When you decide to go to Honduras 2008

I had heard several great stories from my parents, and friends about mission trips, but nothing prepared me for my first mission trip to Santa Barbara, Honduras. While I was excited to travel to and work with people from Honduras, I was also scared. So many thoughts were passing through my mind. Would I get sick from the food and drink? Did I need to worry about my things being stolen? Was there a lot of crime where I was going? Getting prepared for the trip made me feel uneasy, but for some reason I felt impressed to go by God. Arriving at the airport in Honduras was a culture shock. For the first time in my life, I was considered an immigrant. Toilet paper wasn’t supposed to be flushed, but instead placed in trashcans, and everyone spoke Spanish, except for other people who were on mission trips like myself. Not only was I in a state of astonishment, but it also seemed as if things were off to a bad start. I realized I only knew my dad and Pastor Vladimir from the people who were going on the mission trip, and more importantly, my luggage was nowhere to be found.  In some way it seemed that my fears had come true, and already I was making a count down for when the trip would end. After getting ourselves situated, the members from the group and I all headed to the nearby orphanage, the place where we would be spending a lot of time, and having our meals. As we walked up the entrance to the orphanage, kids were running and greeting us. They called out the names and hugged returning people from the previous mission trip. They were so cheerful and happy to see us, and yet I felt awkward. I didn’t know these children and felt like I could hardly communicate with them, because my Spanish was so rusty. Still, they were willing to talk to me, and involve me in their games. With no time wasted, the next day we started on a project building a high school adjacent to the Modelo elementary school. We had to sift dirt, to remove large rocks. Then the dirt had to be mixed with cement powder and water, and placed in buckets. The buckets would then be sent to people who were building the walls of the high school with cement blocks. This would occur almost everyday. We had a daily schedule that would consist of eating breakfast around 6:30 or 7 a.m., working until lunchtime, heading back to the orphanage to eat, returning to the worksite until 3 p.m., taking showers and cleaning up, and then most of the afternoon and evening spending time with the kids. It was hard work and tiresome, especially when working in the heat of the day. Then after all the labor and being weary, we were to hang out with the kids, which at first, was tough for me. I was immersed into a new culture, and way of life, and felt a bit out of place. Gradually, those feelings all changed, and when I think about it now, it was all worth it. I learned so many things, bonded with, and gained and shared so many experiences with people. In general, I gained a better appreciation for my life and just the small things we don’t really think about as important. For instance, the supplies utilized to construct the high school, were not the best. Even after sifting the soil, there were plenty of small stones and pebbles that remained. Dirt had to be mixed and filtered by human hands in Honduras, while in the U.S., we have machines that do that for us. What hit me the most was that, I knew there were better quality materials that could be utilized and that there are appliances capable of performing all the work done manually, but the people we worked with to build the walls, and who do that work for their livelihoods, may have never known what I knew. What they did, and the supplies they used, was all they knew. They worked hard all their lives in that profession, just to make enough money to support their families. It was a realization that even when I may think I have it tough at times, I can’t even comprehend or fathom the meaning of that word, when I compare my life and lifestyle with those men who were working so diligently and happily on the wall for the high school. One day our group took a break from working, went into town to see the local hospital. The hospital was not very large, but nonetheless was filled with a great quantity of people. There were sections for women, men, and children. As I walked though the women’s section, I felt humbled. Ladies were in small cots lined close to each other in one medium-sized room. There white sheets of paper taped onto the walls above the patient’s heads, displaying their names and birthdates. Some women weren’t fully clothed. Visitors had to squeeze into the tight quarters just to visit their friends and family members. Many patients looked so ill, and in pain, while having to lie in beds in front of other patients and visitors; there was no privacy. In the U.S., a hospital would not be allowed to prosper in such conditions, and yet in Honduras that was the best that could be provided. It was so hard for me to see people in such a state, when I have been so used to privacy and care provided in the U.S.     The greatest lessons I learned were from the children and members from the mission trip group. As mentioned previously, most afternoons we would stay at the orphanage. Initially, while I wanted to form friendships with these children, I was ill at ease. I was afraid to speak Spanish, for fear of sounding dumb. I was thinking of myself, and not of the kids. I soon discovered all that the children wanted was someone to talk to, and someone to listen, and play with. I heard stories of what some children had been through, like being beat with sticks, and going hungry. I listened to accounts on how some kids were not orphans, but since their parents did not want them, the orphanage took them in. I discovered how several of the kids did not know the year they were born, and that their birthdays were not celebrated because that would be too costly. I saw the sleeping quarters of the children, which had cracks in the walls. I watched as the kids played jacks with rocks, played soccer barefoot, and used machetes to cut grass. What I also heard was the joyous and loud singing of hymns, and praise songs to God every evening during worship from the kids. I watched as so many children wanted to volunteer to pray. I saw the thankfulness and happiness of having a place to live, a bed to sleep on, food to eat, and having an opportunity to go to school held by the children. I experienced how the kids just wanted you to sit next to them and hold your hand. I felt the excitement that they also felt when they had a birthday party for the first time, and the thrill of receiving small bags of gifts. The children had so little, and at the same time had so much. They didn’t have a bunch of clothes or toys, but they had a lot of love to share and give. They were witnesses to me. They had already been through so much, and yet they were happy to praise God and for the most part so happy. I fell in love with them.     I didn’t care that my luggage was missing anymore. God even blessed me in that friends from the group were nice in letting me borrow clothes, and other necessities. Also, I eventually did get my baggage back. I wasn’t worried about not knowing people from the mission trip group anymore, because they had all become my friends. I gained friendships with people I hope to never forget. I stopped counting down the days when the trip would end, and instead wished I could stay longer. My fears had subsided, and all my previous worries seemed so trivial. I went on the mission trip to Honduras to help make a change and a difference, but instead I came back changed. In addition, I learned so many things, much more than I could ever write or say. I saw how God had blessed and worked in the lives of so many people, bringing them such joy despite the odds. My experience is something that was unexpected, because I didn’t think I would be so affected, but it is one I will always cherish. I thank God for impressing me to go, and I would go back in a heartbeat to Santa Barbara, Honduras. This was my first mission trip, but hopefully not my last.   Elizabeth Rodriguez