Thursday, January 26, 2012

Images, stories...teaching and learning



The doors of the local baptist church display Psalm 108:4: For thy mercy is great above the heavens: and thy truth reacheth unto the clouds and a universally necessary message: Christ loves you.

The value of truth-as seen in the OR:
One image that I keep remembering (something that may remain as a vivid memory from this trip) is an OR scene. A young girl (of 17 or 21, I can't remember which was her age) was being put down for surgery. I knew her age because I had read the surgery schedule but would have minstaken her for an 8 or 10 year old child, judging from her frail appearance. She was somewhat scared by all the commotion and looked helpless amongst the americanos..even though an interpreter was present. When she was sedated for the cleft palate reconstruction, the medics wanted to arrange her body in a more comfortable way for the surgery and found that her leg was permanently bent. I thought, "what good is it that we're fixing her palate if she will still be crippled?" The word manchado comes to mind, which Dra. Raquel uses to describe teeth with caries or other maladies. I am sure that this patient's quality of life will increase with the palate reconstruction and have no business questioning the validity of the procedure but wonder if the shame and fear in which she seems to live will remain, as a result of her leg abnormality, regardless of the palate restoration. Was I, in the moment of my questioning, weighing out the good and bad, hoping that the good outweighed the 'still-existing' bad? ...but the TRUTH--that is, doing good--does not need justification or defense, right? (as stated in the novel No Graven Image) When I am doing seemingly "useless" tasks (manning the suction and UV curing light, sterilizing instruments, or making cotton balls and gauzes) I wonder if my presence is justified...the inconvenience and expense of traveling abroad and the complexity of working in a different cuture, language, and country...Couldn't and shouldn't I do these mundane tasks at home if I have nothing grander to offer? ....BUT, as I cite in consolation, the truth needs no justification or defense-and I can satisfy in doing it well, as simple or complex as the task may be.

Additional quotes encouraging similar reasoning:
Imagination in Place
"...Having started out to be a professional, he has become an amateur, working (like the best kind of professional) for love" (Sweetness Preserved, Berry).

Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood
"If we could once leave it to each other to give what honour is due; knowing that honour demanded is as worthless as insult undeserved is hurtless" (chapter 10, McDonald).

In chapter11, Mr. Wilson presents his sermon on Matthew 6:24, 25 and makes some interesting statements:
"To serve is the highest, noblest calling in creation. For even the Son of man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister" (chapter 11, McDonald).

"WHAT then are we to take thought about? Why, about our work. What are we not to take thought about? Why, about our life. The one is our business: the other is God's" (chapter 11, McDonald).

"I never could be indifferent to what people thought of me; though I have had to fight hard to act as freely as if I were indifferent, especially when upon occasion I found myself approved of. It is more difficult to walk straight then, than when men are all against you" (chapter 11, McDonald).

...And a beautiful promise from the Bible:
"The fruit of the righteous is a tree of life" Proverbs 11:30

From my home's balcony the Celaque mountain range is visible. I hope to visit the highest peak in Honduras (a four-hour hike from home) before leaving Gracias.

From the same balcony, a view of the street. Hondurans (in Gracias, anyway) only name neighborhoods and pulperias...you must describe the color and shape of your home from there. Also, there is not such a thing as mail. Once in a while, if you have a special circumstance, you can receive a package in an office in town. I wonder how Hondurans have adjusted to email if they are not accustomed to writing/receiving letters.

Thoughts about home:
Getting used to my current home, I find myself remembering the place I called home in the past year. I'll share a Russian (translated) song concerning the meaning of a home. In Russian, house and home are one word but I think the poet of the song meant home. Please excuse my Russian spelling (I am citing the lyrics to the best of my ability as I remember hearing them):

Мимо текла, текла река                          There was a river, flowing, flowing
Плыли куда то облока                              The clouds towards somewhere floating
Шел человек была дорога не легка          A human walked.There was a road-not easy
И человек мечтал о том:                         And the human dreamed of such:
Что он построит где то дом                 That he would build somewhere a home
И поселится счястие в нем                     And happiness would come dwell within
В доме одном...                                          ...Within that one home

Если когда то уставал                             And if ever he tired
Он неизменно напивал                              He relentlessly hummed
Песню любимую свою, ту что пою:       His favorite song, that which I sing:
Дом как известно всем давно                  A home, known to all as of old,
Это ни стены ни окно                              Is not walls, not a window
Даже и стуля со столом                          Not even chairs with a table
Это ни дом                                                 ...This is not a home

Дом это то куда готов                          A home is that where, willingly,
Ты возвращатся вновь и вновь              You return again and again
Яростным, добрым, нежным, злым, ели живимAngry, kind, tender, evil, barely alive
Дом это там где вас поймут                 A home is that where you are understood
Там где надеются и ждут                      That where they, in faith, await
Где ты забудеш о плохом                       Where you will forget of the bad
Это твой дом...это твой дом                 This is your home...this is your home

In Honduras (perhaps in other Latin American countries, also) yellow ''school buses'' as Americans are familiar with are used as public transport vehicles. Each bus is decorated according to its destination or origin. Because much of the congregation lives far from town, the baptist church has purchased a bus to aid in the long journies required of some members.


One of my more diligent recorder students, Ada, arrived on time, early enough to accept a photo before someone arrived to unlock the church. Her father, René, works at the clinic as a financial book keeper.

A Russian teacher in Gracias:
I have held several recorder lessons in two churches with two groups of kids in the past weeks and will share about the experience that I have had so far. I hadn't anticipated making the recorder groups formal classes but am hearing the kids call me maestra and adults calling the kids my alumnos. So I realized on Sunday afternoon, as I treked home on the hot and dusty streets through el centro, that I have put on the teacher's cap...or maybe it's better said that this cap was put on me. Anyway, I think I am observing the same joys and sorrows that many instructors experience...and I am enjoying the experience immesnsely! There seems to be three kinds of music class students: those that have talent and put forth effort to stand out, those that try with little success for lack of capacity, and those that, although capable, do not exert effort or express interest. I think the latter situation has been most frustrating or sad to accept as a maestra. These characteristics may be exagerated in music classes but I presume that similar circumstances are found in non-art classes.
But what do my alumnos think of me? On several occasions, students have interrupted class to comment on the blueness of my eyes, ask about California or New York, or ask about how I learned to play the recorder. I do my best to answer their questions so as to suggest that I am no different a person (and was no different a child) than them. That is, that my dad's eyes are blue while my mom's eyes are brown, that New York and California are very far from my home, and that my third grade elementary school music teacher taught me how to play the recorder. I can sense a certain precaution, fear, or shame in some kids when the maestra gringa corrects their fingerings. Although most kids are very respectful (as far as their attention span allows), a few teenagers like to test how far they can get involved in their own conversations before I have to do the awkward deed of scolding them back into the class's agenda. The combination of being quick to correct and necessarily strict makes me feel like a mean teacher on some of my walks home. I have been told that especially duro, or hard/strict, managers and teachers are called rusos. (I think the American version of the term is "nazi") I cringe at the thought that some kids would start calling me a rusa, although that is politically a valid adjective for their maestra. On the bright side of things, Amazing Grace is starting to take a recognizable form, and (although I'm not sure all teachers would approve of this as a bright moment) I am growing fond of several star alumnos.

These critters decorate the walls of the inside of my guesthouse/room. They remind me of (and may be related to) the water penny beetle larvae, as I remember them from my first biology class at EMU during a river invertebrates lab. At first, I was uncomfortable sleeping in a room with these and other critters but have since decided that we can live in mutual respect, so long as the cockroaches stay out of my oatmeal cookies and the rest of the gang keep the mosquitoes out.

Adventures to account for:
Although most of my time is spent adorned in gloves and a face mask, suction in hand, I can entertain you with at least two anecdotes. I'll tell you the stories, and you can decide how amusing each is.
In the evangelical church in downtown, recorder lessons are held in a Sunday school classroom. To reach our practice site, we must remove two padlocks and pass through a large black metal door, which happens to only open from inside of the church, once closed. Using this side door to enter a completely enclosed churchyard, we settle in the Sunday school classroom's plastic lawn chairs for a 9am-10am Saturday morning recorder lesson. For reasons often lost in translation (or as a result of my poor interpretation of their best efforts), a few children usually appear just as the lesson is concluding. I usually end the lesson and, without much explanation or scolding, begin the day's lesson anew. The second lesson usually goes quicker than the first, as I have practiced the lesson plan just prior and there are fewer students and thus less fingerings to correct. This past Saturday, we finished around 10:40am with three belated muchachas. Seeking an exit after gathering our things, you might suppose (correctly) that the big black metal door--yes, the one that only opens from inside of the church--was closed. Banging on this gong-like obstacle and peeking into the church windows, we decided our efforts would be less futile elsewhere. After checking several other classrooms for an exit, we found none. One of the girls suggested that a man usually comes to the church at 2pm (we found out on Sunday that he had gone to Santa Rosa, a neighboring town, for the day). Refusing to be still and accept the reality of being constrained in the churchyard, feeling furious at the logic of the church's architectural design, and thinking about my host family expecting me home by that hour, I looked for possible escape routes. Most of the visible roofing was a thin rusty sheet of metal, likely to cave in if we tried to climb it. The only ladder in the yard was hung above the pila (water basin) and was too heavy, or fastened too securely, even to test its weight. Seated on cement steps that lead to the unyielding church door, wondering if my belated alumnos (or my lenience to extend the lesson time) were to blame for the unfortunate circumstance, I noticed that one of the limbs of the single tree in the churchyard extended towards the tall roof of a sturdy-looking classroom. Inquiring at least thrice in different ways from the girls that the roof would not collapse or brake if I climbed it, I scrambled up the mid-sized trunk. Finding my sneekers perched on bark and not branches (sustained by friction), I rebuked myself for my impatience and concluded that the possibility of sucess in such an escape route would not be valid if I fell and broke a limb. 
Thankfully, although surely not gracefully, my feet reached the cement roof. I surveyed my surroundings and found that no one was in sight to accept a plea for help and that my mission was only partly successful. On the side opposite of the square churchyard appeared to be an abandoned lot (although a gringa should not judge the appearance of a "liveable" yard in Honduras). Seeing metal rods poking out of the side of the Sunday school classroom's wall, I found reason to appreciate the architectural logic. First dropping my recorder bag, I resolved that I shoudn't be in a hurry to jump to the firm ground, so long as I could grip onto the metal rods. As I began to descend, I realized the rods were spaced just far enough that I had to completely release my grip off one rod to reach the one under it. This predicament reminded me of being the only fifth-grade girl to be able to do 12 pull-ups, and I realized that it had been a while since fifth grade. Friction, along a rocky/sandy unfinished corner, saved the day, yet again. Reaching the ground with a thud, I was relieved and overjoyed that the church keys were just across the street, in the town's office. Preparing to excuse my trespassing across someone's property and formulating a Spanish explanation for the morning's strange situation, I found that the lot, across a bard wire fence, was still several meters above the street. Feeling a little annoyed, I turned towards the sound of rustling leaves to behold a large dog (like the one's used by police stations-maybe a Belgian/Dutch Shepherd blend) trotting down from the wooden building, which I had judged to be abandoned. Ears perked and head high, he made me inhale as if in an ice-cold shower and hold my breath as I turned to walk away as calmly as I could. Somewhat aimlessy, as I pittied myself and sighed out a desperate prayer, I found a ramp leading down to a large gate. Seeing a padlock from a distance, I criticized the need for locking absolutely everything in the country. Direly hoping that it was unlatched, I gratefully found it so, once I came close. In the most natural and unalarmed way possible, I opened the gate and slipped away, trying to keep the panic of seeing my oppressor at my side down to a minimum (I was convinced as a child that dogs could sense fear and use this skill to your disadvantage). Trying to recover from the overwhelming excitement, once on the other side of the gate, I found greetings from catrachos on the street especially untimely and more unwelcome than usual. Hurrying to the office and half decently explaining that I needed the church key as several kids were locked in, I slipped it off a nail on the wall and went to find my alumnas. I explained to the girls that I had gotten down on the other side of the roof to get the key and mentionied the big dog, which did not elicit a response (as I am sure they have much grander dog encounters to relate with). The walk home was a comical sigh of relief, although the 11:30am sun was not gentle. Buying fruits was uneventful and I didn't sense that anyone at home could bear my flawed grammar that afternoon as I would attempt to recall the story. I only said I had to climb a roof to open the curch. I am not sure what those three alumnas think of their maestra gringa, or what she thinks of herself, for that matter. I am greatful for the harmless adventure but might also be content with the stability of gloves and a face mask, holding my well-managed suction.

However, the dental clinic has a mini-adventure to account for, also. Don Ángel, the supplies manager comes to visit Dra. Raquel roughly every 3 weeks regarding dental supplies. When he came to visit one morning, I left the room for several minutes, knowing that I wouldn't be needed. When I returned, they were finishing up their transactions and I found a small white dixie cup filled with coffee on the cardboard box that I use to store my belongings during the workday. As it was around 10am, I presumed that Dra. was having her merienda and had brought me coffee, as she often does to encourage me to join her for the snack. The cup was not full to the top but I could tell that the coffee was getting cold, so I dutifully drank the small dose, so as to be grateful for Dra.'s kind gesture. As I began to read whatever I had brought that day, Don Ángel approached the corner box beside which I sat. Dra. was busy adjusting a hand piece and I was ever-so-intently engrossed in my reading, while Don Ángel lingered for at least 5 seconds before silently returning to Dra. Astonished, I tried to hide my smile and earnestly hoped that Don Ángel was old enough to doubt whether he had drank only a bit of his coffee. As he left, he saluted Dra. by adding, "Gracias por el cafecito." I wasn't sure if this was an authentic salute of gratitude or was meant as a rebuke to Dra.'s coffee-stealing assistant. I glanced with a desperate grin towards Dra. but found her attention still at the hand pieces and no indication that she found his statement needing interpretation. Dra. and I continued in our interests and went on with the day. I think Don Ángel should visit at least once more during my time in Gracias, so I might confess to Dra. if she needs a funny story to brighten her day.

Near to my home (and there are quite a few more in town) is a Beneficio, on the rooftops of which coffee beans are shuffled around during the day for sun-drying.

More on Honduran culture:
Pictures throughout this post have included those seen from my home's balcony and those at the baptist church in which I hold recorder lessons. Some new things I've learned:
-Pulperias are small shops that sell the basics (corn, beans, coffee, butter, eggs, and pop). They can be found in almost all neighborhoods, often on every block.
-It is hard to describe what a Honduran is. My host dad's parents are Turkish and Spanish, while my host mom's parents are Spanish and Italian. The region in which Gracias lies is home to the post-Mayan ethnic group of the Lencas, which have also exchanged influence with other nationalities.
-Beneficios, like the one near my home, purchase coffee from the fields, dry it daily on roof tops, and sell it in bags to processing factories.
-Once upon a time, Gracias was the capital of Honduras.
-Although the dictionary calles bananas platanos, bananos are the ones you can eat raw.
-"Feliz como una lombric"  is a rhyming saying equivalent to "happy as a lark" and means happy as a worm (and you can recognize its delight--in case you wondered how--when it moves like you can move your index finger).

I have caught my first cold/flu virus and am thankful for the local oranges and a cup of hot tea. Accompanying my host mom on her morning walk/jog, I am glad to be acquainted with Gracias streets at sunrise and witness the coffee-pickers (and other workers) getting to their jobs on foot, bike, or in truck beds. Nearly half my stay in Gracias is passed, so I will embrace the life I've adjusted to, as well as continue to greet new experiences.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Fully Unpacking (and pictures from the plaza)


Lempira, the great native that led many successful battles against the Spanish, is honored as his name is that of the region (Gracias, Lempira) and the currency (lempiras).

The story
As I approach the end of my second week in Gracias, Honduras, I can say that I have nearly unpacked... As I rearranged my belongings over the weekend, I realized that I had never properly unpacked. Upon arriving, I rushed into working at the clinic, deeming the suggested "day to rest" unacceptable and inconsistent with my purpose for being here. Surveying my belongings, wondering where to place what (considering to eventually carry one bag onto an airplane), I caught myself imagining packing for a departure. Astonished at the spark of excitement and relief that this passing thought granted, I instantly felt guilty and questioned why, at that moment, I would so readily accept an evening flight, were it offered. What was I lacking to deterr increasing episodes of homesickness (for the home, family, schedule, food, and life that I was accustomed to) and the decreasing ability to amiably embrace the new and different? Why was I so contented to pack my bags and conclude my experience in Gracias? Had I properly unpacked?!

Advice from authors
Having my guest room in order, I wondered how I might go about "learning to belong fully and truly where I live," as I had cited Berry last week. McDonald, in Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood, may offer some useful advice:

At the start of his term as a parishioner, Mr. Walton explains, "For as I wanted to do my work well...I wanted to interest myself in it; and therefore I would go and fall in love, first of all, if I could, with the country round about. And my first step beyond my own gate was up to the ankles, in mud" (Chapter 1).

Despite being greeted with undesirable circumstances at the start, Mr. Walton wants to form a relationship with his surroundings. But how does one go about 'falling in love with a place'?

"When you have once learned to honor anything, love is not very far off," Mr. Walton describes his experience, referring to how miserable he feels at the sight of a pollard (a tree trimmed at the top). He later learns to honor and love pollards for their ability to still be trees amidst their adversity and bring forth "bursts" of life (Chapter 1).

Perhaps 'falling in love with a place' requires learning to honor the reality of a place, that is, all of its triumphs and flaws that are intermingled with the simply common and ordinary. I don't suspect that one can be very productive while 'falling in love with a place'; although I am sure that the task is an achievement in itself.

 Thus Mr. Walton reasons, "But as no servant has a right to force his service, so I would be the neighbor only, until such time as the opportunity of being the servant should show itself" (Chapter 3). 

This clergyman recognizes the dependence of a servant on the need of those who he serves. Until a need manifests itself, he decides to pursue becoming a neighbor, likely being able to so better serve those around him.

An unidentified fountain statue...much like the nameless young catrachos that trek across el centro (downtown) daily (no weekend breaks) in their tall rubber boots, machete in hand. I have learned that public school children have a winter vacation lasting from December to February; just in time for harvesting coffee!

My experience
To start 'unpacking,' it is useful to consider what I have brought along and how these items might fit into the current reality.

One Honduran, finding that I was to stay for 7 weeks in Gracias and that I spoke Spanish half-decently, said, "No eres rusa o americana...serás catracha," that is, I was to be a Honduran (not a Russian or American). However, experience has shown one thing clearly: I am a gringa (a white American girl). Special interest in my history and plans (and an occasional snickers bar from various clinical patients) accompany this classification. Are my "admirers,"as Dra. Raquel calls them, drawn to me as an individual or the country and culture that I seem to represent? The latter may be more likely. In any case, my initial conclusion was that the reality of being a gringa (and the constant reminders) would keep me from being able to identify with those around me and become a neighbor (to fully belong in the place). In Elliot's novel No Graven Image, Pedro, an indian, in response to Margaret's conformation to indian dress, states, "It's no good for a señorita to become a runa" (pg 167). Margaret realizes that she wanted the indians to accept her as an indian, an impossible thing as she was a señorita-They had already accepted her as a señorita. ...So contrary to the wishes of my Honduran friend, it is unlikely that I will become a catracha.

I have found, however, that catrachos and gringos (and anyone else, really) have several cirumstances in common. Allow a scene to illustrate: Although I had no such purpose, giving recorder lessons to two groups of kids may serve as an inlet into the church and community (at least the kids and some of their parents). Otherwise, I still feel like a foreign guest. At an evening culto, or service, we were invited during a worship song to stand and join hands. I held Doris, my host sister, on one side and a man, perhaps in his 50's, on the other. Closing our eyes, we sang as a congregation:

Renuevame Señor, Jesús
Yo no quiro ser igual
Renuevame Señor, Jesús
Pon en mi tú corazón
            ...necessito más de ti

that is,
Renew me Lord, Jesus
I do not want to be the same
Renew me Lord, Jesus
Put in me Your heart
            ...I need more of You

Singing such a verse as a congregatioin, holding hands in unity, I realized that just as the vibrations of this Latino worship song filled the space between each unique individual, so the song's meaning allows binding resonance across cultural and racial barriers. Although I, a gringa, stood between two catrachos, the three of us were equally sinners and dependent upon renewal from our Lord Jesus. Henry Nouwen, in Turn My Mourning into Dancing, calls us to greet each others' belovedness and recognize that the most personal (often suffering) is most universal to all of humanity. Thus, I hope, gringas and catrachos can be neighbors, despite racial and cultural distinctions.

I would be glad to hear your insight regarding these musings as well as any similar experiences that you may have had.

A two-story, round-shaped café offers beverages and a cozy spot on the plaza.

Some orthodox travel notes
So as to fulfill my duty to you as an American traveler, I'll mention some Honduran experiences:

-I went to a Honduran bank for the first time with Dr. Josue, my host dad. I found it a bit uncomfortable to have to pass by four or five armed guards just to get into the building and to be consistently watched by guards at every corner of the bank. There were several long lines and many small cubicle spaces where I presumed people completed their financial transactions. I noticed two signs from the bench where I awaited my host dad to complete his transactions. The first translates, "For your security/safety, and that of ours, turn off your cell phone." I wondered how seriously dangerous and insecure this sign suggested the bank to be. Another sign read, "Receive money here from the United States and the whole world." I marveled at how explicitly this statement articulates what seems implied, that wealth comes from the States.

-Several new foods I have eaten: Lichas are golf ball-sized fruits with a prickly red exterior shell. Once you bite through the shell, exposed is a juicy fruit similar to a grape. The sweet and sour meat envelops a nut that is not to be eaten. On Saturday, el día de sopa (the soup day), we had sopa del mongodon or estómago de vaca. Honduran soups are great in that they have large chunks of traditional vegetables like yucca, bananas, plantains, potato, and a zhuchinni-like vegetable. The cow stomach itself appears a bit alarming (as it looks like a piece of stomach) but the flavor and texture seem most similar to seafood. ...my host dad enjoys meat during nearly all meals (especially beef) so I may have experience in a wide range of beef delicacy before my time in Gracias is complete-So far, tongue and stomach are on the exotic list...

-While my host sister awaited a haircut in a downtown salon, I visited the plaza (parque central) and took a few pictures (those that appear throughout the post)

So to conclude with an overview of my works, I have held my first two recorder lessons and have continued assisting Dra. Raquel during my second week in Gracias, Honduras. I have tried to find a perching place from which to illustrate my experience for you. Referring to in-context/place literature, Berry suggests, "The story is in the language in which it is told, and nowhere else" (A Master Language, Berry). If I am to tell you an accurate story, I had better learn the right language : )
PS: Thank you for your encouraging comments! I will try to accommodate voiced interests in my future posts.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Gracias, Honduras-Introductions


To start with some context:
Tonight will be a week since I have arrived in Gracias. I am enjoying getting to know my hosts, the De Dios family, the Honduran way of life (with two-hour lunch breaks and afternoon snacks called meriendas that extend from 9am to 3pm), and, of course, the clinic. La Clinica  San Lucas  is a mini-hospital campus: one building serves as a pharmacy, laboratory and administrative office, another houses two general  medics, ultrasonography, and a dentist, and a third offers two operating rooms, a delivery  room, and plenty of inpatient space. The clinic provides a variety of  much-needed care at a lowered (or non-existent) cost, according to the finacial sitution of the patient.

Thus far, I have been assisting Dra. Raquel, a high heel-adorned dentist who works 8am-8pm (on short days) in San Lucas and in her own clinic. After the San Lucas clinic concludes at 4pm, I have the opportunity to go to the ORs to shadow several surgeons who have come from Michigan on a brigade for the week. Monday evening, I watched a cleft lip and a cleft palate surgery. I anticipate attending evening surgeries while various surgical brigades are on-site for the next three weeks. During the last week of January, I hope to accompany a dental brigade that will provide care to the surrounding campo (country/villages). Utilizing some recorders that I have brought along from the States, I will begin lessons with two groups of kids in nearby churches later this week.
  My little backyard guesthouse/room is getting to be a cozy place to come to at the end of the day

A few things that I have learned so far:
-Hondurans call themselves catrachos, just as Americans are called gringos
-Honduras is the third poorest country in the world
-Lack of materials, and the cost for good ones, makes dental care in Honduras difficult (both for practitioner and patient)
-Plastic surgeons are marvellous puzzle-workers
-The purpose of surgery is to rearrange living tissues in a way that, once healed,  reestablishes the intended,if you will, function of the organ/structure
-Electrical outages occur in this part of Honduras almost each evening around the same time. My first evening, the incident was explained, "Welcome to Gracias." I will keep a tally of the outages that occur at the expected time (6:20pm)
-Cheke-leke is a prominent Latino expression with US origin and means check/okay
-If you sit towards the front of the church during a Honduran service, you may find reason to pity your choclear hairs
-Quecos (or geckos) were introduced into Honduras about 25 years ago from China (I believe) to control the mosquito and insect population
-Every Honduran household, wealthy or poor, has a pila (a water basin/laundry station) and roof-dwelling quecos.
-Lengua de vaca (cow tongue) is much like a tender roast
-There are no such occupations (no such training) as ultrasound technician or dental hygienist in Honduras…the jobs are done by doctors, as seldom needed

To share some exerts from books I have been reading:
The novel No Graven Image, by Elisabeth Elliot, poses some necessary questions about mission work, understanding the workings of God, and fulfillment in one's own daily task, overall. The character Lynn, a controversially-minded doctor, articulates these topics as quoted below:

"What would happen to your idea of God, for instance, if you found that your work was useless?" (pg 114).

"I wonder if it is possible that God might have some excellent reasons, quite outside our imaginings, for not doing what we think He ought to do?"
"We are accustomed to blame the deficiency of missionary work on our own lack of prayer or failure to surrender, or on our inefficient methods or the coldness of the church at home, or even on the hardness of the native heart."
"I question whether [those things] explain everything." (pg 121).

"I suppose anyone who tries to help people in any way soon becomes overwhelmed with the endlessness of the task. So he has two choices. He can give up at the start, or he can accept his limitations and go on doing what he can."
"I was serving the God of the Impossible" (pg 152). [Margaret, the main character]

"When I decided to be a doctor, it was because I wanted to help people. I thought, of course, that I could help people by being a doctor...Gradually I came to see that the results which can be called good are few. And they cannot be the criterion for whether or not what we do is worthwhile. It is hopeless to try to weigh up the good, the bad, the futile, and the merely harmless, and hope that there will be enough of the good-in medical work, enough unequivocal cures- to justify all the rest."
What justifies the rest if not good? [Margaret challenges]
"Jesus told us to do what is true. I think the truth needs no justification, no defense" (pg 157).

In  Imagination in Place, a compilation of essays, Wendell Berry discusses the importance of deriving inspiration for writing and living from one's local land and neighborhood. So far, I have found the cited pasages to blend well with the themes explored in No Graven Image:

"No human work can become whole by including everything, but it can become whole in another way: by accepting its formal limits and then answering within those limits all the questions it raises" (pg 3).

"If we could learn to belong fully and truly where we live...we would have authentic multiculturalism" (pg 34).

A pertinnt Bible verse that also comes to mind:
After naming the virtuous fruits of the Spirit, Paul encourages, "And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not" (Galatians 6:9).


Later this week and weekend, I look forward to holding my first recorder choir lesson and being introduced to the hot springs here in town.

I anticipate your responses, as they will guide my next postings.