while a mixture of Shane & Shane, David Crowder and Walking in Memphis play in the background. The talented Matt Thiessen reminds me that "loneliness and solitude are two things not to get confused, 'cause I spend my solitude with You." It really does ring true. So far, I have coveted my evenings because they are such a wonderful time so spend with my God. Reading, praying, memorizing. I can feel my faith growing in the evenings.
Skype is quickly becoming a best friend of mine. I am thankful that technology affords me the ability to talk with family and friends. It was difficult to say goodbye. I try to remind myself that it's only one year, but you never know. That hug I gave them before I left could be the last one the every receive from me. Even with the ability to talk and video chat, the reality that none of us are guaranteed tomorrow weighs heavy on my heart. It is these times that I have to remind myself of Jesus' words in Luke 14. "If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple." Please understand the context, here. I do not hate my family, but I do love Jesus more. What is even more comforting, is that Jesus gives hope to those willing to commit to such a task in Matthew 19. "Everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or lands, for my name's sake, will receive a hundredfold and will inherit eternal life." It is all worth it. Every tear, every lonely night, every missed moment to come will be worth it. I am in Honduras so that, one day, the slaughtered Lamb and conquering Lion might receive every bit of glory that he deserves for drinking the full cup of God's holy wrath that was due to us. It doesn't matter the price. This mission is worth it.
Now that night has fully overtaken Siguatepeque, the crickets still chirp, but now I can hear the road. It bustles with motorcycles, and cars, and jake brakes. Siguatepeque will soon be asleep, only to rise again tomorrow. To rise again to stare life, or death, right in the face. Many will rise again and their day will be filled simply with trying to survive until the next. But there is hope. There is hope because there is still life, and as long as there is life, there is hope. There is hope that God might grip a heart with irresistible grace and burden it over its own wickedness.
Will you join me in praying that God might do this to some in Siguatepeque?
You see, had I just taken a picture, you wouldn't have gotten that. I can still smell the burning trash, but you wouldn't have known that from a picture. You actually get two pictures tonight because that was about 2,000 words.
Don't worry, the second one's on me.
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