We can be the change

They say that most of your service experience isn’t processed until you arrive home and allow yourself to see your old home with new eyes.

They say once you embark on a journey of service with a full and open heart, you never turn back.

They also say it makes you “ruined for life”.

So far, I would say, they know what they are talking about.

My last week in Jamaica was probably the most memorable week of my experience. Sad, sad, sad, it filled my heart with love, gratefulness, sorrow and excitement.

It taught me about the patience of a teacher, the love of a family, the faith of the strongest, the connectedness of humanity at the most basic level and the importance of being fully present in ones life.

I will miss them. I will miss the children. Their laughter, their tears, when they romp with each other. I will miss the school in all its chaos. I will miss the culture of community and the way you spark up conversation with any and all people you encounter. I will miss exclamations of “Bless Up!” or even “Whitey!” on the road. I will miss singing choruses as I walk children home from school. I will miss Lauren, Betsy and Michela who started as an amazing community, and now have become more like sisters.

I will miss Jamaica, but it won’t end here. Jamaica will always be in my heart and will be a constant reminder to me of the world that is out there. Jamaica will always remind me of the injustices around the world, and even in our own state, city or neighborhood. The forgotten children. The struggling families. The neglected elderly. The dedicated teacher. And now I am back in the States, ready to embark on this new journey, keeping Jamaica with me and knowing that little things matter. These injustices are within our grasp.

Cliché but true, we can be the change. I believe Ghandi to be true.

Thank you for being a part of my journey and experience this year through my blog. I started it as a way to keep those close to me updated on my adventures, and it turned into being a gateway to tremendous love and support, so Thank you! I have been blessed and have only wanted to share this blessing.

“Be the change you wish to see in the world”- Mahatma Gandhi

A prayer for Daniel

Sometimes I feel he has the world against him. One of seven children, this twelve year old’s family became one of my largest challenges in Jamaica it seems as soon as I stepped foot in their yard. Living in a one room board house without electricity or running water, the zinc roof spattered with holes for the rainwater to soak through, and the inside of the dwelling dark and moldy from the damp mattresses and clothing, the family of nine shares two full-size beds on a rotating sleep schedule.

The children are the troublemakers at school, starting fights, stealing money, bullying other children. They are, after all, a product of their upbringing. Their only known defense, to fight back, is often in full force and a result of being made fun of all their lives by other children and families for their smelly breath, dirty, tattered clothing, lack of lunch money, or untrimmed hair.

Trying to follow the advice of, "it's not right, its not wrong, its just different", I tried to see past the neglect, the anger, the hunger, and the community’s shunning of this struggling family by visiting with a smile and an open heart, regardless of the looks I would receive from neighbors as I embarked down to the “house”.

But something about Daniel has stuck with me. The kids smile is worth a million bucks. Every time I see him, that priceless smile sweeps across his face like a flash and I wish he were only a small child so I could lift him into my arms, embrace him and tell him he is special. He’s at the age where he thinks he is just so cool. It really makes me laugh, when he greets me with this handshake like I am one of the boys. He wants to recognize me, but doesn’t want to seem uncool to his friends, always trying to keep face. So I play along, chuckling all the while, at how uncool I feel playing this twelve year old game. Our hands collide with two flicks of our thumbs and he’s off in the opposite direction, as quickly as he came.

The other day I had an art project in mind for Grades 5 & 6. Using only scraps of paper and glue, I wanted them to use their imagination to create a picture. Incredibly apprehensive at first, Daniel sat alone until I practically dragged him to a small group of his classmates to work with. I kept walking around the class as their creativity grew, layering torn white pieces for clouds, assembling scraps as flowers, using their imagination as instructed.

I walked over to Daniel. He had made quite a mess, but cut up yellow paper into tiny shards and pressed them on a glob of glue in the corner to make a 3D sun. He had even ventured outside to collect small pebbles to paste onto the bottom for the ground, along with some grass. Each time I walked by, he lifted his paper carefully with that wonderfully innocent smile, so proud of his work. And I was surely proud too!

At one point while making the rounds, I thought of a way to make the pictures 3D. So I walked over to Daniels group, and there on his paper, he had added the silhouette of a man to his already unique creation. As I said, “I have an idea…” my eyes drifted Daniel pasting a single, thin scrap of paper from the mans torso to his forehead on one edge, to depict a 3D arm!

“You are just so smart, Daniel! I am so proud of you!” I exclaimed. His eyes lit up. I do not know how often he hears that and believes it. All the other kids came to look at his artwork, oowing and awing, ready to take some ideas back to their own creation.

Many evenings as I sit and reflect upon my life here in Jamaica, the friends that have become like family, the children that have touched my heart in a way I thought impossible from once strangers, my mind drifts and then settles usually on one. Lately, it has been Daniel. I pray for Daniel, and for all the children who are up against such suffering. I pray his creativity continues to grow and he perseveres without anger, but with resilience instead. I pray he always feels loved and allows himself to be loved. I pray this for so many children, like Daniel, who seem to have the world going against him.

Resilience.

I found love

Before I knew it I was weeping. Again.

It was Good Friday.

Just minutes earlier, I was standing in front of a child who was abandoned at the hospital upon her birth because of severe deformities. She was nearly three years old, but barely looked even eight months old. She was crib-ridden and helpless, lacking the ability to roll herself over or even touch her own deformed face.

There are sixteen of these abandoned children living at the Missionaries of the Poor home in downtown Kingston. I thought to myself, this is the type of story you hear about on a 20/20 special. The type of story where the riveting images stay with you for weeks and you mourn a child you have never touched, telling her heart-wrenching story to your friends and family, constantly counting the blessings in your life.

The brother tickled her arm. “See her smile through her eyes?” Her face was severely deformed, teeth where a nose should be, a split down the center, and a mass growing out of her head, seeming like a second head. “You can see Christ in her eyes,” he lovingly said.

Missionaries of the Poor is an international Catholic monastic order of brothers dedicated to serving the abandoned, destitute, diseased and mentally and physically disabled. They were founded by Father Holong, a Jamaican priest, in 1981 and serve in Kingston, Jamaica, Uganda, Kenya, India, and the Philippines. For a good article on these wonderful men, check out http://www.jamaica-gleaner.com/gleaner/20081116/out/out1.html or their website is http://www.missionariesofthepoor.org/

Now, I was standing in the streets of one of Kingston’s ghettos outside of the MOP Children’s home having one of the most profound spiritual experiences of my life.

The brothers took turns reenacting the Passion of Jesus Christ, carrying the life size wooden cross down the decrepit street in Kingston one at a time, stopping fourteen times for each station to be read aloud over a microphone for all in the streets to hear. It took an hour and a half. We walked in a procession of brothers, faithful community members, and mentally and physically disabled men, women and children in the midday Kingston sun.

The first time we stopped, each brother dutifully knelt right there in the middle of the street. Looking around, the brothers seemed to be kneeling on a cloud, peaceful, beautiful, mournful and reverent. They asked those who were fit, to kneel as well. I remember thinking, if that brother could endure the suffering of carrying that cross, the least I can do is kneel in solidarity. So I bent down on the uneven road, folded my skirt under my knees, and knelt on the boiling hot and rocky surface. There was mucky sewer water running down the side of the road, just inches from my Sunday’s best and I could smell rotting, burning trash. The pavement dug into my knees and the heat on the road scorched my skin. I remember being ashamed of even these mental complaints as I witnessed the very suffering surrounding me. The very suffering present in the reenactment. We were walking the streets of one of the world’s poorest and most violent cities, where suffering like I have never known, happens on the daily.

I remember looking around. The brother was holding the cross on his left shoulder, with another brother kneeling beside him with his hand resting on the cross. Dozens of other brothers were scattered in the road, their white habits contrasting against the dark and dirty road as they knelt as a symbol of faith, peace and love. There was an elderly man and his wife kneeling with their gaze set on the ground in front of them. She had to help her husband off his knees each of the fourteen times, with determination and strength in their eyes.

We sang choruses as we processed along the street, gathering children and adults on our way. " I have decided to follow Jesus...no turning back, no turning back..The cross before me, the world behind me..." rang loud in clear through the collection of voices in the street. And yes, there was the cross, right before me, as I walked along with tears strewn eye at the profound impact of this event. Jesus died for each of us. Whether you believe him to be the son of God or not, the beauty and strength in that man, to die by crucifixion, for those he loves, is an awing thing. I found so much sadness in the procession, but so much love as well!

I found love in the brother who carried the little angel of a girl the entire time, except to put her down to stand next to him as he knelt. She would just stand there, patiently waiting for her angel to pick her back up and hold her in his arms as they carried on.

I found love in the mentally disabled woman’s hand that I held to keep her on track.

I found love in one sickly man pushing another sickly man in a wheelchair.

I found love in the elderly man who unsteadily but purposefully stepped to the beat of the chorus.

I found love in children and adults on the roadside in front of their war torn homes who decided to walk with us, the crucified walking with the crucified.

I found love like I’ve never found it. And my chest still feels like it might explode.

It makes me so happy to know there are people like the Brothers in this world, who will sacrifice their life for the abandoned and destitute. Who will love the "unlovable". Without them, many in this world would be forgotten.

I felt in solidarity with a larger world. A world I've been thirsting for, yearning for. I was in solidarity with the crucified of today, of yesterday, of nearly 2000 years ago. I knelt alongside the brothers, I walked alongside the disabled, I hugged Michela as we both shed tears. I felt alone but in such a unity with the world. I felt purpose. I felt that we were all sharing each others suffering, as we processed down the street as one people. And I truly realized at that moment, through suffering together, we can carry each other so nobody suffers alone.

We each have our cross to bear, my blind 88 year old friend often tells me. (yes, the one I brought to the hospital the other day)

Oh, a life of privilege

Jamaica has free health care!! That should be good, right?

Man, I just got back from the hospital. A routine checkup for a nearly blind 88 year old friend (yes, I have a bunch of them) who lives in the village I work in had an appointment...so that should mean in and out, right? Back at home, I can fit a doctor visit in during a lunch break. Oh, the convenience.

The majority of the world does not live like we do...I am learning that more and more.

Privilege.

Since the last election, the fees for visits to the hospital and most medications were waived as long as you attend a public hospital or clinic. But the hospitals and clinics are understaffed, under supplied, overcrowded and even more so now than ever before now that health care is free.

This morning we left at 5:30 AM to reach the hospital before they started giving out numbers...you know, like they do at the deli counter. It was 6 AM and we got number 30...thirty whole patients in front of us even though we got there at 6 AM!!! We sat and waited, him in his wheelchair because he is blind and cannot walk anymore, and me under this outdoor tent that I am pretty sure traps heat more than anything..waiting and waiting and waiting.

The benches inside were jam packed. There were children of all ages in their school uniforms, a mother nursing her child, an elderly woman who was blind, a woman coughing a horrible cough. People everywhere. The outdoor tent held those who were more than ten patients away and who weren't in wheel chairs. There were a few occasions that patients started arguing with the security attendant, convinced the roster was being altered and other people were being favored and pushed up on the list. I mean, its possible and probably occurred.

I kept thinking about those who were waiting. The children are missing a full day of school. The parents are missing a full day of work. And these are routine visits, for like a cold or a strange pain. They are at a public hospital because they are already struggling financially...I wonder what another day out of work must mean.

Finally, at around 2 PM, my 88 year old friend had been seen by a doctor, obtained a prescription for his ailments and a reminder slip that his next "appointment" was on September 22, of course anytime, which means earlier than 6AM if you want to be seen sooner. He was exhausted! We still had to pick up the prescriptions, which meant a trip to another building on the campus to wait for another half hour for the medications, only one of which they had on hand. For the rest, we went to a nearby pharmacy to purchase the ones he could afford, which was only one out of the three.

All in all, it was a good day...he did see the doctor after all, which isn't always the case. But every time I bring people from the village to the hospital, the most surprising thing to me is that they do not complain about the wait. It is a way of life here...inserted into the routine of living...but oh so different from what I am used to. Sometimes I think about how that corporate executive or big time lawyer would react if given these circumstances without any way around it...if they couldn't buy themselves convenience. Or even the average American, myself included. Doomed to just wait and wait and wait. The people who are waiting should be the ones who are working to earn some desperately needed money. Who declared that money rules the world? Because money talks, right? Something just doesn't seem right...

Oh, a life of privilege.

Safety

I was sitting with one of my sixth graders, Ioca, on Friday. We were talking about the possibility of unicorns existing in this world. She was pretty confident they were on the highest mountains of Jamaica, and although I have never been graced with a unicorns presence, I certainly do not have evidence of their non existence.

She pointed to a small leaf. It was nestled within various other leaves in the "bush", as Jamaicans like to call it. As she extended her finger to touch the tiny plant, it clasped shut, only to reopen seconds later. Even the most slightest touch caused the leaf to quickly deny the world and retreat to its own safety, into its own self. Like a safety mechanism, right? I had never seen a plant that responded like this to a persons touch. But that is what it is, after all. A safety mechanism.

Isn't that what many of us do...with the slightest suspicion of closeness from a stranger, we close right up, claiming we are private people.

It's none of their business, right?

Or is it just a safety mechanism?

But what about the beauty that lies within?

I mean who is to say Ioca is wrong...Maybe unicorns are real after all...

Uniquely Perfect

I met a man this morning. He asked me if I was writing a book. I told him, "yeah..." and he said, "Well, aren't we all?"

The universe works in mysterious ways but things seem to work out

People of faith believe it is because God loves us. God delivers.

The world is just so beautiful...especially when people say they love you and mean it, even though you may have been strangers an hour ago

Great conversations are happening at this very moment. all around the world.

Because people are meant to feel. feel the earth, feel the air, feel the love around them. and talk about it.

And this world can be a better place, if we become committed to the better world...starting with how we treat eachother, how we love eachother, how we act around eachother.

I've been blessed in my life with my family and friends, who have made me feel so very loved and cherished and supported.

They make me feel warm inside. happy. loved.

You know, that kind of warmth you feel after a long day of cold rain
and just as the sun is setting you get a glimpse of the rays
as they gently touch your skin and you smile
because the world is beautiful.

Thats the warmth I am talking about.
Thats the beauty I am trying to explain.

Sometimes we encounter people who exert warmth and beauty
in their tiniest movements,
in their words,
in their stillness.

Their presence soothes. Their energy comforts. Their aura enlightens. They are warm. They are beautiful.

The make your heart flutter and you remember them for days. They are purely human for all of their humanness- The humanness that brings together and the humanness that tears apart. The humanness that is imperfect.

Then, in so many ways, perfect.

Uniquely perfect, that is.

Circles and Circimference

I taught grade six yesterday. A bunch of bubbling twelve year olds, not at all excited about circles and circumference. Even I wasn't excited about circles and circumference. But they have a huge country-wide test on Thursday and Friday that determines the high school they get accepted into and essentially much of the rest of their life.

They were laughing and playing throughout the entire lesson as twelve year olds do, until their teacher finally became frustrated and left, instructing them to get her when they were ready to learn.

I was sitting within earshot, curious to see their next move. Several children rose from their seats to resume the duty of the teacher, but soon realized they had no idea how to do any of the examples in their books and retreated back to their seat.

"Miss Amber?" I soon heard. "Can you come a teach?"

I rose apprehensively from my seat and made my way over to their table. Circles and circumference...how can I put this in twelve year old terms? So I jumped in...and they listened and still laughed and goofed off, but were actually answering my questions and actually learning!

Learning.

It was pretty much a Christmas miracle, as far as I was concerned...these children barely have pencils to write with, but despite it all, are still energetic, innocent and want to learn. And about an hour later, their teacher walked back in, relieved they were actually working and thrilled that they had learned the material. I had won them for the rest of the day, if I wanted them, she told me. So they were mine, and we talked about which high school they wanted to attend and why, along with more on circles and diameter. I think I even recall me saying at least once "Practice makes perfect" (thanks mom) and I never enjoyed the topic more. Their innocent energy made me laugh, but they also made me proud and impressed me, as they really tried their best, despite the issues of poverty they face daily.

I smiled as they celebrated a correct answer with a victory dance or kissed their teeth with an wrong one.

They giggled when I wiped chalk on my forehead. They also loved to continually measure their height against mine...me mostly being on losing end of that game.

But it was a beautiful day and refreshed me, despite the difficulty in keeping their attention at times. Nothing spectacular happened. It was an ordinary day in many ways. I just taught grade six. And I was happy.

Irie is what it is

Harmony. Peace. Love. Powerful. Pleasing. Excellent. Respect. Happiness.



Wow...seven months down...How did this happen? I simply cannot believe it.

So I want to live presently. I want to live in the now, but my mind is thinking about June...all I can think is June.

Our seven month anniversary was last Wednesday. Nobody verbally recognized that seven months has passed. Up to the six month mark, we would celebrate our time together. Now, we do not speak of the time flying by. Instead, we try to cherish the moments we have left.

I am leaving a month early. I was offered a job by UBS, an opportunity I couldn't pass up and unfortunately calls for me to leave before my community members. It is bittersweet. Right now, severely bitter as I imagine my last four months...hopefully I'll taste the sweet later, as an entire new door opens with possibilities I haven't even thought of.

I feel like life does this to you...just when you are feeling like you really get it...or are at least comfortable with where you are and what you are doing...even if that means a comfort in not knowing much...that comfort...gets ripped from you like a tablecloth from a set table. The table settings are supposed to stay put, but gosh that is hard! And sometimes they come crashing down, and sometimes just a fork falls, and sometimes, if you are skilled enough, you are able to keep everything calm and collected. I pray for the calm and collected option, but knowing myself, I am betting otherwise. If I know anything, I certainly know I feel enough for an entire village.

Irie is a rasta term. But I think it adequately describes my life here. I love my life. I love my pseudo family here. I love my friends and de pickney at school. I appreciate the conversations because I know the back-story. I love the children because I have met and love their moms and dad, brother, sisters, aunts, uncles and grandparents. I call to wish them happy birthday and happy valentines day. I miss them when I do not see them for a few days. I want to brag about the kids in Grade 1 who can finally write full sentences. These people are the first thing I think of in the morning, and the last thing I think of before I go to sleep. And I cannot grasp how in four months, I will leave this life I built here and continue a life I left on pause in Connecticut.

Have you ever stopped to watch a child write a story? It is a beautiful little miracle I think taken for granted...their creative intelligence.

When Elizabeth, my eight year old sister, read to me for the first time, I remember being in awe. When did she turn into such a beautifully smart little girl right before my eyes?

Was it overnight? It felt like one day she was sounding out words letter by letter...and then the next she was reading full stories to me before bedtime, or reading every single billboard or t-shirt she placed her delicate eyes on. The beautiful gift of literacy.

I have been working on a library at the primary school (grades k-6) the past few weeks. Most children do not have books in their homes, and the books in the practically nonexistent school library were water damaged and torn. The actual room was an overwhelming mess…rats, bats, bees and trash!

After some initial damage control with the help from some of the older kids, we cleared out the library and the old books were removed to make room for some donations from our very own book collection. At the sight of the new room with its colorful posters and new picture books, the kids lost control! They seemed even more excited about the project than me.

Grade 1 is my favorite grade. I love the age, they are mischievous but ever so lovable. And the beautiful miracle of learning is happening all around them.

I think back to the first day I walked into their classroom…a bunch of energetic six year olds who could barely write their name.

Now they are writing stories about Danny, a boy who fetched water for his mother. When did this happen?

Well, Grade 1 tends to follow me around because I spend so much time with them, so of course when I was up in the library, they weren’t far behind. Some of my favorite lickle kids would stand outside the locked grill like prisoners behind bars, begging, “Miss…can we come in now?????”

After a few minutes of this, of course they convinced me to let them in…isn’t that called having me wrapped around their little finger?

But I did warn: “Come in and have fun, but be quiet and no running about like crazy people!”

It was the cutest thing…as I unlocked the grill, they looked like you might imagine a child on Christmas morning…their anticipation bubbling out of every pore in their body, except these children were excited about BOOKS!

They ran into the room and scattered to the different stations I set up around the library…I could see their mental dilemma unfold as they were submerged into sensory overload.

Do I want a book filled with brightly colored pages?

Do I want to play memory?

Do I want to color one of the coloring books?

Do I want to play checkers?

These are hard decisions for a seven year old.

…or even a twenty two year old sometimes.

But they didn’t touch a thing…there was so much surrounding them, they were overwhelmed but so excited to finally be allowed in the library! They just sat with their hands on their laps, exploding with the excitement that “miss finally let them in the room!”.

I looked about and laughed, urging them to grab a book or game. Soon, all the children were exclaiming excited, “wows” and “oohhs”. News that the library was now open spread like wildfire and children trickled in until it was filled with children reading and coloring together. They just seemed so happy to have a new and positive learning environment that had so many new books!

The children have been a huge help and a lot of fun, helping me to sort through books and organize them on the shelves. A group has stayed after school to lend a helping hand wherever they can, which has allowed them to feel a sense of pride and accomplishment in helping to establish their school library. It has been a special project.

Witnessing the children's enthusiasm and even the teachers enthusiasm for this new project has really inspired me to stay motivated and put all of my energy into creating this positive learning environment that will benefit children who battle overcrowded and noisy classrooms and unstable family life on a daily basis. It has pushed my creativity in what I can do for these children, and I now find myself collecting bottle caps on my walks for my homemade checkers set.

Visitors!

Earlier this month I had the wonderful opportunity to spend a week with a courageous group of students from Fairfield University. Fourteen adventurous and loving souls landed on this beautiful island of Jamaica with open hearts and open minds, ready to embark on a journey that would open their eyes to a world beyond their comfort.

They were also my first visitors here in Jamaica. I hadn’t seen a single familiar face from my “previous life” in six months.

I was nervous to see them. How would I react? Would I cry? Would I be speechless? Would I feel out of place? Had I changed? Was I being over-dramatic?

Jocelyn, Jermaine, Erin, Steve, Jared, Laura, Catherine, Maggie, CJ, Mary, Sean, Matt, Shannon, and Kristen all gave me a breath of fresh air. It was refreshing to see these energized people so excited about this country and about service, both of which I have devoted a year of my life to.

A few days ago, my roommates and I visited Bustamante’s children’s hospital where the group from Fairfield had spent two days with the children in the burn unit. I was unable to share this experience with them during their week here, but the time they spent in this ward seemed to be the most challenging and heart wrenching for most of the group, so I promised to return to visit on their behalf.

Upon entering the ward, most of the children were napping, except for a teenage boy who was laying in bed in the fetal position. He couldn’t extend his entirely bandaged legs and he couldn’t even wear pants. He can barely move, and upon doing so, winces in severe pain. Even reaching for his tooth brush on the table next to him brings him to tears.

Perry has lived in the hospital since 2007 when his legs were severely burned in a house fire.

I remembered one of the Fairfield students talking about his day with Perry, and I asked if Perry remembered him.

“Miss, it was a boy with red hair…he was from somewhere with a “t”, right?”, he asked as he shared his tooth-filled grin with me.

“Yes, Perry… Steve went to school in Connecticut.”

Perry had a great personality and loved Harry Potter, which I thought was just fantastic (of course!) I tried to draw Harry Potter playing quidditch…he continued to color a deer in the coloring book, a task that was much more difficult because of his circumstances.

I helped him to eat his lunch, consisting of rice and fish, but the fish kept getting stuck in a tooth on his right side.

“Miss, can you help me get it out of my tooth, it is just so annoying!”

“How, Perry? How can I get it out? Should I ask a nurse?”

So a lot of my afternoon consisted of my trying to pull the fish out of his teeth with yes, my bare fingers, because he couldn’t do it himself. When that didn’t work, I would brush his teeth, with him encouraging me to “have faith…it will work, it just takes time”. I remember feeling determined to help him be comfortable, because he was just so uncomfortable…even if it meant sticking my hand into his mouth to pick fish out of his teeth.

Anthony is about three years old. He just lay in his crib, his entire head in bandages, practically unresponsive. I stood at the bars of his bed, my arm resting next to his, his tiny hand in mine, stroking his fingers and praying for him…I didn’t know what else to do. He was just so tiny and helpless. So innocent. I had never felt an urge to pray like that before. I just wanted him to know someone was there. I stood there, his hand in mine, for what seemed like an eternity.

A thought crossed my mind…and I wondered…what if…so I tried. I gently walked my fingers from his palm to his inner elbow, making slight “booping sounds” each time my finger tapped his scarred and somewhat raw skin.

After a few tries, I got a giggle. It was the most beautiful giggle! I did it again and got a heartier giggle. After a few minutes, he was moving around a little more…and a little more…all the while, giggling here and there. I thought there was a smile…he was surely making noises now too, I thought maybe it hurt him to speak.

Lauren came over and we sort of put on an animal show, at least with sounds. And before we knew it, we were helping him to stand in his crib! We asked a nurse if we could take him out to play, and then he was free at last, running around the room, his tiny bandaged heard bobbing up and down, his scarred legs scampering about and his splinted arm lying stiffly out to his side. A little bundle of life with an inspiring energy, bubbling about. I felt so grateful.

Thinking about them now, I miss them.

CHRISTMAS!!!

C*H*R*I*S*T*M*A*S
If I have learned anything this Christmas, I have learned that Christmas is the busiest time of year for a volunteer. We have certainly been busy.

• Serving lunch for 270 inmates at a local prison: 4 hours
• Packing 200 food bags for needy families in the missions: 2 days
• Baking 400 sugar cookies to be given as presents to families in the church (thanks for the recipe Dad!): 6 hours
• Gift wrapping 400 presents for needy children in the missions: 6 hours
• Serving Lunch for 100 men who are mentally or physically challenged and live in a home run by Missionaries of the Poor: 4 hours
• Distributing presents and lunch to children with disabilities and the community surrounding the home on Christmas Eve: 5 hours
• Driving around lost to find the home we were invited to on Christmas Day: 1.5 hours
• Celebrating Betsy’s birthday by hiking 14 miles to Blue Mountain Peak in the pouring RAIN at 2 AM: 8 hours (And it was COLD!)

Choosing to live in a tropical developing country with an 80 degree Christmas: Priceless

Haha yeah, I just did that.






Twenty food bags are distributed every month to each of Immaculate Conceptions missions. Each bag usually has about 4lbs of rice, 1 lb of beans, powdered milk, tin beef, flour, sugar and any other food items available through donation. The effort is launched by St. Vincent de Paul, a society dedicated to helping the poor all over the world. The more help available for packing out the food bags the better, and since we know most families in the church personally, we are able to really lend a hand in this incredibly daunting process. For Christmas the donations are plenty. For example, in just rice, we packed eight hundred pounds into smaller bags to be distributed as a special Christmas treat. The people who receive the bags depend on them monthly as they are distributed, and especially around the holidays when money is especially tight.




The other volunteers and I organized a Jesse Tree at Immaculate Conception Church to collect presents for the children in the missions where we work. Many of the children in these villages will not receive presents for Christmas, so through the Jesse Tree and other generous donations, we were able to gift wrap a present or each child who belongs to the church! It took a VERY long time to wrap over two hundred presents and our living room looked like the North Pole, but it was so fun to be able to sort through all of the donations and hand pick toys for each child that see almost every day and now know very well. Handing them out at mass was even better. The kids had no idea they were getting presents, so to see presents gift wrapped in pretty paper (which is extremely rare) was a HUGE hit. I seriously think that we could have wrapped up a rock…the gift wrap made the present that much better and so I know our hard work was not done in vain!

I have also been doing Prison Ministry once a week with another Catholic Church in the area. We usually read a bible verse and then break into smaller groups to talk because these men rarely have a chance to be listened to. The Friday before Christmas we prepared meals for each of 270 inmates at the prison because they cannot have visitors on Christmas. Upon our arrival, you could feel the energy of the place begin to lift. The group of about 30 men that come to our weekly meetings, or “our guys” as we like to call them, call out to us by name just to wave or shake our hand and give a friendly smile as we pass by. As I handed out the drinks with an inmate friend, Ony, I recognized faces that have now become familiar after five months, and ask how I am doing. Ony directs me as I hand out the drinks, and I find my mind wandering to a realization that I am inside a Jamaican prison, assisting a Jamaican prisoner in handing out drinks to other Jamaicans who are in here for some sort of crime. And I am having fun. Hm…

After lunch, a bunch of the inmates hung around and sang Christmas Carols led by Ony over a microphone. My heart warmed as they all rose to sing, “We wish you a Merry Christmas” after a heart wrenching thank you and loud applause. As we walked away, out of the prison bars, away from that dreadful place, to our comfy homes, I felt truly sad for them, because you could see the sadness in their eyes, as they continued to wave every time I looked back. Maybe they felt a resemblance of family in us, even just a little, for those few moments. I hope so at least.

Then on Christmas Eve I went to the Home of the Beatitudes, run by Father Holung and Missionaries of the Poor. Father Holung is certainly a fantastic man. Missionaries of the Poor- look them up…they are awesome and give me hope that love does run the universe after all.

Well, Father Holung has several homes in Jamaica, I think three in Kingston and then one in the hills called the Home for the Beatitudes. The way I understand it, is as long as Father has room, he will take anyone in need. He has even been known to drive around and pick up people off the street. The Brothers, who come from all over the world, work in the homes and take care of the residents. The homes in Kingston are for men with disabilities, women and children with AIDS, and an orphanage. The Home for the Beatitudes, where I went in the hills, is for children with disabilities. So he basically cares for the abandoned. And if this isn’t enough, the areas Father Holung builds his homes are always the most destitute, so he helps the surrounding community as well.

On Christmas Eve morning, I went to the Home of the Beatitudes for a huge Christmas celebration for the families in the area. Over 200 people of all ages gathered for a free meal as children participated in dance contests and singing contests to win a Christmas gift. No child left without a prize. We were dancing and singing and eating literally on top of a mountain. Children were smiling, and parents were cheering. Some of the children from the home that were able to walk even came outside to participate in the celebration! It was wonderful. After lunch, there was a procession with the disabled children up to the retreat house, where each received their own gift wrapped present. This is surely what Christmas is all about.


And oh yeah…On the 23rd I slept in a Rasta’s board house without electricity and hiked seven miles up and seven miles back at 2AM in the pouring rain to the top of the highest peak in Jamaica: Blue Mountain Peak. Yes, the trail turned into a muddy river and it took eight hours and no, we didn’t see the sunrise or Cuba, as the guidebook said we would. But, we did get blisters on our feet and soaked to the point where we could wring out our clothing. I think my roommate said it was the worst day of her life. I would do it again, though…just never again in December. Haha

Choco-latte!!!! mmmmmmm

That is how I say chocolate while I am making it....

So I went to visit Miss Vera the other day. When I got there, she was roasting some chocolate to make into chocolate nuggets to sell for chocolate tea. Mmmm

So of course, I helped her as we chatted, a common weekly occurrence these days and she came up with this glorious idea to test me to see if I have been learning anything these past few months. What a task: Could I possibly make the chocolate myself, starting right from the bean on the tree, when just five months ago I had never even seen how chocolate grew?

Step 1: Pick the pod off the tree, cut open, and suck the sweet casing off the bean as a bonus treat before the chocolate dries out…apparently it is a huge hit with the kids too…an all natural candy…mmm

Step 2: Lay the beans to dry in the sun for a few days until all the gook (for the lack of a better term) dries off.

Step 3: Parch the beans over an open fire in the bush. Thankfully, I had Frank there to help me get the fire started.

Step 4: Once the beans are blackened, shell them into another bowl

Step 5: Mash the shelled beans with some grated nutmeg, two cinnamon leaves (both given to me by Miss Vera from her yard) until they produced their own butter to mold into the nuggets below.

Step 6: Once dried, these nuggets can be grated into boiling water with some milk, sugar and an orange leaf to make delectable chocolate tea, the Jamaican way! :)