love is little

a thousand times over.

2011-11-20T23:48:00.006-05:00

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.¨

2011-09-10T12:32:00.000-04:00

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!

2011-04-29T00:04:00.002-04:00

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.

2011-02-21T10:00:00.001-05:00

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

swimming lessons

2010-09-29T20:05:00.002-04:00

My dearest friends and family,

Hello, hello, hello – and happy (almost) October to you from Honduras! Here at the Farm, we’ve been celebrating September, the "mes de la patria" (it’s kind of like the 4th of July, except here we have a whole month dedicated to patriotism and citizenship) in due style – in fact, tomorrow is the most important day of the year for my sixth graders. No, it isn’t graduation, nor is it the FCAT or any of those other standardized tests that were so very important in my own primary education. Rather, it’s the day in which my students will be tested on how well they’ve memorized and can sing, conduct and explain Honduras’ gloriously-long, seven-versed national anthem and the 37 obligatory questions and answers that go with it – all required by law for every Honduran sixth grader, and necessary to be able to graduate from our primary school and go on to the colegio.

You could (maybe) call it brainwashing, or say that it doesn’t help our students to learn to think critically and for themselves – those are fair criticisms, and I’d grant you them. But among the things I’ve learned this year are that you should pick your battles, and that there are some things you can’t change, and that when you can’t beat them, it really is a good idea to sometimes join them… so my fellow volunteer teachers and I have patiently grinned and marched our way, quite literally, through the month of September, sporting our Honduras jerseys and singing that gloriously-long national anthem with the best of them all the while. And truly, some of my very best moments of these past few weeks have been spent with my sixth-graders in that tiny little two-walled classroom of mine, laughing with them to calm their nerves and helping them with their conducting patterns – who knew my drum major years would come in handy in Honduras?!

I mention the national anthem to you all because when I write, I so often feel like I need to tell you something big, or beautiful, or exciting. But the truth is that the most of the things that are exciting to me, like getting coffee from Dunkin Donuts in La Ceiba or Thursday mail days, are probably pretty normal to most of you… and the majority of my "every-day", like cooking over a wood-burning fire for nearly 30 people or sharing a moment of simultaneous laughter and disgust with my roommates at 2 am because a rat has invaded our room, you might find note-worthy. In the end, though, it’s the little things, all added up together, that make this experience what it is… like standing on top of a desk and singing the national anthem with a sixth grader, for instance, or successfully driving the Landcruiser to Trujillo without stalling, or laying in the hammock in our courtyard with fellow volunteer Sheena at night, reading a book aloud by the light of a headlamp and simultaneously seeing a bright starry sky and fifteen of my closest friends’ underwear hanging on the laundry lines. What a beautiful, strange experience this past year of my life has been.

Being at the Finca is like a marinade, I think. For a little over two years, we sit and stew in this big, bizarre mixture of grace and suffering and resurrection, love and faithfulness and forgiveness and community. Maybe we offer a little of our own spice every once in a while – maybe in the end, the flavor is a just a little different because we’ve been part of it – but mostly, we sit back, and we listen and watch and learn and soak in the flavors of the experience, letting it touch and affect us. Change us. Transform us. And then, in the end, we go, and we are different just for having experienced these things, for having sat with them for so long, for having let their flavors touch us so deeply that they are inextricicably a part of who we are.

Among the things I have cherished from my first year at the Farm is the experience of teaching swim lessons to our youngest children on Saturday mornings. It’s one of my "small jobs," and I love it for lots of reasons – it’s great time with the kids, the ocean is amazingly calm and beautiful in the morning, and it’s pretty much the only thing I do here that I’m actually qualified for – thank you, Tuscawilla County Club, for preparing me oh-so-well to be a volunteer in rural Honduras! :) On Saturday mornings, Jackson, Darwin, Manuel, Jose Pastor, Brayan and Joel grab me by the hands and hold me tightly around the neck, and I ask them to kick with straight legs and float on their backs and blow bubbles. "Erin, venga!" they say – "come here!" they whimper, half-excited and half-afraid, wanting to show me what they can do now that they didn’t even know they were capable of a few months ago. But our ocean is big, and they are small, and when the water starts reaching their necks they panic and grab for me, and I gently whisper, "I’m here; I’ve got you; I won’t let anything happen to you; I won’t let you go." And soon enough, little by little, they realize they can, that they are enough, that there are hands to hold onto and arms there to catch. And little by little, I let them go farther and farther, swimming out into the big sea and discovering all it has to offer them.

My own sea, so to speak, is getting bigger soon. A few months ago I was asked to consider a change in job placement for this coming year, and come early November I’ll be packing up and moving out of this house which is OH-so full of geckoes and memories and dirty laundry and love, and moving to the big city of La Ceiba to live with our teenage girls who study and work there. My role will be "encargada," the ever-ambiguous mix of house-mom, live-in-social-worker, tutor, disciplinarian and friend, to Dalila (17) and Marina (15), and I have no doubt that it will be a year both of blessings and challenges as I learn to "parent" these two teenage girls, sharing in their joys and laughter, and bearing patiently with their moodiness and their silence. Overall, I think the change is a really good one, but of course my emotions are mixed – excited to share life so much more intimately with the girls, and of course to be closer to Dunkin Donuts :), yet scared to be leaving what has finally become familiar and worried that this physical place isn’t quite done with me yet - but I, like the boys to whom I teach swimming lessons on Saturday mornings, know that I don’t go into the big sea alone, that as Teresa of Avila so wisely says, "God is on the journey, too." So I put my hand in God’s and trust the arms to catch, and dip my toes into the water, tentatively at first, but then further and further still, until I see that, hopefully, the water really is fine.

On Friday, which marks the one-year anniversary of my time at the Farm!, things get a lot crazier around here as we welcome 10 new volunteers into our midst, who will add their own underwear to the clotheslines and undoubtedly slowly work their way into our kids’ hearts. There’s beauty in the chaos – so pray for us as the line for the girls’ shower gets a lot longer and we figure out how to cut the weeks’ chicken rations into 30 equal parts. I miss you and love you and think of you often – really, I do – and hope and pray that you are all WELL in the God who says that it is all very good indeed. I would love to hear from you – the new snail-mail address I’ll be using come early November is below, so please update your address books accordingly!

in much peace and joy,
Erin

Erin Ramsey
Apartado Postal #708
La Ceiba, Atlantida
Honduras, C.A.
C.P. 31101

some thoughts on mangoes.

2010-07-22T12:18:00.002-04:00

Beloved,

Summertime is well underway at the Farm of the Child. It means kids riding bikes around the campo until dinner in a way that reminds me of my own lazy childhood summers, coming inside reluctantly only when their house parents call “A comer! Time to eat!” It means that God splatters paint on the sky nightly with some of the most ridiculously beautiful sunsets you’ve ever seen – best enjoyed while swimming with a child, or two, or ten. It means volunteers coming and going on vacation, and lots of wonderful visitors, and that the percussion of our nightly prayer is the rhythmical slapping of mosquitoes feasting on sweet-blooded legs, and that we start sweating before we even get out of bed in the morning. But among all these things there is to love about a Honduran summer, there might be one I love most of all – the arrival of mango season.

A few weeks ago, Jessica and Zulena, two of my fifth graders, showed up to school with plastic bags in tow. “Tenga, Profa!” They commanded. “Here – it’s for you!” Peeking inside, I decided that my job has some definite pay-offs – the bags were filled with sweet, ripe mangoes, gathered from the girls’ houses, so many of them I had to give them away before they rotted. (To let a sweet mango go bad – a sin!) Yes, mango season is in full swing, and even if you’re not lucky enough to be under the mango tree when a freshly-ripe one decides to fall, all you need to do is hand the nearest child a big stick and she’ll be more than happy to give it a good throw and get one down for you. Mango season reminds me that we are of the earth, connected to it in such a deep and intimate way that, as an old volunteer put it, we “literally cannot scrub it out of our skin.” It is one of the things I love most about the Farm… that I go to bed at night with dirt still beneath my fingernails, no matter how long I spend washing my hands, that a few minutes standing in the salty water of the Caribbean is the best natural remedy to soothe my mosquito-bitten legs. I wash my clothes in the morning on days when I think the sun can dry them by noon, and gathering firewood that's still slightly damp instead of the good, light kind can mean that dinner might be on the table a little bit later than usual. On a morning that our egg rations had run out for the week, fellow volunteer Keenan got up a little early and ransacked the hen houses so that we’d have some protein on the table for breakfast. And when the power goes out, we put our office work and our lesson plans on hold and enjoy the excuse to sit together and laugh by the light of a few flickering candles. Yes… we live on, with and from the earth, and we cannot be separated from it.

This grounding connection with the earth, these changing seasons, they remind me that time is passing here, that our kids, and myself too, are moving and changing and growing, although it’s not always easy to see in the midst of the dailyness of it all. I see this change in the smallest of ways. For example, Brayan, the Farm’s newest child, has finally learned my name after about a month of calling me “Sara.” (She’s a good six inches taller than me, but we both have glasses… I might be confused if I were seven, too.) Many of my most grace-filled moments this summer have been spent watching him learn to read as he follows along in the song books at church, with his patient first-grade teacher Ryan perpetually and faithfully by his side. After completing the mandatory 6-month waiting period, I’ve taken to the mountain roads in one of the Finca’s Landcruisers as I’ve begun stickshift driving lessons. Watch out, Trujillo! My 6th grade boys now follow up their “Profa, venga!” (Teacher, come here!”) with “por favor” a good 50% of the time without me having to shoot them a loving glance of a reminder that in my classroom, “please” and “thank you” are required. And, wonder of wonders…. Jessica has finally (sort of) learned long division. Day in and day out, they’re not necessarily huge or romantic signs that I’m really “doing” much of anything here. But I am coming to see that there is beauty in the smallness of it all, that I guess it is, as Dorothy Day says, “by little and by little” that we are saved.

The best way to eat a mango – a really good, sticky, sweet, soft mango – is to sink your teeth into its skin, rip away the outsides and literally suck the flesh and juice out of the middle. So I’m putting away my knife and my plate, and the temptation to cut my mango into neat little pieces and politely enjoy it without making a mess, because there’s just something about the experience of really digging in that makes it… I don’t know, more meaningful. And it’s like that with my time at the Farm, too. It’s tempting to try to cut it into neat, clean pieces, to digest it easily and come out with clean hands. But eating mangoes isn’t like that. When you finish eating a good mango, your shirt might be a little stained, and your hands will be sticky, and you’ll definitely need a good floss… but there’s a certain richness in the experience, there’s joy in the journey, and there’s a sweetness in it all. Of course, that doesn’t mean you won’t get a sour bite every once in a while, too. :)

To all of you who so generously offered me your time and welcomed me back into your lives and your hearts during my vacation back to the States in May, thank you. I can tell you with so much honesty that it was exactly the re-charge I needed to come back to the Farm more ready to be here, more alive and myself and really at home. To my amazing friends who made the journey to come and experience this place for yourselves in early June, thank you for your love and your energy and for helping me to see this place, and myself here, with new eyes. For anyone that is thinking of coming to visit, please do!!! On a final note, although I have reached my personal fundraising goal, the Farm is always in need of general funds, and I have a few special personal projects I am actively seeking donations for. If you have interest in continuing to support my work financially, please send me an email and I would be happy to offer some suggestions of ways to help.

As always, thank you for your love, your generosity, and for sharing in all that goes on here at the Farm. Know that you are always in my prayers and my heart. May the joy and the messiness of mango season be yours, too, no matter how far away you are.

with sticky hands and a joyful heart,
Erin

on resurrection

2010-03-30T20:03:00.002-04:00

My dear ones,

School got called off early for rain on Monday this past week. I watched as a collective grin quickly spread over the faces of my sixth graders as our school administrator came to my classroom to tell me, in English, that the rivers were quickly rising and soon it would be unsafe to send the little ones home. My students let out a cheer. “Profa, we know what she said!” they told me with glee in their eyes – although their English isn't quite good enough to understand, the wind and rain that had been invading my classroom all day, forcing me to move all the desks into the middle of the room and loan my sweatshirt to shivering students, were tell-tale signs of early dismissal. And so, with laughter, I told them there would be no English homework, and bid them farewell, and watched them run across the school grounds, through wind and rain and storm, scampering away to their houses, some of which would provide them with less refuge from the storm than my two-walled classroom does.

Yesterday I finished my very first quarter as a first-year teacher. I suppose I would sum these past eight weeks up as frustrating, exhausting, filled with laughter and lots of failures and a few successes, a struggle on oh-so-many fronts, but, overall, blessed. First-year teaching, as many of my ACE friends have affirmed, is essentially a fight for survival, an effort to simply keep your head above the water as you are thrust headfirst into something you are completely unprepared for. First-year teaching, I am told, in ANY school, language, or culture, is an incredibly difficult task. But I teach in a classroom that, for all extensive purposes, has two walls, and is the size of my bedroom in Winter Springs, where a squirrel in the tree outside or neighbors buying Coca-Cola at the pulperia next door can be the downfall of a well-planned lesson. I teach in a school where many of my students walk a half hour or more to class each morning, where half of them won't show up on a rainy day because the rivers become too high to cross, where one of my fifth graders missed over a week of classes because she had to take care of her family members who were all sick with malaria. I teach in Spanish, in a school without new textbooks or fancy scientific equipment, where the snack my students receive at recess may be the first thing many of them will eat on a given day. I also, though, teach in a school that is considered the best and most rigorous in the entire northern third of the country, where I spend hours with my students not only in my tiny little classroom but in their houses, on the soccer field or in the ocean, or together in the chapel in prayer, a school where genuine relationships are invited and welcome, where my students have become much more to me than simply my job. From 7:15 am to 12:30 pm, Monday through Friday, I attempt to teach and they attempt (sometimes) to learn, and we laugh and struggle through decimals and the scientific method, and sometimes I lose my patience and raise my voice and want to throw my hands in the air with frustration. Most days seem like a wrestling match, and sometimes I feel pinned down by the weight of what's asked of me, or my seeming inability to really teach them anything at all. But somehow, in the thousands of tiny moments that we have spent together, in spite of all the frustration and my lack of patience, we are building real relationships, and because of that, it's well-worth the late nights and the early mornings and the fact that the fifteen of them consume nearly all of my thoughts and efforts and prayers and energy.

School mail is alive and well at Escuela San Pedro, and my fifth graders always look forward to Fridays when I distribute the cards and letters that have been written for them that week. I, too, look forward to that handful of construction paper which is delivered to me each week, because I generally receive a fistful of cards from my students which always make for a good laugh and are fun to share at the volunteer lunch table. A few weeks ago I received a tiny note scribbled with blue marker on lined paper from Jessica – the same “Profa, six weeks?! That's almost a month!!!” Jessica who you may remember from my last email update, who is now one of my fifth graders and the source of so much of my frustration and joy and headaches and laughter. The card, which I will undoubtedly treasure for years and think pretty accurately wraps up our first quarter together, reads:

“Profa, Usted es muy, muy bonita y muy buena, y, bueno, a veces es enojada. La quiero mucho, Jessica.” (“Teacher, you are very, very pretty, and very good, and, well, sometimes you are mad. I love you a lot, Jessica.”)

Oh, the honesty! :) The truth is that I suppose I hoped it would happen, but I didn't expect that I would love them so much so quickly, that my life would become so inextricably intertwined with theirs so soon. On Saturday night I will stand behind this very same Jessica, and I will watch and pray and probably cry as she is baptized at the Easter Vigil, and I will promise to love her and guide her in faith as I agree to be her madrina, her godmother. Oh, God, you are funny and surprising. I suppose there really is no turning back now. I watch Ana, who is fourteen and too beautiful for her own good, walk around with the neighbor boys who are probably not up to anything very nice, and I shake my head in a very mother-like way and pray that she keeps studying and stays out of trouble. I watch Zulena help a kindergartener tie his shoes, and I see Moises hauling wood to his house after school, and I miss Edwin, the little one with the big ears and the eager eyes who left school one day to go live with his mother who lives an hour away and who will not be coming back. The truth of it all is that my own life is now so intimately, so sacramentally wrapped up in not only Jessica's, but in all of theirs... and it is a very beautiful cross.

There is so much to tell you all from the past few months that I hardly know where to begin or what to say. I could tell you about my vacation with Nelly, one of our oldest girls, to visit her mother over our Christmas vacation, about sleeping with ten people in one room, on cardboard on the ground, because there are no beds or chairs. I could tell you about Roni, Dorfa and Luz, our three newest children at the Farm, and the transformation I have seen in them in their two and a half short months as part of this new family. I could tell you about hosting three incredible visitors – first my dad in January, and two friends from Notre Dame, Kristi and Nick, in March, and what a beautiful gift their time here was to me, and how much it has helped me to see this place with new eyes. There is so much to say, and somehow no words to express it all. But the short of it all is that I can honestly tell you that I think I have finally found a home here, that I truly am doing well, that it is very, very, VERY hard, but that God is good and present and I am learning and growing and dying and rising, so much, so many times, over and over again.

As we enter this most Holy of weeks, I reflect on the Paschal mystery in each of our lives, in our own death and resurrection. Here at the Finca, we enter deeply into the Way of the Cross. Veronica wipes the face of Jesus, and our nurse stitches up the forehead of a child who got hit in the head with a baseball. Simon helps Jesus carry the cross, and an older girl helps a struggling younger student with her homework. Jesus falls the first time; He is down now, and He will fall again. And so do we. But in the end, there is joy, there is hope, there is an empty tomb. We wait with hope because we know what is to come.

Know that I love you all so much, and I miss you dearly, and I am really, really sorry that it has been so long since I've written. I FEEL your thoughts and your prayers and your support, being lifted up and carried across oceans, enveloping me when I have fallen and I need someone to help me carry my own cross. Know how grateful I am, and how often I think of you here. I will be home for my first vacation in May and I hope to see/hug/have a nice long phone chat with many of you then. Until then, may you find, name and celebrate the Paschal mystery in your own life, and know that you are loved so very much from a tiny little two-walled classroom on the coast of Honduras, so many miles away.

In the Joy of what is to come,
Erin

ps: I've posted some pictures of my last few months' adventures and misadventures on my picasa page: http://picasaweb.google.com/erin.ramsey.1

pps: the newest edition of the Farm newsletter (of which I am the coordinator!) :) isn't yet out to print as of this email, but I'm betting it'll be up soon and it is beautiful. When it gets posted, it'll be available online at http://www.farmofthechild.org/scrapbook_newsletter.php

Parent Newsletter - Meet the Vols!

2010-01-16T12:31:00.002-05:00

Periodically, the parents are sent a newsletter to keep them up-to-date on the activities at the Finca. Erin has authored this edition:
____________________________________________________________________________

5 January 2010

Dearest us-bearers,

Happy New Year to you from the Finca! After a relatively dry winter, January rains have (finally) arrived in full force, leaving volunteers sloshing around in rain boots, pulling out rarely-used sweatshirts from suitcases under our beds, and avoiding cold showers for days on end (or maybe that’s just me.) I, by the way, am Erin Ramse y, and I am one of the eight bright-eyed souls we call “newbies” who have just weathered our first three months (that’s a fourth of a year!... but who’s counting, right?) at the Finca and lived to tell the tale. Our past month has been chock-full of all the craziness, the absurdity, the grace and laughter and struggle that the Finca deals out daily. We’ve jumped head-first into a Honduran Christmas and New Year, complete with more tamales than any of us would ever really want to eat, plenty of dancing, and a few really beautiful liturgies. Some of us have gotten to experience what life is like in other parts of Honduras as we’ve accompanied our kids on vacations to visit family members or old house parents and inevitably have been offered countless glasses of Coca-Cola, weathered long bus rides with antsy children (no bathroom accidents as of yet!), and entered into the life of the poor in a new way. We've missed our families and friends, felt the giant hole left in our hearts with the departure of the oldies in early December, begun to feel more confident as we've started to fill the large shoes they leave behind, and been blessed with numerous visitors - including the entire Pennino family, the Tooher clan minus two, Kate's sister Emily, and a few long-time friends of the Farm - who always seem to bring us a spark of life, new stories to share around the dinner table, and, if we're lucky, chocolate. We've battled with the rapidly growing rat population in our house (here’s a shout out to Terry Mattoon, whose recently-sent, high-tech rat traps have given us the competitive edge we need on the frontlines), found our clothes molding over from the rains, and continually been graced, blessed and stretched by the challenge of actively loving each other which so deeply permeates this place. It is a difficult call, but we are learning. And it is good that we are here.

I'm not quite sure when the last parent letter was sent, or even to what extent we've all been introduced to you, newbies and middies alike... so, because my community mates, my sisters and brothers, are SO amazing, and in the spirit of celebrating their gifts, I'd like to take this edition of the parent letter to shine some light on just who exactly they are and the tiny ways they fill our home with joy, thoughtfulness and laughter daily.

Sheena - amazes all with her homemade Christmas cards; incredibly willing to say YES to all that is asked of her; quickly mastering the art of cooking rice and beans; thoughtful, spirited, and committed

Kate – shares lovely, in-tune guitar music for all to sing along to; pours out LOTS of love on our littlest ones; amazingly patient; is growing leaps in bounds in her mastery of Spanish; provider of granola bars and lice shampoo to all

Alisha – recently named rat-killing team captain; can spew prices for any Honduran meat and cheese off the top of her head; our fearless newest Landcruiser driver; always up for a great conversation; works incredibly hard behind-the-scenes to make sure the Finca doesn't fall to pieces

Keenan – victim of many practical jokes involving live chickens; singlehandedly inserting the word “absolutamente” into Finca vocabulary; putting in long hours in the school to take the Finca's colegio (6th-9th grades) math program by storm; already taking Finca bailes (dance parties) by storm with his highly-sought-after dance moves; friendly, fun-loving, and adored by our children

Kristina – gracefully leaps over cultural boundaries and builds bridges between all sorts of quirky, beautiful characters who live in the areas surrounding the Finca; first newbie to suffer a jellyfish sting and live to tell the tale; lover of dried fruit and dark chocolate; most consistent Thursday mail recipient; always shares her goodies; reflective, compassionate, and deeply generous

Ted – tests out Spanish slang on anyone who will listen; friend to all Finca animals; loves a challenging conversation, a game of chess, or a good book; most sought after community member in case of clogged toilets/car trouble/getting mauled by bears (don't worry, that hasn't actually happened... yet); spends free time learning to windsurf; smart, reliable, and always willing to lend a hand

Francesca – rocks socks with sandals in an effort to avoid mosquitoes; lights up our house with her frequent laughter; building wonderful relationships with our kids; thoughtful, soft-spoken, and considerate

Erin – newest giver of Finca haircuts to any and all brave volunteers willing to hand over a pair of scissors and their precious locks; battles with the fogon while trying to dream up interesting meal ideas for her community; attempts to manage large groups of children with grace and patience; sings in the shower; joyful, determined, and reflective

Peter – continues to weather the storm with two feet planted firmly on the ground as our fearless leader; named most-Honduran-like community member for his acquired taste of massive amounts of salt and manteca (lard) in food and use of Honduran habits; impressive comedic timing; intensely dedicated, perceptive, well-respected and very real

Beth – inspires volunteer running; cooking/baking guru and teacher to eager novice newbies; always available to listen to our health woes and provide smart, helpful counsel; caring, energetic, and thoughtful

Sara – dynamic storyteller who keeps our dinner table lively with all sorts of funny tales; manages the demands of the social work department with grace; always up for a good talk; personable, helpful, and full of life

Ryan – shows unbelievable patience with our littlest ones; keeps us in touch with the outside world with his knowledge of current events; provider of dryer sheets and Febreeze to all volunteers with molding clothing; kind, funny, and incredibly willing to serve

Quinn – shows incredible commitment to the education of our children; keeps our kitchen sparkling-clean (well, sort of, as much as is possible with unfinished wooden counters) and our spice rack organized; loves to sing and play guitar; dedicated, thoughtful, and considerate

Dan – IS Santa Claus, according to each and every Finca child; recently shaved off the beard which has made him the recipient of Honduran grief since August; keeps us laughing, belly-ache style, with tales from home; positive, hilarious, and encouraging

Jennie Maria – provider of fresh veggies and good coffee to all Ceiba visitors; gracefully acts as house-mom to teenage boys; fundraising and donation-managing guru; embodies hospitality; incredibly generous, intentional, and dedicated

Sayda – our lone Honduran community member who shows amazing patience with gringo Spanish; learning to balance her role as Ceiba girls’ house caretaker with university life as she begins classes this month; provider of ice cream and delicious beans to all who stay in her apartment; kind, welcoming, and a wonderful role model to our Finca kids

Beautiful, bizarre, and totally unique, each of them. How blessed I am to be their sister.

In just over a week our community will take a bit of a twist as we welcome into the grace-filled chaos of life at the farm not only a doctor from the United States, who will be joining us for a few months (welcome, Dr. Jeannie!), but also two new long-term volunteers!! With the arrival of Georleny and Scarleth, two Nicaraguan psychologists that have taken the leap to join our crew, we become a more fully bilingual bunch and a truly international volunteer community. Please pray for us as we prepare to welcome them in, and for them as they prepare to leave their homes behind and enter deeply into all that is life at the Farm. It is a difficult call, but we trust that God is with us, leading and guiding us and working within, around, and even through us to give us the grace to carry on, to love each other and our kids well. We miss and love you dearly. Please continue to hold us in your thoughts and prayers, as we hold you in ours, knowing and trusting that they are lifted up over oceans and meet, dancing together, in God, who holds us all together in Love.

with lots of love
from our humble home to yours,

Erin Ramsey
erin.ramsey.1@gmail.com

Andrea McMerty-Brummer
Director, Farm of the Child-USA

tel: 727-475-4459 (USA); 442-2512 (Honduras)
email: farmofthechild@gmail.com
website: www.farmofthechild.org

"Whoever welcomes a child such as this for my sake welcomes me, And whoever welcomes me, welcomes not me, but Him who sent me." Mark 9:37

for every breath a song.

2009-12-06T09:28:00.001-05:00

29 noviembre 2009

Mis queridos,

Happy belated Thanksgiving, and advent blessings to you all from Honduras! November has come and gone in the blink of an eye. The storms of rainy season have cooled things off and slowed things down around here, making cold showers even colder, increasing volunteer consumption of tea/coffee/hot chocolate astronomically, and “forcing” us to spend many nights huddled together in our living room, laughing and talking and enjoying being together. Today, however, I’m writing to you from sunny skies, and the ocean waves, blue as ever, rhythmically crash against the shore just yards outside our front door. It feels a little bit different than advent did last year, certainly, but the Christmas music that’s been playing in the sala since after Thanksgiving dinner and the presence of some truly incredible, prayerful, spirited people around me remind me that Christ is indeed coming soon, and that God continues to live and move and laugh and breathe as the Spirit shoots through all sorts of people all over the world.

So – there’s lots to tell since I’ve last written! Although our school year doesn’t officially begin until February, I now feel legitimate calling myself “Profa,” as we’ve started with both “Escuelita” (Honduran summer school for kids who didn’t pass a subject or are otherwise struggling academically) and “Escuela Invierno” (Finca summer camp for our smallest little rompers, ages 12 and under.) Teaching (slash, chaos-controlling) for these two programs has certainly thrown fistfuls of both challenges and blessings in my direction, usually in equal amounts. I’ve encountered behavior problems of all shapes and sizes, struggled with the best ways to teach math with decimals (in Spanish), inflicted plenty of consequences on the little ones, and gone home plenty of days feeling pretty exhausted, frustrated, and broken. At the same time that our kids can often wear on me, though, they fill my spirit to the brim with their silly antics and their laughter and their ceaseless joy and wonder. It’s hard NOT to laugh, for example, when a child gets a naranja (orange) stuck in his pants pocket for a good half hour, and half the class eagerly tries to help him “quitar” it (take it out.) (“Profa… pero cabia cuando la meti!” = “But it fit when I put it in!”) It’s hard NOT to smile when one of your students, frustrated that she does in fact have to attend school for all five weeks of Escuelita and not just one, exclaims, “Bah, Profa! Five weeks! That’s almost a month!” (I didn’t have the heart to tell her that no, Jessica, five weeks is actually MORE than a month. Looks like we will be working on units of time right after decimals…) It’s hard NOT to feel joy when your hands are constantly being grabbed by the little ones, eager to laugh with you and sing with you and share with you their stories and games, eager to follow you, placing in you their trust that you will care for them and protect them. It’s hard NOT to be filled. And while it’s certainly draining, too, and sometimes the dark days seem to outnumber the bright ones, our kids remain constant points of light in my days, and remind me why I’m actually here to begin with.

Thanksgiving was duly celebrated in Finca style – by preparing a huge, traditional meal to share with all of our house parents and tias, Franciscan sisters, employees, neighbors, and local Honduran friends. This year’s menu included turkey and stuffing with gravy, cranberry sauce, two types of potatoes, salad, rolls, green bean casserole, apple crisp and pumpkin pie… which was no small undertaking to prepare for over 60 people! The preparations began weeks in advance, with many special ingredients brought down with visitors from the states… then a spreadsheet was created, explaining who would cook what, and where, and at what time, over a two day period using 6 or 7 different stoves and ovens. I was assigned pumpkin pie duty, and was one of the lucky ones allowed to use an indoor oven instead of having to cook over a wood-burning fire. Nevertheless, the work began at 5:30 am so we’d have plenty of time for all of our pies – 14 in total, in the end! Of course, everyone took a break from the cooking mid-morning to play a fairly cut-throat but good-natured game of football on the campo. My team lost 26-7, but fun was had by all, and only a few injuries were sustained (a minorly sprained ankle – mine – and a near-black eye – thankfully NOT mine.) Cooking at the Finca is a sort of battle against nature, as unfortunately both ants AND rats have made a home in our house as of late, but by some act of God we actually made it to mealtime with all the food intact (though there WAS a close call with the pies, which ended in the violent death by Raid of about 300 black ants.) Always the adventure…

In the end, the food was great and everyone had their fill… but what I’ll remember most isn’t the three turkeys, cooked for hours in our neighbors’ oven and then driven to the Finca in a truck, or the hours spent taking pies out of the oven, but the time we spent together, laughing and talking and sharing and recalling all the blessings in our lives, how much we have to be grateful for. Before the meal began, we strange mix of Hondurans and gringos gathered outside our home and joined hands and said a silent prayer of gratitude for all we’ve been given… and as I grasped the palms of those around me, volunteers and house parents and neighbors and children, I realized how fitting it seems to gather around the table and to give back, in some small way, to those who have given us so much. These people have welcomed us and received us; they have helped us with our Spanish, allowed us to teach their children, taught us about their culture, allowed us to make mistakes, and shared their lives and joys and stories with us… and so we gather around the table to break bread and give thanks and compare directions, recalling the presence of a good and bountiful God who pours out endless blessings on God’s people.

Know that I miss you all and love you dearly, and am hoping and praying that you are all preparing room for Christ’s coming in your respective corners of the world. Please do be in touch when you can – I would love to hear from you!

In peace and in gratitude,

Erin

“Best of all is it to preserve everything in a pure, still heart, and let there be for every pulse a thanksgiving, and for every breath a song.” – Konrad von Gesner

por fin... estoy aqui!

2009-10-27T21:05:00.000-04:00

Mis queridos,

¡Por fin… estoy aqui! Well, actually, I’ve been safe and sound “aquí” at my new home at the Farm of the Child for nearly a month now, but both my heart and my schedule have been plenty full, and combined with the rising rivers of rainy season which make trips to town more of a rarity (okay, we’ve only been stranded once so far, but it still sounds exciting), getting an update out has taken longer than I’d hoped. Around here, though, no news is good news – so please know that I’ve been safe and busy and well, and am quickly settling into my new home, my new community, and my place here at the Farm.

I wrote you last amidst an escalating political situation – the recap is that just days before our departure from Guatemala, ex-president of Honduras Zelaya made a sneak return to the capital and was hiding out inside the Brazilian embassy, which temporary closed the country’s borders, reinstated curfews and roadblocks, and generally made traveling a bit more difficult and unstable. After changing our plans several times and consulting our families and the Farm’s board of directors, we rushed to a Xela travel agency and booked our flights to Honduras less than fourteen hours before they took off. After a midnight ride to Guatemala City and three different flights (one of which took us to El Salvador!), we arrived safe and sound to the outstretched arms of familiar faces in La Ceiba, and happily settled in to begin our orientation as the first EVER group of Finca volunteers to arrive by plane. (FYI, the political situation appears to have calmed significantly, and the Farm and nearby Trujillo haven’t been at all affected. So while our travel was less than ideal, please know that we’re safe, and the story of “the time I entered Honduras in the middle of a post-military coup regime” will be a great one for the grandkids one day…)

I can’t really begin to describe what it was like to pile eight new volunteers and all our luggage in the back of a Landcruiser and a pickup truck, cross the seven rivers that wind between Trujillo and the Farm, and pull up to the front gate of the place we’ll call home for the next two-plus years. All the kids were there, and volunteers, sisters, house parents, employees… singing and holding signs and playing guitars and drums, receiving us openly to come be part of this family. Some of the kids offered hugs and smiles; some tried to trick us by giving us wrong names for themselves; some hung back awkwardly or shyly. And as we newbies danced and sang and let Spanish swim all around us, we laughed and cried and felt excited and overwhelmed and terrified and grateful.

And I do feel grateful, above all, I think. To be here, to be part of this project. To have such a sense of trust that this is exactly where I am called to be. I believe in this place – not that it is perfect, but that it is good… and after being gone for two years, it’s a blessing to see how these kids have grown and changed, how they are becoming bigger and stronger and hopefully kinder, better people. How the struggling first grader I spent hours on the alphabet with after school each week now loves to read aloud in front of her peers in church. How one of my more difficult fifth graders is now actually a really mature, responsible young woman. How the boy who always held his head a little crooked now runs and plays, full speed ahead across the campo, falling down with the others in a pile of laughter and exhaustion. And it’s still hard – really hard, actually – and there is still a lot of brokenness here – but it gives me strength to see that this place is doing a good job, and that, somehow, with a LOT of grace, I, too, will play a part in the work that goes on here, as do so many others.

And the big news of this month is that, after a two-week orientation, we’ve finally received our job placements for the coming year… introducing Profa Erin, 5th and 6th grade math, science and English teacher (slash, newsletter writer, swim instructor, hospitality co-coordinator, future Landcruiser driver? :) …) While I can’t pretend that it’s quite the job of my dreams, I’m coming to trust that it’s where the Finca needs me, and hoping and praying that the joy and the excitement will come with time. I welcome and am grateful for your thoughts, prayers and words of encouragement as I continue to transition into my new role and in the months of planning and preparation ahead (school here runs from February-November, so the next few months will be full of lesson planning, tutoring, and finding ways to keep our children busy in “winter school”, aka glorified summer camp.)

Know, as always, how much I miss and love each of you, and how much you fill my thoughts and my prayers and my days’ labor. When things get hard and my own smallness overwhelms me, your support keeps me going, and I find myself continually grateful for you… for allowing me to be here, for helping me be here, for your sharing in the good work that is done here – for it is your work, too… and for knowing how deep and strong and wide is the net cast over us which binds us all together.

Much peace to you all!

Love,
Erin

“The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.” – Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

the journey begins

2009-09-26T18:46:00.003-04:00

dearest friends,

a quick update from xela - our time in language school is drawing to a close and I've managed to post some pictures of my time here on my picasa page - http://picasaweb.google.com/erin.ramsey.1. feel free to browse at your leisure!

also, as you might have heard, ex-president Zelaya has made a return to Honduras and has been hiding out in the Brazilian embassy for the past few days. needless to say, the timing is less than ideal for us, as we should have actually begun our journey to the Farm today to arrive on October 1st. we're holding tight and waiting for the final go-ahead... praying for an end to any political violence and for a real peaceful and just solution to the current issues in the country. please keep me and my fellow volunteers in your prayers these days as we make the long journey to the farm, and pray for the people of Honduras, especially the poor who are often so deeply affected and unable to be heard during these difficult times.

much peace to you!
Erin

"you and english have had 22 good years..."

2009-09-15T20:25:00.002-04:00

My dearest family, friends y bienhechores,

Feliz dia de independencia from mountain town Xela! As I write this morning, I sit high perched on the roof of my host family's terazza, overlooking the sleepy city. Last night's rain cleared away much of the ever-present fog that hugs the mountains, and it seems I can see for miles today... the bright-colored rooftops of family homes, t-shirts and sheets and underwear of all shapes and sizes hanging on laundry lines drying in the gentle wind, children playing in the streets below. It is simultaneously difficult, nerve-wracking and SO exciting to think that I've been here for over a month now, and that just two weeks from tomorrow my fellow newbie vols and I will be pulling up to our new home for the next TWO-PLUS years - La Finca del Niño. While I am really, really excited to get to Honduras and begin the "real" work we've signed ourselves away to, my time in Xela has been filled with grace and I've been so grateful for this time to work on my Spanish, drink plenty of hot chocolate and get to know my community before we begin our life on the Farm.

So... where to begin? Since I last wrote, I switched teachers at my language school, Juan Sisay, and I have been SO HAPPY. My new teacher's name is Willberth - he is 28, studying for the bar exam, practically fluent in English, and absolutely hilarious. I LOVE him. We've worked through countless verb tenses, new vocabulary and object pronouns, and we spend a great portion of each class in "carcajadas" of laughter as he tries to explain to me the dozens of sexual innuendos I unintentionally stumble through on a daily basis. My favorite part of our time together, though, has unquestionably been the countless challenging, thought-provoking topics we always seem to end up spenging hours talking about. Abortion. Gay rights. Women's rights. Machismo. Religion and culture and politics and how inseparably intertwined they can be. This country and the human rights abuses it has committed against its own people. MY country and the human rights abuses it has committed against the people here. And globalization and food production and the disparity between rich and poor and who suffers at whose expense... just to name a few. Needless to say, trying to discuss all this and more in a language I still feel so far from having a real grasp on has been... well... humbling. But... ando aprendiendo. I'm learning. And, poco a poco, I'm improving, even when it's sometimes hard to see the progress on a daily basis.

Outside of class, there have been a lot of "firsts" and plenty of tiny triumphs this past month. My first time eating street food and not getting sick. My first time climbing an active volcano (several of my friends and I climbed Volcan Pacaya, one of three active volcanoes in Guatemala, a few weeks ago... at the top we somewhat-unsuccessfully attempted to roast marshmallows over pools of hot lava. It was beautiful and epic and HARD.) My first encounter with the Guatemalan police department - my debit card was unfortunately cloned about two weeks ago, and although all is well now, it certainly provided for some great real-world Spanish practice as I navigated my way through the Guatemalan legal system to file a police report. And my first time celebrating a holiday like a Guatemalteca - last night I rang in Guatemala's 188th birthday and "dia de independencia" by laughing, jumping, singing and successfully avoiding being pick-pocketed amisdt a crowd of thousands of REALLY happy Guatemaltecos at the city's giant block party and independence day concert. Surrounded by many of my new community members and our language school teachers... with Bob Marley music playing between bands and a "Chuckie" doll crowdsurfing above dark Guatemalteco heads (?!?)... I couldn't help but laugh to myself and think how bizarre and beautiful this life it, how strange and sacred and sacramental...

And there have been SO many little graces, too. Like successfully taking charge of a group of a dozen pre-schoolers and six containers of play-doh during an afternoon at Nuevos Horizontes, the domestic violence shelter where I've been volunteering. Or the smell of fresh bread baking at the panderia I pass on my daily walk to school. The warmth of a mug of hot tea in my hands, lovingly prepared by my host mom. The feeling of strong Xela sun on my face as I walk to the market in the afternoons. Tiny children who wander up and down the giant stone aisles of the cathedral during mass, shyly playing hide-and-go-seek with the strange light-eyed gringos who occupy two whole pews. And most of all, the arrival of the last three members of our volunteer class - Alisha, Kristina and Francesca. Por fin, we're all together - todos juntos - and beginning to come to know this incredible, thoughtful, totally unique and absolutely hilarious group of people has been a blessing of blessings. They are laughter and joy and bread for my days...

And you are, too. Know how much I love you and miss you all, and just how often you are carried to heaven in my prayers. My communication will be much more limited once I leave the city and arrive at my new home in Honduras, but please know that you are with me always as my bread for the journey, even though we are separated by years and miles and bad internet connections :) Please do keep my fellow volunteers and I in your prayers these weeks, especially as we make the long journey from Xela to the Farm and arrive to begin our work on October 1st. I can't even begin to imagine the whirlwind of emotions that will be this time of transition, but I KNOW that this is exactly where I am called to be, and I am so grateful to be here, doing this work, supported by all of you. So thank you. I love you. I miss you. And I will see you in the Eucharist.

much peace and joy to you,
Erin

hola de xela!

2009-08-16T16:37:00.000-04:00

Mis queridos,

Paz y bien a todos, and hello from my new home in Xela, Guatemala! After a wonderful summer at home in Florida and many tearful goodbyes to those I love all over the world, I boarded the plane this past Wednesday to begin the first part of my adventure of service at the Farm of the Child. My travels went smoothly, and I arrived safe and sound into the outstretched arms of my host family and my new community here at Escuela Juan Sisay.

Words can’t even begin to describe my gratitude for the kindness, the generosity and the support I have experienced from all those at home and all over the world who are walking with me in this journey over the next few years. Over and over again, as I spoke, wrote and shared the Finca with all of you this summer, I was completely overwhelmed by the goodness of your hearts and your desire to share in this mission with me. You offered your prayers, your encouragement, your financial support, and your own gifts and talents to support me. You had me over for dinner; you helped me practice Spanish; you sent me forth with your love, your hugs, your song, your blessing, and your affirmation. Over and over again, your kindness has completely surpassed my expectations. I wish I could wrap my arms around each of you individually and let you know how touched I have been by the generosity and goodness of your hearts. Please know that I will do my best to live out my gratitude for your kindness by loving and serving the kids at the Finca well… and that I will never stop whispering my ceaseless prayers of gratitude to whatever divine forces in heaven hold us all together in Love.

As for my new life in Xela… so far, I love it! The city is full of bright colors and tiny winding cobblestone streets with narrow sidewalks, and the coffee and hot chocolate flow freely at the city’s endless cafes where we spend our afternoons huddled over our textbooks and notebooks. Needless to say, I might leave a little more “gordita” than I arrived, especially since our host mom is an excellent cook and serves us delicious breads at EVERY meal. Speaking of la familia, they are wonderful. I’m living with la familia Loaraca - Veronica, her husband Carlos and their grown daughter Maria - but there is also a “monton” of extended family that comes over for meals and after school pretty regularly, including the grandchildren, who include Andrea, Andres, and Andre. (Veronica told me: “no habia otros nombres!” = “there weren’t any other names!” hah.) The family has been very kind, generous and patient with us and our baby Spanish, which has provided many opportunities for laughter and confusion.

I began classes at Juan Sisay this past Friday and am so excited to be back in school! Although I do speak a bit more than some of the other students already, I still have a LOT to learn and will be working hard to study and practice whenever I can. Our school tries to foster a sense of social awareness in its students, and helps us get connected with opportunities to tutor in the community, visit local social service agencies, and learn about issues facing the people of Guatemala. Since I just arrived I haven’t been able to do any of this yet, but it looks like I might be able to help at a local domestic violence shelter and tutor a few girls in math on Wednesdays. This will be a great chance to get to know the community and work on improving my Spanish in more real-world situations. Our classes are one-on-one with the teachers, which provides great individualized attention, and it’s very student-oriented, so if we want to take a walk, go visit a store, or study somewhere besides the school, etc, we can. The teachers are relatively young and often hang out with us outside of school… this Friday, after the school‘s weekly “graduation“ for the departing students, we all went to a local discoteca to shake our gringo hips to some latino music… though I do have to admit, I was a little surprised to hear the YMCA playing! (One advantage to being light-haired and green-eyed in Guatemala: there’s never a lack of local men eager to dance with you…)

I have so much more to tell you about, including the crazy and wonderful cast of character that comprises my new community (we are 5 strong now, with 3 still in the states)… but this will have to wait until my next update. Until then, please know that you all are ALWAYS in my thoughts and prayers, and I would love to hear who and what fills your days and your hearts. Know how much I miss and love you all, and how strengthened and encouraged I am to know of the wonderful work you are doing all around the world. What a blessing to be part of such a big, beautiful family of good-hearted people. Your support and your prayers are deeply felt. Know that I carry you with me in my backpack and in my heart, hoping and praying that your days and your hearts are full of good things.

with so much love,
Erin

“I am part and parcel of the whole and cannot find God apart from the rest of humanity.” - Gandhi

ps: I won't be sending updates very often - once a month or so - but if you'd rather not be on my email list, please don't hesitate to let me know, mark me as spam, etc etc :) These updates will also be available on my blog - http://erinramsey.blogspot.com - so if you'd rather peruse there at your leisure, let me know! Conversely, let me know if you're reading this on my blog and would rather get it through email. My internet access is much better now than it will be in Honduras, so I can take care of all those little details now before I get to the Finca.

st. stephen talk 2009

2009-07-15T16:32:00.002-04:00

During the weekend of July 11th and 12th, I was invited to give the reflection after the gospel at my home parish - St. Stephen Catholic Community - at all three weekend masses. Some of you had asked for a copy of my reflection, so here it is (the audio is available at http://www.st-stephen.com/homilies.html under the weekend of July 12th.) The people of St. Stephen have been unbelievably generous and kind with their support - what a blessing to be part of a community which has so freely reached out its arms to support one of its own. Thank you.

Partners in the Mission: Mark 6:7-13
Erin Ramsey
July 11th-12th, 2009

May and June are busy months for us. The end of school brings the joy of summer, complete with vacations and summer camps, Acts of Faith rehearsals and endless family barbeques. It also brings, as those of you who are recent graduates of any age know well – commencements.

When I was younger, I always assumed that this fancy word “commence” meant “to finish.” After all, graduation meant we were finishing school – we were celebrating something completed. I don’t remember when I finally figured it out, but eventually someone brought it to my attention that a commencement wasn’t an ending or a termination. Rather, this word “commence” actually means “to begin” – or, according to the Princeton online dictionary – to “take the first step or steps in carrying out an action.”

The idea of commencement is fresh in my mind. My own commencement exercises at Notre Dame took place earlier this summer, and while there was certainly plenty of excitement about the ceremonies themselves, I have to say that one of my favorite parts of the entire weekend occurred outside the realm of anything formal or organized. Late at night on our very last night on campus, many of my classmates and I gathered under Mary’s watchful eyes on the steps of the golden dome to celebrate our four wonderful years and bid each other farewell as we headed forth into the world. And as I hugged my friends goodbye through teary eyes, I couldn’t help but think, true to the meaning of the word “commence,” that we were not only completing something, but beginning something. That each one of them – like the apostles in today’s gospel reading – was being sent. Whether they headed for medical school or to a full-time job in a big city, volunteer service or back home to live with Mom and Dad for a while, it was so clear to me that each one of them was truly being commissioned to go forth and share what they had learned and how they had grown with a world deeply in need.

It is one of Notre Dame’s finest traditions that about ten percent of each graduating class commits themselves to a year or more of volunteer service following graduation. These seniors committing to serve the poor, marginalized and oppressed throughout the world are honored and sent forth in a beautiful commissioning ceremony on Saturday of graduation weekend. Each senior receives a small journal, walks across the stage, and shares where she or he will be serving for the next year.

“Hi, I’m Susan Bigelow, and I’ll be teaching middle school social studies and language arts through the Alliance for Catholic Education in Brownsville, Texas.”
“My name is Chris Labadie, and I’ll be working with liturgy and music in Clonard parish in Co. Wexford, Ireland.”
“Hi, I’m Katie Dunn, and I’ll be working with victims of human trafficking in India through International Justice Mission.”
“Hello, I’m Mike Clemente, and I’ll be living in a L’Arche community with people with developmental disabilities in Iowa.”

And the litany goes on and on. For almost a half hour, a stream of grinning graduates – over two hundred in total – walked across that stage and professed their commitment to serve those in need everywhere from South Bend to South Korea. It was deeply moving and beautiful and true.

Fr. John and Fr. George asked me to speak to you today because I am among those graduates who walked across that stage this past May. This fall, I will begin a twenty-seven month commitment to the Farm of the Child – a small, Catholic orphanage on the shores of Northern Honduras. I spent two months living and serving, laughing and crying and learning and loving at the Farm in the summer of 2007, and my experiences during those two months so deeply moved me that I’ll be returning this fall to begin a long-term commitment to the Farm and its kids. The Farm of the Child provides family-style homes to about fifty children who have been left orphaned, abused, or abandoned by the poverty and corruption so wide-spread in Honduras. In addition, the children are provided with good healthcare, the opportunity for spiritual development, and a quality Catholic education. My fellow volunteers and I will live in community in a small, simple house on the same piece of property as our kids. We’ll offer our gifts to the needs of the project as we serve as teachers, social workers, nurses, community organizers, and in a variety of other positions. Most of all, we will strive to love each other and our kids well, showing them that they are beautiful, valued, and a source of immeasurable joy in the eyes of God. I have no doubt that our work will be incredibly challenging, and we will stumble and fall more often than we would like… but I also know that, like the Twelve in today’s gospel reading, we are truly being sent, and that God will not forsake us in our work.

But lest you think that the only true missionaries are those who walked across that stage that Saturday in May… Let me tell you about Brennan, who is entering Harvard Medical School this fall with an interest in public health and a desire to find a cure for lymphatic filarisis, a disease which affects over 25% of the people of Haiti. Or Michael, who pledges to cling to ethical business practices as he begins his job as a financial consultant in New York City. Or Katie, who, just a few weeks ago, knelt at this very altar and professed her love for her new husband, John, as they begin their married life together. They, too, are missionaries. They, too, are being sent – to be God’s hands and feet and love and joy in this broken, beautiful world.

And make no mistake about it – you, too, are being sent. If you walked across that stage this past May, what would you say?
“Hi, I’m Jack, and I try my best to be a good father to my four girls.”
“My name is Sue, and I get up in front of a classroom of second graders each Sunday and try to teach them a bit about God’s love.”
“Hi, I’m Kevin, and every once in a while I try to sit with the girl who everybody teases at school .”

As Pope John Paul II exhorts in his apostolic letter on mission, each Christian is called to have a missionary heart – to share, in his or her own way, the good news of the gospel to those in need. Perhaps this brings you to Honduras, or perhaps it brings you to your desk at work. We are one body with many parts, united in mission – to bring a bit of the Kingdom of God here to earth.

My favorite part of today’s gospel reading comes directly from the first sentence. “Jesus summoned the Twelve and began to send them out two by two…” Two by two. Together – as partners in the mission – we work for the coming of the Kingdom, for the freedom of the oppressed, to make love visible in our own respective corners of this deluded, tormented, beautiful world we’ve been given. And what a relief this is! It’s not my job or your job to unravel the whole knotted mess of the world; it’s just my job to work on my small sliver. My friends who have left Notre Dame to do their sacred work in Brownsville, Ireland, Boston, India, New York and Iowa… they complete my ministry where I cannot, just as I will do for them in Honduras. And so do all of you. What you do, I cannot. Two by two – together – we complete each other’s Work.

I recall a letter I received years ago from a friend serving in Ecuador which echoes these sentiments. She writes,
… how many more Joyful Workers are out there, helping us in our efforts? How many more loving, holy people will I meet as I grow older? They are out there, loving where and how I cannot. Where and how you cannot. Have faith in them, and the world will never get the best of you. Yes, “the poor will always be with you,” but so will an endless team of believers.

Our world needs you. Our world needs doctors and lawyers, financial consultants and poets, priests and nuns and mothers and fathers, who will serve with missionary hearts - with courage, love and faithfulness. Whatever your response to Jesus’ call to make love visible, may you have the grace answer to answer boldly and well…. For we truly are one Body in Christ, and we all benefit when one member grows in faith and love and gratitude.

There is a beautiful song called “Partners in the Mission” by Peter Hesed that I love. The last two verses go like this:

We are partners in the work of Bringing faith and hope to birth;
Seeking wholeness for the broken, We, the hands of Christ on earth.
Like the saints who came before us, Let our deeds and witness be
Living promise of the Kingdom, and a sign of unity.

While on earth this is our calling; learn to bear the beams of love.
We are sent to live for others, sent on mission from above;
Though we tremble at love’s burden, It is easy, it is light;
As we seek eternal splendor, May our souls with love burn bright.

bienvenidos a mi blogcito!

2009-07-11T20:22:00.000-04:00

Amigos, familia, bienhechores, y los que yo amo:

Have no fear - I won't be blogging in Spanish :)

Bienvenidos y bienestar - literally, they mean "good coming" and "good being". In other words - welcome to my blogcito, my little blog, which I'll be attempting to update with stories of my adventures in grace from my 27-month volunteer commitment to the Farm of the Child in Trujillo, Honduras. I've been home from Notre Dame for just over a month now, and since I'll be leaving for language school in Guatemala a MONTH from tomorrow (that's August 12th, to be exact!) I figured it was time to get this up and running.

My blog's name is "love is little," and before I get too much into the logistics of exactly what I'll be doing for the next two-plus years, I'd like to take a bit of cyberspace to explain the significance of this name, which is two-fold. First of all, "love is little" is the name of the shaker tune on which one of my favorite folk choir songs, "Holy Manna," is based. Our choir director, Steve, was always quick to remind us that although these beautiful folk tunes were musically simple, they weren't easy. I always thought the name of the Shaker tune mirrored that concept perfectly - although our human vocation to love one another is quite simple in theory, it's far from easy in action... and just like our music, it requires diligence, patience, and lots of grace to get it right.

Another reason for my blog's name: The volunteer house at the Farm of the Child, where I'll be living for the next 27 months, is called Casa St. Teresita, named for St. Therese of Lisieux - the "little flower." She was a Carmelite nun (and a doctor of the Church!) best known for her "little way of love." Therese believed that God was (is!) everywhere, in the ordinary, simple details of life, and her "little way" teaches us to do ordinary acts with extraordinary love. Her faith and her trust in God was simple, as a child's - and seeing as I'm going to be surrounded by lots of those little kiddos during my time at the Farm, I'm hoping and praying that I too will grow in faith, hope and love as I learn from them and from Teresita's example.

So, you might be wondering - exactly what will I be doing for the next 27 months of my life? And with a Notre Dame degree in hand, why would I want to spend two-plus years not only working for free, but actually raising all the funds I need so that I can do so? I guess I'll start with the supposedly "easy" part to answer: the "what." I've committed to a 27-month long term of volunteer service with the Farm of the Child (or la Finca del Niño, si se habla español) - a small, Catholic orphanage just outside Trujillo, Honduras. I won't know my exact "job" placement until a few weeks after I arrive on-site, but chances are good that I'll either serve as a teacher, social worker, or community outreach coordinator. Although some people see it as strange to not know exactly what role I'll be playing in the project, I think it's actually one of the more beautiful aspects of what we're doing - my fellow volunteers and I don't sign on specifically to be a teacher, a nurse, or a community organizer, but we sign on because we feel a sense of identification with the Farm's mission and are willing and open to offer our gifts however they're most needed to serve the kids and the community. The Farm is a family-style orphanage, which means that our kids live in houses organized by age and sex with Honduran house-parents and staff who raise them according to Honduran culture. In addition to family-style homes, the Farm offers our kids medical care (with a clinic on-site), a great education at Escuela Catolica San Pedro, and the opportunity for spiritual development - and many of these services are available to our neighbors in local villages as well. The volunteers live together in a beautiful, simple house on property. We live like the kids live, and they live (relatively) like our neighbors live... we have (cold) running mountain water and electricity (most of the time), but that's about where the luxury stops. We'll be sleeping on thin mattresses on wooden beds and eating lots of rice and beans... and there's no cell phones or internet. I know I'll miss air conditioning, having a soft bed, and a good cup of coffee every once in a while, but I'm looking forward to learning how to incorporate simplicity, which is one of the Farm's four pillars (the others are service, spirituality and community), into my life.

And now for the more difficult question: the "why." The answer begins in the summer of 2007, when I spent two months at the Farm of the Child as a summer volunteer... two sweaty, challenging, grace-filled months in which I fell in love with the Finca's mission and its adorable kids. After many, many months of discernment about where my post-grad path would lead, I found myself continually drawn back to this place I have come to love deeply - its wonderful, hilarious, difficult children, the intentionality of its community life, and the seriousness with which it approaches simplicity and spirituality. One of my models of faith, Fr. Michael Himes, writes that there are three questions we should ask of ourselves when discerning. First, is there a legitimate need? Second, do you have the gifts to fill that need, and is there an opportunity for growth? and third - is it a source of joy for you? When I think about the Finca, my answer to all three of these questions is a resounding YES. In short, I believe it is the place where I can best make love visible - where I can best live out with joy my gratitude for all I have been given.

And third: the "how." Well, first of all, with a LOT of grace :) and second, with the support of all of you. Whether you're joining me for the ride through reading my blog, making a financial contribution to my work, remembering my fellow volunteers and I in prayer, shipping donations down to the Finca, or just promising to welcome me back into your lives when I return in December of 2011... you are part of the path that has brought me to the Farm, and I know your support will uphold and sustain me during the most difficult times of my 27-month commitment. Each morning at the Farm, in our beautiful, simple chapel filled with volunteers and children and houseparents and nuns, we pray for our "bienhechores." This word means "donors," but I love its literal translation - "those who do good." For all the good you, my bienhechores, have already done, and for all that is yet to bear fruit as a result of your kindness, please know of my deepest and my most heart-felt thanks. So gracias - thank you - for reading, for supporting me, and for following along on what will surely be a crazy-beautiful adventure in the little way of love.

May your song be loud; may it be clear; may it be long and may God bless you.

share in the journey!

2009-07-05T21:58:00.000-04:00

Summer 2009

Dear friends and family,

I hope and pray that this letter finds you well! As I write you tonight, having just graduated from Notre Dame, I find myself looking back with gratitude on the experiences and opportunities I’ve been given to grow in intellect, spirituality, and concern for the world and those I share it with during my four years here. Because of the deep faith and commitment to social justice I have developed in my time here, after months of discernment, I, along with four of my classmates, have committed the spending the next 27 months living and working at The Farm of the Child children’s home in Honduras. I’m writing today to share this good news with you and ask for your support as I begin this beautiful, challenging journey!

The Farm of the Child is a small, Catholic orphanage which seeks to respond to the poverty and underdevelopment of Honduras by providing loving, family-style homes for children left orphaned, abused, or abandoned. Volunteers such as myself join with Franciscan Sisters and members of the Honduran community to serve as teachers, social workers, community organizers, and in a variety of other positions. You may recall that I spent two months at the Farm during the summer of 2007 through the generosity of Notre Dame’s Center for Social Concerns. My experiences as a summer volunteer were incredibly transformational, and after continued prayer and discernment, I now feel God is calling me to live out my gratitude for all I have been given through a long-term volunteer commitment to the Farm and its children. I am incredibly excited for this opportunity, but I know that I cannot fulfill the Farm’s mission alone, and I ask that you might consider supporting my work in one or more of the following ways:

First, I invite you to find out more about the Farm and its mission by visiting our website at http://www.farmofthechild.org/. The “Mission Statement” (under the “Our Mission” link) and “Video Footage” (under the “scrapbook” link) are two good places to start! You can also continue to visit this blog, where I’ll attempt to post updates during my time at the Farm.

Secondly, I ask that you might hold the work of the Farm, my fellow volunteers and myself in your prayers over the next two and a half years. The commitment we undertake is challenging, but grace abounds, and the prayers of those we love from home allow our mission to become something larger than just ourselves.

Lastly, but significantly - as part of my volunteer commitment, I have agreed to raise just over $11,000 to pay for my expenses during my 27 month term of service to the Farm of the Child. By fundraising to cover my costs while living at the Farm, I will be able to provide services that the children desperately need without putting further strain on the already struggling local economy. If you are in a position to make a financial contribution, either one-time or periodic, the donation form posted below explains how to do so. Even a dollar or two for each month of my volunteer commitment is significant – every bit helps! The Farm is a U.S. 501 (c) 3 non-profit and all donations are tax-deductible. I have also posted a budget (below) explaining how the funds I raise will be used.

In Paul’s letter to the Romans, he writes of the church as one body with many members, with each member belonging to the others and each given different gifts for the sake of the good of the whole (Romans 12:5). It is in the spirit of this metaphor that I humbly ask for your support as I begin the journey to give love away at the Farm for the next two and a half years. I so very much believe that we are all Workers for the same Kingdom, given different gifts for the good of the whole, and that each of us works in his or her own way to complete the work of the others. I am so grateful for the opportunity to share the Farm’s mission with you, and eager to share with you the good work being done (and yet to be done!) there. I welcome your thoughts and questions as I begin my journey! Please be in touch!

In peace and gratitude,

Erin Ramsey
erin.ramsey.1@gmail.com

donation instructions

2009-07-04T22:08:00.000-04:00

There are two easy ways to contribute to my fundraising efforts.

Online Donations by Credit Card:

- Go to http://www.farmofthechild.org
- Click the Donate link at the top of the page
- Scroll down and click the Make a Donation button
- Enter your Donation Amount and click Update Total
- Either Log In to PayPal or click the link under the Don’t have a PayPal account? heading
- Enter your Credit Card Information and click Review Donation and Continue
- On the donation review page, click the Donation Instructions link and enter my name, Erin Ramsey (this is so my volunteer account will be credited for your donation.)
- Confirm your donation by clicking the Donate link

Donations by Check

Checks should be MADE PAYABLE to Farm of the Child and can be earmarked for my volunteer account by writing my name, Erin Ramsey, on the MEMO LINE. Please send all checks to the Farm of the Child’s stateside address:

Farm of the Child
1616 Nottingham Knoll Drive
Jacksonville, FL 32225

volunteer budget

2009-07-04T20:12:00.000-04:00

Farm of the Child
Sample Volunteer Fundraising Budget
August 2009 – December 2011

Airplane Tickets (travel to and from Central America and one trip to the U.S. during each year of service) - $2,400

Language School (transportation from Guatemala City airport, eight weeks of one-on-one classes, the cost of living with a host family, and transportation from Guatemala to Honduras) - $2,000

Insurance and Vaccinations (health insurance and typhoid vaccination) - $2,900

Preparation Costs (fundraising phone calls, stamps, envelopes, and copies for mailings, etc.) - $200

Residency Costs (cost to secure extended Honduran residency permit beyond the standard 90-day visa issued to tourists) - $300

Personal Stipend ($200 for every 3 months) - $1,800

Vacation Stipend ($250 for each year of service) - $500

Transition Stipend ($500 for each year of service to facilitate transition back to the United States at the end of my commitment) - $1,000

Total Budget for 27-Month Volunteer Commitment - $11,100

Any funds raised that go beyond what I actually spend will go directly to aid and assist projects at the Farm.

oracion de la finca - the finca's prayer

2009-07-01T11:59:00.000-04:00

The Finca’s Prayer

Lord Jesus, protector of orphans and all who depend on you, as we begin this day we turn our hearts towards you. We give thanks for the gift of your great love and for the chance to serve you in all that we do today.

We ask that your grace and mercy be poured out on our beloved Farm of the Child, on our children, on our house parents, on our Franciscan sisters, on our volunteers past, present, and future, on our board members, on our support personnel, on our benefactors, and on all whom we serve in Honduras through our various ministries.

As a member of this community entrusted with maintaining, protecting and strengthening this mission, I ask for the following in order to better carry out my responsibilities:

A humble heart free from the desire of being esteemed,
A meek heart that bears with everyone,
A patient heart happy in the most trying circumstance,
A peaceful heart at peace with self and others,
A heart poor in spirit detached from the things of this world,
A heart full of love that finds happiness in suffering with others,
A prayerful heart that loves to be in communion with you,
A holy heart whose only desire is that God may be known and loved by everyone,
A pure heart like Mary’s which seeks to love and serve God alone.

May we as a community be one in heart and mind so that we may help to bring about the Kingdom of God through your mission, Farm of the Child. Amen.

Let us seek Mary’s intercession by reciting one Hail Mary.

with dirty feet and a full heart

2007-07-30T20:24:00.005-04:00

a note:

faithful readers -
I've decided to post the email updates I sent from summer 2007 on my new blog. they're all dated appropriately, so you'll need to go backwards in time (scroll down the page!) to find my first letters. what follows is my last update of the summer, sent on july 30th, 2007.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

July 30, 2007

Los mas queridos a mi corazón,

And so, two months later, it ends… or as I prefer to think, only begins anew.

Two months ago, I packed up malaria pills and my Spanish-English dictionary, jars of peanut butter and a heart full of hope yet uncertain of what was to come. As our feet left the ground of Latin America this past Friday morning, my luggage- and perhaps my heart- was lighter. I now carry a plastic bag filled with hand-made goodbye cards, the great possibility that I have the "masamora" and/or "piojos" (look it up if you really want to know), Spanish that (while far from perfect) actually managed to receive a few compliments from locals upon our departure, and a heart llena de amor and full of gracias to the God who blessed me with such an adventure.

And an adventure it has been… an adventure to live deeply, to be rooted and grounded in love. I walk across the campo and breathe deeply the mountain air, letting it settle into my lungs and my soul. I drink deeply from the Cup of Life, knowing that is it He who offers it to me, who offers it to us all. I celebrate joy in the journey, as we never truly arrive, not even in a lifetime. As little planes jolt through cloud-brushed mountains, I smile and am reminded both physically and metaphorically that God's call is not safe… it is radical, it is dangerous, it is exciting… yet it is life-giving, and I am convinced that it is the best possible way to live.

The life of a summer vol at the Farm is often likened to a sprinter amidst a marathon. For two months each summer, two Notre Dame students come and pour out energy, laughter, and tears. We give what we can… and then we leave. To truly lay roots is difficult when faced with the knowledge that they will be ripped from the ground. Yet our call is to go deep… and so we do, and so we go, hoping and trusting that we have entered into life with the kids the best we could, that we have loved them well.

Our last weeks have been full. In a daring display of vulnerability, Nelly from House 2 asks me to try my hand at giving my first haircut (she pleads with me to shave it all… I decline). 6-year-old Marita from House 1 falls asleep in my lap on the cold, hard floor of the chapel during Holy Hour, her little lice-infested head heavy on my arm, and I recognize that He is as present in the sleeping child curled up against my chest as in the Eucharist before us. I venture out solo for a morning swim, stopping to breathe in the sacredness of the moment, alone with the mountains and the sand and the vast expanse of calm, clear water, diving down to flirt with sand dollars and popping up to greet a fisherman gliding through the dawn. We are graced with the visit of Karla and Ryane, two ND summer vols at an orphanage in San Pedro Sula, and delight in the chance to share stories and adventure. I roll out of bed at 5:40 am and join the vol community for morning prayer in the courtyard consisting of various flailing dance moves to U2's "Beautiful Day" blaring from our iPod speakers. I am reminded that playing "fútbol", while fun, is not my calling as I am utterly dominated by a team of 8-year-olds. I encounter sacramental moments as sister Claire and I belt Folk Choir songs in the back of the Landcruiser, as we grab running sneakers and head to the mountains for adventure runs, as we play capture the flag across the campo and I jump off broad shoulders during a night swim under a sky filled with shooting stars. I am faced with challenge and somehow filled with patience as I tackle a week and a half of teaching Alex, Sigri and Erika, better known as Team ASE, the three loving and fun yet extremely willful students in our special ed program. Topics covered: the solar system, telling time, and how to properly wash our hands. The latter included an actual trip to the pila to practice the hand-washing activity, in which I learned that it is generally best to supervise orphans when you give them permission to cover their hands and face with dirt and markers. Oh, the grace of laughter…

And then, in the blink of an eye, we were finished… showered with piles of hand-made cards, hugs from children and songs of farewell to begin the journey of coming home. And what a journey it has been. Luckily, our final bus ride went much smoother than the previous one, with the only incident being the recitation of a love poem to Cassidy by a sketchy yet humorous man about *this* close to her face. Sadly, we didn't catch all of the words, but we do know it involved going away into the night and beautiful eyes :) We spent our final afternoon in La Ceiba, where our journey began, in the presence of some of the most amazing, holy people I have ever met. Celebrating Mass with Laura, Kevin, Beau, Michael, Mark… one of the most beautiful signs of peace I have ever experienced… then celebrating life through the dare of chewing vitamins, savoring the taste of pizza, chocolate chip cookies and a game of Cranium in Spanish (funniest card: "Wonder Bra". Try explaining thatin Spanish to a Franciscian nun!)

So much holiness. So much life.

As we prepared to leave, soul brother Michael Downs suggested that we were sent out properly- by being prayed over. And so we were, right there in the foyer of that beautiful house where our journey began. Cassidy and I, back to back, surrounded by warm, sticky bodies of people who absolutely radiate, placing strong hands on our shoulders and backs. Earlier that day, as we sat in Mass, Michael leaned over, smiled and whispered, "You forgot to wash your feet!" I looked down and laughed, for my feet were absolutely filthy. Smelly. Ant-bitten. Dark brown with dirt. Calloused. And as we stood in that circle of faith and big feet stood gently atop my little toes, he prayed in thanksgiving for dirty feet. Feet that have weathered ants and mosquitoes, that have run bare on the spiky grass of the campo, that have walked the streets with the poor. Our feet will leave scarred… as they should. They are signs of work, of toughness, of a life loudly lived. Now they must venture out to continue to walk by faith, to "compartir", to openly and lovingly be changed and go forth to love and serve.

The Finca has in many ways "ruined" me… as I hoped it would. I now sit upstairs in my air-conditioned house in a comfortable bed, full of thanks for the opportunity to grow in love this summer and a newfound appreciation for the truly rich lives we lead in the States (most humorous retuning-home anecdote: seeing a cockroach in the bathroom in my house and my initial gut reaction being a literal verbal "awww!" because it reminded me of Finca life)… yet also full of questions about the way of the world (realizing that the aula I taught in for a week and a half is no larger than my parents' walk-in closet) and truly missing the 48 kids who stole my heart this summer.

And so, I want to leave you with my most heart-felt thanks. Gracias… thank you… for reading, for encouraging, for praying, for walking with me on this crazy-beautiful adventure of faith and hope and love. Gracias to my family, both here in the States and my brothers and sisters at the Farm; gracias to all of you, my faithful readers; and most of all, muchimas gracias a Dios who keeps us all together in love.

With dirty feet and a full heart,
Erin

broken and poured out

2007-07-07T21:07:00.001-04:00

July 7, 2007

You fellow free spirits,

Paz y amor from the Finca! I hope and pray that you all are well in heart, mind and soul. Another week down… another week of crazy stories, struggles and joys, and so much laughter. We continue to be open to moments of grace and adventure… to empty and be filled by our Abba who molds us carefully with His very hands.

Last week our kids were on summer vacation, and Cassidy and I took advantage of the break from teaching to take an impromptu weekend trip to the Caribbean island of Utila. It was everything you'd expect… a quaint little island full of divers, cheap hotels and a beautiful, totally free spirits. While I very much enjoyed having a few days to relax, snorkel, kayak, and eat non-rationed food, I found myself really missing the mainland and especially the Finca kids. There is something so absolutely beautiful, so slow, so "carinoso" about the heart of Latin America. After a pretty intense journey back to Trujillo (including a bus crash and subsequent hitch-hiking to town with two Columbian men in the back of a Camery) I couldn't have been happier to hop in the back of the Finca truck with twenty kids and two chickens (seriously) and head home.

Earlier this week, I was also victim to the "gripe" (don't worry, Mom, just a cold) which is a lot more fun to say in Spanish but a lot less fun to have without the comforts of medicine, air conditioning and cold things to drink. Luckily, I was able to ease back into teaching with just a few classes on Monday and Tuesday, which gave me time to recuperate. On Wednesday, we celebrated July 4 th in style at the vol house with a feast of "hamburgers" grilled on the fagon, potato salad, watermelon and sugar cookies for dinner. The simple pleasures of life…

And while I am immensely grateful for my freedom as an American, I am learning more and more about a deeper freedom… one that comes from knowing who I am in God's eyes. This freedom allows me to laugh, to cry, to sing, to dance, to hug children, to be so very real. I live freedom as I am utterly dominated in a game of "futbol" with the House 5 boys, as I sit quietly in prayer, as I listen to the sounds of children laughing across the campo under a star-spilt sky.

And we continue to grow in faith, hope, and especially love. C.S. Lewis writes, "To love at all is to be vulnerable." Vulnerable, indeed. We learn to put our hearts on the line daily as we open ourselves completely to risk to love. And so we risk, and often experience, immense pain… through dealing with a tough 5 th grader for an hour, through facing the reality of life for our neighbors, through seeing the deep sadness in a child's past. But love is patient and kind, and endures all things… so we cling to the conviction that love wins, and so we experience something so deeply beautiful. Before this summer, we were told about a "Finca flavor of love". There is, indeed, something special about this place… it is a place of brokenness and healing, of light laughter and salty tears, of simplicity and community and living life the way it was meant to be lived. I, too, am being transformed to love in this way. I open and empty, and somehow continue to be filled… by little voices that sing, little hands to hold, and by the everlasting love of my Father.

Thank you so much for your life-giving, hope-bringing encouragement and prayer. I feel the grace- His grace- being poured out on me as I seek to open, empty, and be filled, over and over again. May His freedom give your soul the freedom to sing loudly and dance lightly this week and always.

Celebrate life.
Erin

cuentos de aventura

2007-06-27T21:05:00.000-04:00

June 27, 2007

My fellow lovers of laughter,

It is Tuesday night here at the Farm, and extremely difficult to believe that our time here is almost halfway over. I am quickly beginning to realize that two months is not nearly enough time to even scratch the surface of this labor of love which has already captured our hearts.

Atop a greenish chalkboard in our 4th grade aula is written, "A day lived for God is a rare adventure." So many adventures, both big and small. The adventure of this summer, the adventure to give love away, the adventure of true openness to walk with God. I am learning what it means to live God's adventure with a heart that is completely and beautifully free.

A few snapshots of my free-spirited adventure:

My running shoes and chaco sandals carefully dodge stones, splash through rivers and sink into sandy beaches as I run, hike, and carry 4-year-olds through the lush, cloud-topped mountains. My stomach has held up remarkably well as I indulge in baleadas, topagillos, and plenty of rice and beans. Despite plentiful bug bites and a few strange rashes, my body serves me well and even enjoyed its first bucket shower this past week :) My "mente" (mind), though often tired, is stretching and growing rapidly, and was put to good use on Friday as I served as a translator for an international medical brigade from Arkansas.

Last weekend, I had the joy of attending my very first Honduran wedding, as the entire Finca community was invited just a few minutes down the beach to celebrate the "boda" of an old vol and her new husband. Dogs and two-year-olds plopping down in the aisle, totally off-key singing and a gorgeous sunset made for an experience that was pretty "diferente" but totally beautiful. Afterwards, joined by the oldest Finca boys, my fellow vols and some only-moderately-sketchy local Honduran men, I shook my gringa hips under the bright starry sky until the wee hours of the morning. I dance with light feet and a light heart.

Last night I wrote by the light of a single candle and listened to the sounds of explosive laughter and harmonies of voices singing alleluia resonating through our house which is so filled with geckoes and love. I joined the oldest boys from House 5 as they taught me to fish and hunt "cangrejos" (crabs) by the light of the moon. I sat by a campfire on the beach, was dragged into the sparkling water (fully clothed) and floated on my back with my Honduran brothers, looking at the stars and the cloudy sky illuminating the tops of mountains in the distance. Yesterday my soul sister Cassidy and I ran on the beach during an afternoon "tormenta" (storm), letting the cold rain pelt our faces and soak our clothes, diving head-first into the warm, choppy waters, yelling out to the mountains until explosive thunder sent gringa free sprits running, shrieking, laughing inside for cover.

And although my Spanish is far from "completa", I am learning to speak a far more beautiful language… the language of love. What does it mean to love as God does? What does it mean to love a child? It means immense vulnerability… and relentless forgiveness. I speak the language of love as 2-year-old Rosita runs to me with open arms and points to the moon… as little boys plop down in my lap… as I have a spontaneous post-dinner bachata-style dance party with 6-year-olds. They are my greatest teachers and the best part of my adventure.

And so my prayer is to be open to the ultimate adventure of dancing with the King, to learn what it means to love with reckless abandon, to allow my soul the freedom to sing of His marvelous light. I pray to seek His fingerprints in all faces and moments, to let my heart beat with the quiet reminder that this life is not my own, to pour out day after day after day, again and again. I am a work in progress, broken and poured out, yearning to sing long and loud and beautifully the melody the great Composer has placed in my heart.

Sing well.
Erin

so much grace.

2007-06-16T21:00:00.003-04:00

June 16, 2007

Hermanos y hermanas,

Peace and blessings from the Finca! Cassidy and I just returned from dipping our feet in the warm Caribbean, watching one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen … and then dodged a chicken to enter the Finca office to type our emails. Pretty surreal.

Today is Friday, June 15th, and it's hard to believe that our time here is already a fourth over. We've settled into the rhythm of Finca life here pretty quickly, and although this past week has been quite difficult at times, we are learning and growing in pretty amazing ways. I am learning to jump in head-first to this crazy-beautiful adventure, which is full of laughter and pain and hugs and tears and so, so much grace.

Teaching is a daily rollercoaster, and I really struggled with feelings of inadequacy this past week. Being here is immensely humbling, and I constantly question what I'm actually doing here. The language barrier continues to be difficult (pecadores = sinners, pescadores = fish… haha…) but is improving, and I feel myself getting more comfortable speaking and understanding both in and out of the classroom. The kids at the Escuela Catolica de San Pedro (where we teach on the Farm) can be wonderful, but can also be very, very challenging and really know how to give gringa newbie a hard time. I am learning the art of "tough love" in the classroom, but often come home feeling pretty defeated. My challenge is to love them intentionally in spite of and because of it all.

Yesterday morning, I taught a 5thand 6th grade science class on literally two minutes notice (we are learning to be quite flexible as well!). 5th and 6th grade has a reputation as the most difficult class in the school, and as I quickly and anxiously glanced over lesson plans, I prayed that God would be my words and actions for the hour to come. Sixty minutes later, I left the classroom with a smile on my face and only three words in my mind: so much grace. Ridiculous amounts of grace. Beautiful, soul-filling, life-giving grace pouring over me and through me.

I feel this grace tangibly in Holy Hour. Holy Hour is a sacred time on Thursday nights where the entire Finca community gathers for prayer and adoration, and is possibly what I love most about this place. Little voices sing loudly and off-key. Carlitos, one of the Casa 3 boys, falls asleep against the pew. Alex and Sigri clap off-beat. The Casa 5 boys, who think they are oh-so-"suave", genuflect before the Eucharist. And despite what may have happened in school or at dinner, how much Spanish I still can't understand or how empty I may feel… I love them for who they are and who God created them to be. So much grace.

This past week, I felt God's grace as I…
- learned "punta" (the traditional Honduran dance) at one of our boys' quincenaros
- indulged in mango and chocolate "liquados" (smoothies) and a game of MASH with my volunteer community by candlelight to celebrate the life of Claire, one of the most vibrant people I have ever met, during an intense Honduran rainstorm
- got into a bit of a fight with the pila (the system we use to hand-wash our clothes) involving some bleeding of colors… Pila 1, Erin 0.
- prayed the rosary with the boys in Casa 4… totally sacred.
- learned to make tortillas, Spanish rice, and tajadas from scratch
- spent the perfect rainy afternoon in bed with Nouwen's Compassion, a steaming cup of chocolate-hazelnut tea and my beloved journal
- taught kindergarten for a few hours, which included jumping rope, listening to 5-year-old Dajani singing "Danos la paz", and ending the day with "estrellas" (star stickers) and an "abrazo" (hug) from each smiling little ball of energy
- picked up a "perrito" on the way to morning prayer (pre-6 am!) and watched 2-year-old Rosita chase "pollito" (a baby chick) around the Casa 2 kitchen

So much grace.

Thank you all so, so, so much for your encouragement, your affirmation and your prayers… they flow in me and through me, and are passed on to the kids here who need them most, even when I feel empty. Life here challenges me daily, and I am comforted by knowing that I am being lifted up higher and higher to our wonderful God. May you all know His beautiful grace this week and always!

paz y alegria,
Erin

no subject

2007-06-10T20:54:00.000-04:00

June 10, 2007

Queridos amigos,

Wow… what a week. There is so much to say that I hardly know where to begin. It's truly incredible how quickly we have been immersed in life here at the Finca. This past week has presented immense challenges and incredible moments of grace. Life here is certainly not always easy, but it is quite blessed. I tangibly feel God breathing life and hope into this place and calling it all "good".

I know my last email was pretty rushed (email is quite sketchy here) and some of you may be wondering just exactly what's happened or what we're doing here. The run-down: Cassidy and I live in a house with about fifteen other volunteers, two bathrooms, cold mountain water(sometimes), plenty of geckoes and an abundance of love. To be honest, I've gotten used to the simplicity of life pretty quickly… hand-washing clothes, cooking all meals from complete scratch, thin mattresses on wooden slabs, roosters crowing at all hours of thenight. Our bodies are holding up quite well despite countless bugbites, lots of heat, our perpetual body odor, and a few strange rashes :) Neither Cassidy nor I have gotten too terribly sick yet, which is a huge blessing.

The volunteer community here is quite incredible… compassionate, faith-filled, idealistic young people with so much love to give our kids and each other. Living, eating, and praying with them has been one of my biggest blessings. From giving tips on washing our clothes in the pila to encouragement after an excruciating day at school, they have been a constant source of support for us, and I have been immensely blessed by their companionship through late-night talks on the beach under the bright stars of the Caribbean sky, lessons in tajada-making, and folk-choir jam sessions in the kitchen. Beautiful and bizarre and totally unique, all of them. How blessed I am to be their sister.

We're beginning to get a pretty good feel for the rhyme and rhythm of life here and jump into it quickly. I'm going to be teaching at the school most of the summer, filling in for random classes (mostly 3-4 Science, 5-6 English, and 6 Spanish) in the beginning of the summer and teaching the Special Education classes towards the end of July. Cassidy will be working mostly with the colegio (older kids). I have a newfound respect for teachers after my first day with the 5th grade this past Wednesday… I never thought a group of 12-year-olds could tear me down so much. The language barrier makes things difficult, as we teach entirely in Spanish, and the kids often are not as respectful of new "profas" as they should be. My class was given some pretty severe consequences, and I do have some pretty wonderful apology notes to show off to you all when I get home :) Amazingly, they were much more well-behaved the rest of the week. Teaching will be one of my biggest challenges, especially because my class schedule won't always be consistent. While it isn't exactly an excuse, I constantly have to remind myself that almost all of our kids come from broken, abusive backgrounds and often act out without reason. Each morning, I pray that I may be intentional about loving them in truth and action.

And I do love them… all of them, so much, in spite of everything. I frequently have moments here which are simply too much for words… moments filled with grace and love. I find God's alegria in the wide, smiling eyes of Honduran kids watching their four "profas" jump into the "posa" (fresh-water swimming hole) fully clothed after hiking an hour down the mountain back from mass, in the sign of peace, in knowing that we are all part of the Body of Christ. God speaks through beautiful Honduran sunsets, through the songs and games of the littlest girls in House 1, through my newfound family here at the Finca. I cling to these sacred moments. I am learning to love, to be small, to pour out to others.

For any of you who might be able to pray for me "por nombre" this coming week… prayers for continued health, quick learning of Spanish,and above all the grace to love would be so very appreciated. Know that I love you all so much... thank you for being part of my journey.

Open. Empty. Be filled.
Hug children.
Erin

la aventura continua...

2007-06-03T20:52:00.001-04:00

June 3, 2007

My dear friends and family,

Buenas noches! I hope and pray that you are all well. Cassidy and I have arrived safely in Honduras and have been living quite an adventure for the past four days. The Finca truly is a labor of love, and we have been immediately welcomed into the community by everyone here. I am in awe of the beauty of this place- the lush, green mountains, the Carribbean literally 20 yards from our front door, the posas and cascadas.

I cannot even begin to describe what life here has been like, and I don't think I should really try in such limited internet time... but I am in awe of the goodness of it all. My constant wrestling with the Spanish language... the beauty of the heights of the mountains... celebrating mass with the mountain community in Buena Vista... swimming in the posas... these moments of grace remind me of my smallness, that this existence is not my own. I have already been challenged in so many ways, and I know there is so much more yet to come... yet I also feel God's grace being poured out on me, and I know that it is only through Him- seriously- that I can do anything this summer.

Thank you for your emails, your prayers and your love. My email connection is sketchy and time is limited, but I will write more and with good stories when I can :) Until then, know that I carry you all in my prayers and my heart.

la esperanza y la alegria,
Erin

una aventura de la alma

2007-05-29T20:36:00.001-04:00

May 29, 2007

Queridos amigos,

Happy summer! I hope and pray that this email finds you well. As many of you already know, this summer I'll be spending eight weeks in rural Honduras (check it out on google earth !) serving at an orphanage called the Farm of the Child (Finca del Niño, for those of you who speak Spanish!) My amazing site-partner-in-crime, Cassidy, and I will be filling in for long-term volunteers taking summer vacations by teaching at the school on site, hanging out with the Finca kids, and living in community with the other vols. The Finca, in addition to being literally right on the coast of the Caribbean :), is an amazing faith community, and I look forward to being immersed in the four pillars of life: community, service, simple living and spirituality. Although I'm sure I can't anticipate the adventures that await us, I expect that our summer will be both extremely challenging and immensely blessed.

Our journey begins this Thursday as we attempt to pack our lives into rolling duffel bags and head into the unknown. Somewhere sandwiched between long, flowing skirts and malaria pills, my Spanish-English dictionary and Chaco sandals… I carry with me a heart full of joy yet uncertain of what the days and weeks to come may hold. I hope to keep each of you up to date on our adventures through weekly(ish) emails… if you'd rather not hear from me, though, please don't hesitate to ask me to remove you from my list, delete my emails, or report me as spam. Whatever :)In all seriousness, though, I am grateful for each of you with whom I can share the journey. I would so very much appreciate your prayers… for the entire Finca community, health and safety, the grace to love and sing and dance and walk daily in the light of our wonderful God :)

Please keep me updated on your own adventures this summer… I would love to hear from you. Know that you each are on my heart and in my prayers as well. How blessed I am to have you in my life!

May your song be loud, may it be clear, may it be long and may God bless you.

Un abrazo fuertisimo,
Erin

"And so my prayer is that your story will have involved some leaving and some coming home, some summer and some winter, some roses blooming out like children in a play. My hope is your story will be about changing, about getting something beautiful born inside of you, about learning to love a woman or a man, about learning to love a child, about moving yourself around water, around mountains, around friends, about learning to love others more than we love ourselves, about learning oneness as a way of understanding God. We get one story, you and I, and one story alone. God has established the elements, the setting and the climax and the resolution. It would be a crime not to venture out, wouldn't it?" – Donald Miller in Through Painted Deserts

ps: Some of you had asked for my summer mailing address. Just in case you want to write a real letter, you can reach me at:

Erin Ramsey
c/o Finca del Niño
Apartado Postal 110
Trujillo, Colón
Honduras, Central America