...¨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