a thousand times over.

The following is a reflection I wrote for the Farm's fall newsletter about the high school graduation of one of my two teenage "daughters," Dalila.

On a warm, sticky morning in mid-January of this past year, I groggily awoke in the bed I shared with my fellow volunteer Kristina, shifting carefully on the mattress carefully woven together out of clothesline so as not to wake my sleeping counterpart. We were on vacation with the Cruz family in a the small rural village that is home to their “papi” Don Santos and many of their family members – a town without electricity and running water, where the rising and setting of the sun dictate the schedule of the day. Get up at dawn, haul water, sit, talk, eat, walk slowly, sit, wash, visit neighbors, drink Coca-cola… and do it all again…

As I watched my then-seventeen-year-old “daughter” Dalila snap into action that morning, hauling water from the well for us to cook, wash and bathe with, scrubbing her younger siblings' dirty clothes on a rock and laying them out to dry in the hot sun, and bathing and dressing the
little ones, I felt like I truly understood for the first time the gift that the Farm has given to our children, and how different Dalila’s life would have been had she never been given these opportunities. As I sat in plastic chairs, chatting with her and her cousins – girls of her own age or younger, almost all of whom already have children of their own, who look worn with the weight of burdens they are too young to bear – I saw my bright-eyed “daughter” with new eyes.

This is, after all, the same girl who cleaned up after her mother gave birth to her youngest sister, who effectively raised her siblings until they arrived under the Farm’s care, who arrived grades behind in school but quickly made up for lost time and is now graduating from the most prestigious non-bilingual high school in La Ceiba. This is also the one who likes to wear her purple platform shoes and straighten her hair and prefers not to eat egg yolks – who is the president of our parish’s youth group, loved among her classmates, and the recipient of boundless attention from the Farm’s littlest ones each time we are able to make the trip back to Trujillo, who hopes to study business administration next year at the local University. The Farm asked me to be Dalila’s “encargada” – her caretaker – this year, but the truth is that she has seen much more in her eighteen years of life than I have in mine, and that she is often the one who is my teacher in goodness, faithfulness, and generosity. Dalila impresses me almost daily with the depth of her faith and the generosity of her heart, and she is a true example of the incredible difference the Farm can make in the life of a child.

I believe so very much that if even one life is truly better because of this project, all of the work and money and time and tears are well worth the effort. And when I watched this incredible young woman walk across the stage and receive her diploma this past month, when I saw her celebrate with the volunteers and friends and family members gathered in her honor, and when I think about the bright future that lies before her, I know that it is all worth it, a thousand times over, that this work is important and meaningful, and that there is so much hope woven through it all. Our deepest thanks to all of those who make possible the opportunities that have changed Dalila’s life and the lives of so many others. May God bless you mil veces, a thousand times over, for the kindness you have shown us.

Congratulations, Dalila! May God bless you infinitely as you continue to grow in faith, love and gratitude.

...¨it is all right - believe it or not - to be human.¨

Dearest seekers of beauty,

Just on time (well, only a month and a half late – that’s not too bad, right?!) – here I am with what will likely be the last installment of my always-overdue and excessively long updates from Barrio El Centro. I feel like I have to begin by letting you all know what a grace it was, truly, to carry you with me on the retreat I recently made near Tegucigalpa, Honduras’ capital. As I slowly thumbed through pages of prayer requests from those of you who sent them, and as I held each and every one of you in my mind and my heart, I couldn’t help but be moved by what a blessing and an honor it was share in, and in some mysterious way to bear alongside you, the joys and the burdens of your days. Thank you, truly, for sharing with me news of new jobs and new relationships, of sicknesses and family struggles and loss, of engagements and pregnancies and final vows and new directions. It was gift and grace to feel so close to you during my time there, and as always, I am more grateful than I can find the words to express for your continual support and your faithful presence in my life. Truly – thank you!

Nearly twenty-five months ago, I said my final tearful goodbyes to friends and family, boarded a plane, and began the first step of my “yes” to the Farm of the Child. Now, as my time rapidly draws to a close, I find myself reflecting on the growth and the grace, the beauty and the brokenness of my time here in Central America. As my dear friend and fellow community member Sheena reflected recently, it is sometimes difficult to believe that there was a time when my life’s days were not “asi” – as they are. Was there ever a time when I didn’t wake to marching bands practicing for September’s independence day parades or to the shouts of the homeless men outside my door each morning? Was there ever a time when I didn’t know how to salvage a pot of beans gone bad, or do workout videos with a Franciscan nun, or know (nearly) all the responses to the liturgy in Spanish? Was there ever a time when I didn’t bake brownies when my girls hosted study groups at our house, just as my own mom used to do for me and my friends, or try to make myself simultaneously invisible and omnipresent when they invited their boyfriends over? Was there ever a time I didn’t expect catcalls every time I left my apartment, or when I actually would have been surprised to see security guards armed with impossibly large guns keeping watch outside every bank, gas station and fast food restaurant in town, or when I didn’t carry, myself, the burden of fear that so much of the world, so deeply touched by violence, is asked to carry? Was there actually ever a time when I didn’t even know who Justin Bieber was?! It seems impossible, really, that this life I live has not always been normal, and perhaps even more impossible that in less than three months the sights and sounds and smells of my days will be so very different once more.

For better and for worse, my skin is tougher now, I think, than it was back then, when I arrived here so idealistic and wide-eyed and young two years ago. To be honest, there is a great temptation to share with you all in my updates only the beautiful, joyful, and “pretty” parts of my experiences here in Central America, to tie up a story neatly and digestibly, to give you something cohesive and tidy to carry with you on your way. The truth is, though, my time here has been quite the opposite of easy to wrap up in a neat package, which has probably contributed to my eternal absence in your inboxes – sometimes I feel like if I can’t wrap it all up well, I shouldn’t really even try. My friends Susan and Sean, who lived in Brownsville, Texas, for the past two years, used to have a sort of “motto” for their experience there: “Don’t try to make sense of it.” I think their idea is probably a good one, because to be honest, there is much here I do not know how to even begin to make sense of, and I sometimes wonder if it’s worth it to even try. I do not know how to make sense of, for example, the shooting that occurred in front of my house at 2:30 in the afternoon on a Wednesday in July, and of the cries of the women who mourned over the body in the street for hours afterwards, and of the violence that so intimately affects the lives of so much of the world. I do not know how to make sense of the desperation of one of our poorest neighbors at the Farm, who, pregnant for the sixth time and unable to care for the children she already has, asked me to translate for her to a family from the US her desire that they take her unborn child. I do not know how to make sense of the disparity between the needs I see, which seem so great, and what we are able to offer, which seems so small. Notre Dame, unfortunately, did not provide me with easy answers to such questions. The longer I am here, I think it’s actually the less that I know about anything at all, the more murky and gray everything seems, the less clear-cut the answers. I can only suppose that God, somehow, is in all of it, holding it all together, holding us all together, calling us anew to offer what we can, however incomplete and small and limited, towards the healing of whatever small corner of the world we find ourselves in and whatever souls we share it with.

In my last email to you all, back in February, I wrote that Central America has taught me about my place in the human family, about something we all share, deep down. I guess it’s in light of all this business of trying to “make sense of it” – of the reality of life here, of the disparity between rich and poor, and how small and incapable I often feel in light of the weightiness of the grief around me, that I’ve recently been reflecting on the limitedness of being human. Who among us, after all, really could make sense of it? Who among us actually could complete the world’s Work? Annie Dillard, in a passage about our smallness and God’s greatness, writes, “Week after week Christ washes the disciples’ dirty feet, handles their very toes, and repeats, it is all right – believe it or not – to be people.” At the Farm, our feet are, literally and metaphorically, quite dirty – yet over and over again, Christ comes to us, disguised as each other, as ourselves, and asks us if we will continue to try, to admit that we cannot do it alone, to acknowledge that we need each other, to be present and seek grace and in some small, very limited way, attempt to be instruments of hope and healing. So we offer what we can – however small and humble – and in acknowledging our finitude, we rejoice in the recognition that our smallness allows us to do not everything, but something, and to attempt to do it well. We show up. We seek beauty. We allow our feet to be washed, week after week, our very toes to be handled, and we say, it is all right – no – it is good – to be human.

And there is much beauty here, in spite of everything, and it is my daily bread, that which gives me courage and strength to endure, to show up, and to try to be as patient and kind as I possibly can (which on same days, isn’t much at all) with the two teenage girls I’ve been asked to share my life with this year. They continue to be exactly who they are – teenagers – sometimes hilarious, sometimes incredibly moody, perplexed by the questions of life just as I am, worried about how they look and what they wear, my teachers in faithfulness and generosity, the most honest critics of my cooking (“Hamburgers? But, with BEANS?! What?!”), brave and beautiful and incredibly wise beyond their years. So many of my finer and more memorable moments of the past two years here have occurred with them, sitting together at our kitchen table or on the couch, sharing stories about boyfriends or giggling over something funny that happened that day or hunching over school projects late at night with a glue gun and whatever bizarre donations of art supplies we happen to have in the bottom drawer at the time. They really are incredible young women, who, despite all the odds, are finding a place for themselves in the world, who have hopes and dreams and want to work to make them a reality, and I believe fiercely in them and love them and want so very much for them to succeed. And in the end, I guess, there’s grace in that – it’s not everything, but it is something, and if the Farm has made a difference even just for one child, then it is all worth it. It does make sense. God holds it all together.

This is probably the last time you’ll hear from me from this rinconcito of the world – in early December, seven of the other dear souls I have shared these two years with and I will say our final adios to the Farm of the Child and begin the journey to what awaits us back in our respective homes. I’ll probably write at least once more from the other side, but until then, please pray for me – for my girls, for our volunteer community, especially those leaving with me in December, and for all we will experience in our last three months in this small corner of the earth – that we might know much beauty and grace in our final weeks, that we might be gentle with ourselves and with each other, and above all, that we would trust in the goodness of the God who holds us all together. I am so grateful for each of you, and for the endless ways you’ve accompanied me in my journey here. It is a humbling thing to have received so much that I will never truly be able to repay. I hope to see many of you during my re-transition to the States next winter and spring, to hold your babies and see your wedding pictures and hear of your own journeys in these past two years, and to see once more how good is the God who holds it all together. Until then, know of my love, my prayers, and above all, my gratitude for the generosity and kindness you have shown me. May your hearts know much beauty in your own lives’ days in the months to come!

in love, and in gratitude,

Erin

¡La Muerte, Ya No Tiene Dominio!

Below is a reflection I wrote for the Farm's Easter newsletter. May the joy of the risen Christ be with you all!

Last night during our weekly Community Night here in La Ceiba, I sat in a circle with the three teenagers with whom I live with this year and reflected on this past Sunday’s gospel reading – the mystery of the Transfiguration (Matthew 17:1-9). On the table in front of us lay a single candle, a cross, and a paper chain. After reading the gospel together, I invited the teenagers to reflect on the transfiguration that they wish to see in our own world, and how they, as people who (like the apostles) have experienced the resplendent Christ and are called to witness Him
to others, each might cultivate that transfiguration in their own lives and hearts and in the world around them.

One by one, the teenagers tore off pieces of the construction-paper chain in front of them representing the shackles of oppression, injustice and sin that enslave us, and spoke aloud their hopes for our world. “Que haya un día en que…” That there might be a day in which… In which all might have a home. In which there will be no violence, and in which all nations know peace. In which no one will go hungry. In which every woman, man and child might be recognized with equal dignity as a person created in the image of the one Living God.

As I listened to these teenagers’ hopes and dreams for the broken, beautiful world they see around them and reflected on my own, and as we, together, reflected on what action we must take in our own hearts to bring these changes about, I couldn’t help but think that perhaps this is what Gandhi meant when he said that we must “be the change we wish to see in the world.” If we want a world that is more peaceful, we must cultivate peace first of all within our own families and our own hearts. If we wish for all to claim their dignity as children of the light, we must begin by recognizing the dignity of the homeless and the hungry outside our door. If we wish for a world in which no one hungers, we must begin by sharing our own food with others.

The prophet Jeremiah writes, “But in this place of which you say it is a waste… there will be heard again the voice of mirth and the voice of gladness… the voices of those who sing.” At the Farm of the Child, we are called to live as an Easter people – a people who live between the “already” and the “not yet” of the Kingdom of God. We witness the suffering Christ in the wounds of our children, in the hungry faces of our neighbors, in our own brokenness and need for healing. At the same time, we wait and work in the joyful hope that comes from the knowledge of what is to come – that three days after the most horrific type of humiliation and suffering, the stone will be rolled away, the tomb will be empty, and death will have no power over life. We envision the transfigured world we wish to see – a world that perhaps is a little more of what God had in mind – and trusting in the empty tomb, in the “slow work” of God, we hope and pray and work tirelessly to bring about this world, a world in which the voices of mirth and gladness
shall sing.

“¡La muerte, ya no tiene dominio!” Death has no power. On Easter Sunday, we will listen to these words spoken from the pulpit, and we will hear them resonate in our own hearts. Christ is
risen, and death no longer has the final word. This Easter, may we come to believe evermore in the power of life over death, and may God grant us the grace to work faithfully and tirelessly
for the transfiguration we wish to see in the world.

Christ is risen, truly risen! Alleluia!

persons becoming persons.

My dear ones,

This email has been sitting on my desktop for a few months now. The document
title keeps getting changed – what was once “Mass email November 2010” has
become “December,” “January,” and finally “Mass email February 2011” – but please know that
its tardiness in reaching your inbox is in NO way indicative of how much I think of and miss
you all. Once again, it’s been too long since I’ve written, but I guess soon enough I should stop
apologizing for that in every update and just admit that it’ll probably be another three (or four…
or five…) months before you hear from me here again. Don’t worry, the length of this email
makes up for my silence :) So very much has changed in my very humble life at the Farm that I
hardly know where to begin, but I guess NOW is good of a place as any – so here goes!

Today I write to you from the cinderblock apartment I share with two young women – Marina
(15) and Dalila (17), who make up 2/3 of the Farm’s adolescent program here in La Ceiba,
Honduras, about 3 hours away (or 4… or 5…. depends on your bus) from my last year’s
beach-side home just outside Trujillo. Alisha, my partner-in-crime/other-half/co-parent/fellow
volunteer, and Arturo, the teenage boy entrusted to her care, live in the apartment just next
door here in Barrio El Centro, where the sounds on the street - taxis beeping, homeless men
yelling, generators buzzing, and the occasional musical presentation in Parque Central next door
– float through our open windows day and night. The name of my new role at the Farm this
year is “encargada,” which literally means “the in-charged” or “entrusted”. That’s a pretty good
definition, I think, but I’m not sure it encompasses quite everything we do here… so I decided to
write my own definition for you, which goes something like the following:

encargada: n., adj.: doctor’s-appointment-setter-upper, dish-washer-reminder (“Please don’t
use that fork in the non-stick pan!”), parent-teacher-conference-attender, curfew-enforcer, live-
in social worker, “make-good-choices!”-sayer, financial-counselor (“Remember to save at least
75%…”) homework-helper, gratitude teacher, drain unclogger and cockroach killer, “are-you-
SURE-you-have-to-fry-that?”-asker, loaf-of-bread and pot-of-beans maker, turn-the-other-cheek-er, patient silence bearer and giggle-sharer, Settler’s-of-Catan-player, prayer-planner, boyfriend-approver (“Is he REALLY good enough for you??”), fundraiser and connection-seeker, music-and-movie censorer (Dear Mom and Dad, now I TOTALLY get why you didn’t let me see all PG-13 movies when I was 13), hospitality director, tutor, volunteer, bill-payer, grocery-shopper, advice-giver… and the list goes on. Usage: “She’s my encargada.” See also: parenthood (sort of).

As anyone who has parented teenagers knows well, sometimes they can be… well, frankly,
ridiculous. (Please consider this my official apology to parents everywhere, especially my own,
for being sixteen once myself. Um… sorry about that.) However, lately, the days I go to bed
feeling like I’m actually building relationships with these girls are far outnumbering the days
that I go to bed feeling like I want to wring their necks… which is obviously, you know, a grace.
Or something like it. And lately, too, I’ve been really surprised by how, out of nowhere, it just
hits me sometimes how much I really, really care for these young women – how proud I am of
who they are (most of the time), how much I want to see them succeed, how much I love their
laughter and their stories and to hear the hilarious things they talk about when they think I’m not listening. (“Oh my GOD, did you know Selena Gomez has received death threats over Twitter because of her relationship with Justin Bieber?! Why won’t they just come out and admit they’re dating already?!”) It’s not by nature of anything I’ve done, I don’t think, that that’s happened – it’s just kind of a natural effect of the fact that we try to share our meals, our home, and our lives with each other in an intentional way. Overall, without a doubt, my biggest joy here is found in these kids – and it’s definitely not always a feel-good joy, a “can’t wipe this smile off my face, how-can-I-keep-from-singing” type of joy – but it’s joy all the same, sometimes frustrating and messy but also deep and beautiful and true. I believe in them, and I want so much to see them become happy, loving, successful adults – and I believe deeply in this work, that it is good and meaningful, and that there is goodness and grace in being faithful in the small things that are asked of me here daily, even if it’s just killing cockroaches, making lunch, changing lightbulbs and helping with homework. I’m pretty sure that I, too, and being shaped and molded and formed by my time with these girls, that I’m learning from them things I never even thought to ask… and I think I’m growing in what Dorothy Day called (quoting Ruskin) our “duty of delight” – the duty to delight, that is, both in the hilarity and strangeness and beauty of our lives, and also in one another. Because that is what we’re meant for, I think – to be “persons becoming persons through other persons,” just trying to reflect for each other a little bit of the light that we have received.

-----

This past December, I’m in a taxi in San Pedro Sula, heading to the bus stop to get back to
Ceiba after a very quick trip to the States before Christmas. After the typical negotiating of
the taxi fare, answering the driver’s so-predictable-it’s-almost-funny question of “So… are
you married?” (the answer is always yes, if you’re wondering)… I, for some reason still
unbeknownst to me, wipe off the “do NOT mess with me” tattoo I usually have stamped on my
forehead when I’m traveling alone and begin to chat with my taxi driver a bit. He asks me about
life in the States (like almost every Honduran I meet, he’s either been there or has family there
himself), why I’m here, and what I think of Honduras, and we talk about “volunteer culture”
and why it just doesn’t exist so much in Central America. Finally, he asks me the unanswerable
question – how my time here has been. I fumble around for the words, and finally settle on
telling him that it’s a really challenging experience, but I know that I’m being formed here and
that I’m growing and learning a lot. Usually that would suffice for anyone, but this guy prods a
bit. “¿Y qué es lo que ha aprendido?” he asks me. What is it that you’ve learned?

I stay quiet for a minute.

“I am learning,” I tell him, “about humanity, and myself, and what exactly is my part to play
in this strange, beautiful mess of a world.” I go on to tell him what it is I love about Central
America – which is, I mean, a lot of things, but more than anything that it forces my very
humanity upon me, in such a raw, human way that there is literally no escaping it. I go to the
market here and am ambushed by vendors yelling at me, “¿Qué desea, mami?” The woman who
sells me cheese every week won’t let me go without giving her an update on Jennie, last year’s
encargada, who finished her time in December and is now back in the States. Ride on a public
bus, and there’s a good possibility you’ll end up with someone else’s small child sitting half
in your lap for a good part of the journey. Go on vacation with one of your teenagers to visit
the family members she lived with before coming to the Farm, and see that the well you draw
water from to bathe yourself with a bucket each morning is more than just a source of life – it’s
a gathering place of the community where stories are swapped and a commonality is established
through the act of doing something together. Central America demands from me a sharing of
lives and hopes and dreams and struggles, a recognition of the other, an acknowledgement of
something shared, deep down, that holds us all together. Persons becoming persons, right before
our very eyes.

This whole persons-becoming-persons stuff is messy, and I think we’re all tempted at times to
want our space, to NOT want to be ambushed at the market or have someone’s sweaty elbows
touching us at mass or to end up holding someone’s smelly child for a three-hour bus ride. But I
also believe it to be blessing and grace to be asked to recognize myself and others in this way, to
acknowledge our finitude and our giftedness and our common call to delight in one another.

But back to December. My taxi nears the bus station, and as the driver comes to a stop, he looks
at me and says, with all the cariño in the world, “Que Dios me la cuide y me la bendiga.” And
the thing is… in the non-creepiest way possible… I think he meant it. In Spanish, when you
throw the optional “me” in there, what was before just a kind wish (“May God care for you and
bless you”) becomes personal – it’s something like “May God bless you and care for you – for
me” or “to me.” In the course of that fifteen-minute ride we shared together, something was
revealed to each of us – something shared that runs deep down. Humanity, maybe. God, even,
I guess. A connection was made – and we were both changed. Persons becoming persons, right
before our very eyes.

To all of you, who continually show me your love and support in my journey to become more of
myself… thank you, as always, for your patience and kindness and your prayers. I have learned
so much from you all and carry you with me wherever I go, and promise that I hold you always
in thought and prayer, sending you love and light when I think of you – which is often. So until
my next five-month-delayed, excessively long email…

sending you light,
and grace,
and all the Justin Bieber gossip you could possibly want, from my chaotic Barrio El Centro…

que Dios me los cuide,
Erin