A Million Different Pieces

I spent ten days of January in Honduras. Everyone has asked, "What was your favorite part?"

Easiest question in the world.

The kids.


We spent six days in Santa Cruz- a small village of about 120 people perched on the side of a mountain.  It was on the side of this mountain that I fell in love at least a half a dozen times.

Toya. Maria. Margarita. René. Nelson. Cecilia. Mariven. Belkis. Karin.


I wish I could have taken them all home with me. I was absolutely torn in half to leave them. There is nothing I wouldn't give to be sitting on the front porch of the school, giggling with the girls and waiting for them to tickle me and whisper silly Spanish things to me every time I looked the other way. I'd give everything to see Nelson smiling at me before breakfast in the morning. I can't describe how much I wish I could see René's silly smile after he pokes me during worship service.

Everything was amazing in Honduras. We couldn't have asked for better weather, we were in the most beautiful mountains I've ever seen in my life, we ate incredibly good food. Serving people in the clinic was really awesome. Watching the men redo everything Aly and I contributed while doing construction was hilarious.

But nothing compares to the kids. Their joy and smiles and laughter have split my heart into a million different pieces. Even Jesus is going to have a hard time putting me back together this time.

Why it hurt so bad was hard to put my finger on at the time. It had everything and more to do with the fact that I just adore children, plain and simple. I'd start adopting them now if that was legal (or logical), but the adoption laws in Honduras prevent me from adopting children until I am 25 years old (yes, I researched this).

But the other part of me knew there was something different about these kids.  I am heartbroken over the fact that Cecilia should be having sleepovers and being silly at 14 years old instead of taking care of her three younger siblings, cooking for her family, and realizing she only has a few more years until she will be married and raising her own children.

I am heartbroken over the fact that Mariven was the only person around to care for her almost deaf and blind grandmother. She will never have a normal childhood. She is only eight years old.

I am heartbroken because many of the young boys who should be playing soccer all day long are working in the fields owned by wealthy men. Spraying vegetables with pesticides that are likely to kill them or give them chronic health problems by the time they are forty. Earning about a dollar a day.

I am heartbroken because they haven't named the precious two month old that they brought to the clinic. They would wait to be sure the baby lived a little longer before naming her.

I am heartbroken because I have lived 21 years on this earth without knowing them and loving them. I have lived a comfortable life and it makes me hurt for them. It makes me hurt for the entire world, because this is not the only community or country with such poverty and oppression.  I am heartbroken because my church ignores it.

The same people who call themselves Christians elect corrupt politicians and buy their food from places that use a cushiony version of slave labor. I am that Christian. I am that person that doesn't deserve to be called a Christian.

I haven't been living my life the way Christ wants me to be living my life.
I don't know how to fix it.
I wish I had a good solution.
I know it is not as easy as people wanted it to be.

But I know that it starts with exactly what happened in Honduras. It starts with falling in love with Christ and falling in love with your neighbor.

I just don't know where to go from here.