Las Rosas Praise Dancers Inside the Church Rail

By the Pittsburgh Donkey

of Beverly Heights Presbyterian, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Trip dates: July 2 – 8, 2011

From San Pedro Sula we rose into the mountains until we become part of the mountains themselves.  Smooth concrete ribbons gave way to jolting dirt tracks.  The harsh reverberations of the city were replaced by the natural sounds of the cloud forest.  Noxious diesel fumes surrendered to clear, crisp air.  The dizzying array of bright colors on people, structures and traffic were replaced by the subtle hues of green painted on mountain walls capped by swirls of white clouds.  City spices were transformed into the natural tastes of pineapple, chocolate and coffee in the mountains.

In San Pedro Sula and El Progreso we were enveloped by a sensual culture.  There was a buzz to life, but also death and decay along the highway.

In Canchias our hearts started softening thru smiling faces, energetic worship and testimonies of God’s manifest love.  We met local staff and summer interns with cashmere hearts.

On Monday, we climbed into an older world.  Traffic was replaced by horses and cattle in the roadway.  Housing stock became poorer and people’s stares richer.  Before entering San Luis and Las Rosas, we had travelled well beyond our comfort zones.

Two Rails

The skeletal church stood at stark attention on the ridge of a lush mountain.  The building consisted of 4X4 posts topped by a tin roof, wrapped by a wooden rail.  We stood in silence behind the rail watching young girls and teens dance to expressive, Latin church music.  The girls’ feet pounded across the dirt floor for half an hour.  Pastor

Pastor Alexander and Church Leader Donaldo

Alexander beamed at the children’s artistic offering to God.  Vivid flowers stood watch at every post, speaking of a people’s love for their Lord.

Within an hour we were replaced at the rail by the men of the mountain village.  They held vigil at the rail the rest of the week.  They watched the Gringos from North America and their Honduran teammates eat, pray, worship and work.  They watched their daughters worship God in dance – this time with VBS crowns adorning their heads.  They watched Christian brothers testify thru word and deed, and their pastor extol God’s greatness thru prayer, preaching and song.  They watched, and sometimes helped, as North American adults and teens and Honduran staff measured, sawed, stapled, screened, and nailed.  Finished screened doors were leaned against their sacred rail.

Our love offering of screened doors and windows were scattered across the ridge to the “Cooking”, “Purple”, “White” and “Green” houses and down the muddy road to the “Green/Pink”, “Hill House”, “Tan”, and “House behind the Tan House”.  Our handiwork was monitored by homeowners, horses, pigs, cats, puppies and barking dogs; and, most importantly, by the God of the universe and of all people groups.

In the afternoons, the villagers were lined two and three deep at a second rail lower in the town.  This rail ran alongside a three room, cinder block schoolhouse.  They watched God’s love flow from the North Americans/Hondurans thru crafts, Bible stories, music, bubbles, nail polish and soccer into their children’s hearts.  We prayed that they understood that our love for their children mimicked God’s eternal love for us.  They certainly understood something, as the joy in their hearts was expressed on their loving faces.  Tears leaked from our eyes as God’s love brightened the whole village.

The joy in our hearts also pounded on the second day of Vacation Bible School as we stood at the school rail and watched the children pour down the mountain with crowns on their heads and smiles on their faces.The children were ready to warm our souls.

Later in the day the men of the village came out from behind the school rail to accept new soccer balls, nets, pumps, needles and practice jerseys.  The “Gracias” from their mouths and smiles on their faces showed they too had been touched by God’s love.

A makeshift soccer field was immediately set up next to the church.  Gringos, HTH staff, Honduran boys and youth laughed and chattered as they played soccer side by side.  The view from the church rail alongside our Honduran brothers and sisters was amazing.

During each of the first two days, torrential rains had fallen at this time of the day.  Today, the skies were clear so God and His angelic host could follow the game.  The angels too had worked hard all week keeping us safe.

The Balcony

The ride to the orphanage took us past squalid slums where children emerged with snow white school uniform shirts and clean soccer uniforms.  The roads became rougher and our surroundings harsher.  The climb up the one lane dirt track past the cinder walls of the orphan prison was oppressive.  After rolling thru green, double decked metal doors, we were greeted by an abandoned, decaying watch tower.  The pit of our stomachs churned and we did not want to leave the bus.

We walked past the two orphanage guards who were busily chatting with friends on their cell phones into a bright courtyard.  We were informed that the rooms on the lower level were classrooms for the children aged 0 to 14.  On the balcony that wrapped around our heads was a walkway.  The children were locked in their rooms off this walkway, grouped by sex and ages.  This orphanage was a transitional facility, with most children staying less than a year – unless you or your sibling was mentally handicapped; then your stay could be much longer.  The Government never wants to separate siblings.

We were told there were two to three hundred children in the orphanage.  My heart cracked as my mind screamed:  “Excuse me, these are God’s beautiful creation, how can you not know how many children actually live here!”

My heart shattered into a thousand pieces during my first visit to the balcony.  Fifty-one boys ages 8 to 14 lived in one room off the balcony.  One of these boys was weeping uncontrollably on the concrete windowsill.  I could not see his face thru the wire mesh, but I knew that at that moment his life was totally devoid of any form of humanly love.  I prayed that he will find God’s love.

My relief in climbing down to the courtyard was palpable.  After watching first, a group of girls, then a group of boys, play act the Birth of Jesus, my heart began to mend.  We can’t save the whole world, but we can make a difference to a child for a moment.

I felt called to visit the balcony again.  I wanted to share in the joy of the crafts and teaching that was taking place in the preschool room.  However, I was not strong enough to be in the room for more than 30 seconds.  I was totally freaked out when the kids crawling around my legs wanting to be held.  I could not do it.

I sought the sanctuary of the courtyard.  It was good to talk to the volunteers from Houston who had spent several days with the children.  But, where is the bus to take us to the hotel?  I desperately wanted to leave, but God asked more of me.

Again, I was drawn to the balcony.  At the top of the steps a small boy greeted me.  God made sure that he demanded to be held.  I finally surrendered and obeyed.  The boy may have been mentally disabled or just totally starved for love. No matter how many times I asked: “Como te llamas?”, he never spoke a single word.  Despite the lack of verbal communication, he found love and I found a real heart.

The courtyard was hot and steamy upon my return.  My soul was also sultry – I needed to be on the balcony again.  On my prior trip, as I walked laps around the balcony with my non-verbal friend, I had seen several members of our team holding babies in the nursery.

Loving on the Babies

Upon entering the nursery I was handed baby Moises.  The room was cool and peaceful.  Every child was being held by either a member of our mission team or someone from a church from Dayton, Ohio.  Each of us sang and talked to our charges in hushed tones.  As our group leader aptly said, “We just loved on the babies.”

I was the last of our team to be torn from the nursery.  As I lay baby Moises in a crib, he softly whimpered.  Instead of hardening my heart, I smiled because of what God had taught me at two rails and on a balcony.  I knew Moises’ tender whimper were cries for Beverly Heights to return to Honduras.