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! :)

Love, Love, Love

I would like you to meet some of my loves here...
Father Lucian and I. He started this program six years ago after many long years of preparation. He also started a sister program in Honduras four years ago. He is certainly my favorite Passionist Priest, even though I have been known to forget he is a priest and then when he prays, think out loud, "wow..he would really make a great priest!" hahaha






Monsignor Richard Albert...He started the St. Patricks Foundation and is committed to those living in poverty in Jamaica since 1976. He is a wonderful man and huge support for us!




Yes, this was while we climbed a waterfall in Ocho Rios for my birthday- quite an exhilarating and hilarious experience! We had to hire a guide so he could take fantastic pictures such as this one, as we climbed the falls holding hands haha It was certainly a community bonding event!






I had my favorite first grade class make butterflies out of coffee filters and plastic straws....it was quite a hit!! The kids love to use their creativity to make the most beautiful butterflies and then toss them around in the wind as if they were real butterflies. Here is Leroy, Rashawn, Oshi and Kimani cheesing away with their prized works of art :)





Attempt #1 at taking a picture at mass with the kids....They sure do brighten my day!



And here they are, cheesing away!






Here is Jordan, one of my favorite twelve year olds...he always takes my camera and snaps the best random shots of the kids playing, so here is a shot of himself as a change... all the fifth and sixth graders think its hilarious that they are are almost my height...hmmm









Latifah is such a beautiful and graceful young woman...she is only thirteen but acts much more mature!



Dressed in their very best for mass...sooooooo cute!





A day trip in Port Antonio...the waves were huge and the wind was sooooo strong! I loved it!




My community at the Pelican Bar in Treasure Beach....yes, a bar in the middle of the ocean. We had to take a boat out to it, where we swam and relaxed for the day as a part of our first community retreat.






Cutest bow tie EVER!!!



Yay for crazy hat day!


A couple of the church ladies chipped in and bought me an incredibly yummy birthday cake that I had to pose with for a million pictures....it said "HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMBER. YOU'RE SWEET!" Haha they are too good to me!!



I watched the birth and death of a rainbow the other day while waiting for a bus...needless to say, I was waiting a while...but it was so beautiful to see its life from beginning to end. The weather here is amazing...to my left was the brightly shining sun in the bluest of skies, and to my right was a gray horizon, accented with a rainbow as i got poured on...hmmmm


Devon Pen Primary and Basic School....where I work all week...in the middle of the jungle wayyyyyy up in the hills. This is a view from one of the kids houses. The children walk everyday to school and home again from here, luckily there is a short cut through "the bush"...no wonder why they do not out in the rain.



A zoomed in version.....

Prison Ministry

This is a picture of the Devon Pen church I work out of. It is one of the four mission churches of Immaculate Conception Church and has become a symbol of simple beauty and a source of peace for me. Before mass, I'll play catch with the children using an unripe tangerine plucked from the tree or we will play football (American Soccer) with an empty plastic bottle filled with dirt...and I have never had more fun...Boy is this country weaseling its way into my heart...


I have never been to an American prison, so my first time in a Jamaican prison was a little intimidating, and very thought-provoking. My second time in a Jamaican prison scared the crap out of me, but then helped me clean the mess I made in my pants (not literally guys….geez) Let me explain…

On Friday’s I have been doing Prison Ministry with a local Roman Catholic Church not far from my house. The first week Betsy and I went with the group of about four to Tambourine Farms, a mens medium security prison, to bring encouragement, hope, and faith to those in need of rehabilitation. We go with a group of people who have been ministering to prisoners for about a decade: mothers of inmates who have been wrongfully imprisoned, a priest, and a former prisoner who has since been rehabilitated and is a positive presence in the community.

The second Friday I went, Betsy and I were given the opportunity to go to St. Catherine’s, a mens maximum security prison instead. On the way there, we were told that this prison would be a bit more intimidating than what we had experienced the week before. No problem, I was sure it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.

I can honestly say I wasn’t too concerned until the wardens let us into this dimly lit bypass to search our things before letting us on the actual grounds. The guards were intimidating. The damp, musty air felt heavy. They looked through our bibles and held guns the length of their arms at their sides. Their uniforms looked stiff and their faces, serious. There was an energy in the air that made me feel as though time stopped and happiness was foreign and rare. (For you Harry Potter fans…think Azkaban with the dementors…I really pictured it!) As I stood there with Betsy, three other women and a priest, surrounded by prison wardens, I felt like that moment of my life was taken from a clip straight out of a movie like Con Air (or Harry Potter haha).

I volunteered to come to this place, with guards holding God knows what kinds of guns that are longer than their arms, to talk with prisoners…some there for life for armed robbery, for murder, for rape, and God knows what else. This is what kept running through my mind…I volunteer for this…oh my…

We stood in this dark bypass room, inside the prison walls but not yet in the prison, in front of this huge gate with thick scary bars and men looking in at us with faces of hopelessness and imprisonment, like caged animals. The warden told us to form two lines, stick close, the gates were unlocked and we walked in. Time seemed to stop and I kept imagining these men not as men, but as bad people because that is the energy the place was sending into the world. How can someone rehabilitate in a place like this?

I felt like a prisoner myself. Betsy was to my right and my first instinct was to grab her hand because the fright and intimidation was taking over my body. We walked amidst hundreds of prisoners, some calling out to us just to say hello, some blurting profanity, and some paying no mind, occupied with their football games, conversation or time to themselves.

I was afraid to look any in the eye at first. Like they could harm me if we made eye contact. I looked only straight ahead, apparently uncomfortable. Its strange how looking someone in the eye can make you feel vulnerable.

I saw them immediately as prisoners. I blocked them together as scary, intimidating, and sinful. There were hundreds of them and maybe eight of us with a warden marching in two lines to the chapel.

We sat close, and I took a second to look around me. I saw the other women we came with waving, smiling, acknowledging the prisoners as people, or even as friends. Today, the prisoners were putting on their annual crusade and we were part of the audience.

The crusade was beautiful. The prisoners sang to music performed by other prisoners. Some gave testimonies of God in their life and their newfound faith of life and hope. A woman who had previously been imprisoned preached about purpose. A prisoner brought us all flowers he had picked from a nearby garden and wished us a pleasant day. It was a moving performance.

Watching and witnessing men who have been accused and are serving time for serious crimes come together and sway in chorus about their love for Jesus and their new found life is beautiful.

Rehabilitation.

I realized as we were leaving, my intimidation had somehow disappeared. It was then that I saw these men not as prisoners, but as fathers, brothers, sons and friends that made serious mistakes and are lacking love, support, and acceptance. Perhaps even victims to their society.

I cannot help to think that they were once children. They were once innocent children like the children I teach every day in the missions that I try to love and hug and care for any chance I get. Because somewhere in their development, something went wrong. The prisoners very well may be a product of a society that has lost its way and needs to be coached back.

As we left, they approached us to shake our hands, and thank us for showing our support. I no longer felt scared, though. They had been humanized in my mind and were no longer “prisoners”. I believe in rehabilitation because I witnessed a small sliver of it in a place I never thought I would. And I believe spiritual nourishment is an essential part of this rehabilitation. Because we are all human, and we all need each other. These men, some who are even wrongfully imprisoned, need to know that someone is looking at them as the person they are, with dignity, instead of the person they seem to be, the prisoner, which is a label so easily placed and not easily forgotten.

It made me reflect on how often people are labeled as one thing or another and what this essentially does to the self esteem or dignity of the person.

These men ultimately are fathers, sons, brothers and friends and they have sinned. We are taught to forgive. We need to forgive.

Blessed

Every Sunday the women and children at my mission mass sing and clap to the very familiar chorus so it rings loud in my ears ...

I am blessed, I am blessed...everyday of my life I am blessed.

When I wake up in the morning, and I lay my head to rest...I am blessed..I am blessed.

I don't know if it is the beauty in this country or the passion in their voices, but I truly believe it.

Boy can it rain in this country. It rained from Monday night until Saturday morning. We couldn’t leave our house for pretty much the entire time because in Jamaica, rain is like snow, and Jamaicans tend to hibernate in the rain in fear of floods and landslides. These top two pictures are on the main road on my commute to work everyday.

My kitchen is essentially outdoors. Two of the four walls are full iron grates, basically open to the elements. So, as I sit eating breakfast at my kitchen table, the damp, cool air sweeps across my body, and I feel splashing of raindrops against my shins and calves.

I glance out the window and I think about a week from today...Election Day. Reality is, in a week, a new man will be President of our country. Excitement and anticipation grow as I feel my stomach turn a bit at the prospect of the election not turning out how I so desperately envision it.

A woman in the bank tells her son, “A black man can be President of the United States! Remember, you can be anything you want to be!” And the boy walks around the bank, his head held high, pretending to be Usain Bolt, the Jamaican Olympian hero. Jamaicans are theatrical and it is fantastic.

It has astounded me how the election and financial crisis has been a topic of common conversation for many Jamaicans over that past few weeks. I’ve been told, “When the US sneezes, Jamaica gets a cold”. Witnessing first hand how much the US affects the world and how much Jamaicans care about my very own opinion of the state of my country has certainly been an experience. All of a sudden my voice matters and carries weight. When did this happen?

I suppose when I graduated from college and moved to a developing nation, I also moved from the kiddy table to the adult table for holidays. I am an educated, white US citizen so I guess that makes me entitled to speak and have others value my opinion. Or at least take the time to question it.

The educated, white US citizen thing now. Yesterday I went to the post office with Lauren to see if I had any love sent from home. On the way out of the parking lot, there is a middle aged Jamaican man dressed in tattered clothing, standing in a misty rain two days old, and he begs me for some money for some food. I roll down my window while frantically searching my bag for my coin purse as the traffic light switches from red to green. I take the coins left in my bag, probably amounting to US $2, and hand them over, glancing him in the eye with a smile and a friendly, “alright…”

“Thank you sweetheart, I’m sorry I wasn’t born a white man…” I heard in a soft, defeated voice as I drove away with droplets of rain on my windshield.

Hmph…

Gosh, race is so obvious here. It’s not like in the US, where you can forget that race is a factor in everyday life, from the quality of life to cultural habits to generations of prejudice. I’ll admit, my American white self immediately became defensive. “It has nothing to do with being WHITE”, I blurt out to Lauren, as if he said it to personally offend me or something.

I hear the words from my mouth as if from a stranger. As I slow to a stop at the next red light, I put my hands on my face and close my eyes…“But it does.”

I am not trying to make any huge claims about race and socioeconomic status here. I am just saying, this poor man at the post office is defeated, he is hungry, and he is black. He looks around and sees that lighter people rarely need to beg in his country and his whole life has seen lighter people as the ones who can afford to give him, the poor black man, money.

Just that very act, giving money to a beggar, is saying something about status. I have the ability to give to someone with lesser. There is an ingrained superiority in that, whether intentionally played out or not.

Getting past the “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” notion many of us in the US hold dear, I am just saying, if he was born white in Jamaica, or maybe even in the US, he would have had a better chance from the start at not being born into a family struggling financially.

I look at my own life. I was born into a family, merely blessed with the privilege of having a more than wonderful mother and father who were able to support me financially and emotionally so I could attend college and have the option to do a year of service. Option. So many times I am commended for sacrificing a year of my life, but in many ways this year, is more of a duty or privilege than anything else.

I met a teenage girl a few weeks ago who was intrigued by this program. She wants to volunteer to help people, she told me. I told her that this program requires that she completes college, as many programs do. She cannot afford college and must work to help support her family and younger siblings. A child born in the hills in Jamaica has much less opportunity available from the start, so going to college is almost unthinkable in many circumstances, let alone being able to take a year to move to another country after graduation to help others. They are more needed at home.

A higher starting ground is what I think I got. Poor guy. Poor girl. Or broken system.

Yesterday a poor woman I visit in my community, well, poor by my standard, was passionately ranting about the poverty in Haiti. She had been there years ago and witnessed the injustice and poverty present in the desperate eyes of its citizens. She thinks Jamaicans needs to unite to help the poor people there!

Poor people of one country helping poor people of another country.

And I am just sitting there, listening to her, moved and inspired, saying "yes! I get it...i really get it". But I don't get it like she does...She is not poor in her eyes...I don't know how she views me, other than "her American friend!" that she teaches how to cook. Haitians have much less, and she is willing to share the little she has with those who have nothing. That is beautiful. That is service. That is human.

just a few bug bites...or thirty

Upon popular request, I have uploaded gross pictures of my feet/ ankles. For those of you who didn't get the story, last Monday I helped the church people in my community to clean the church yard.

It was really beautiful...all of the main church goers and even the children gathered on Monday, Jamaica's National Heroes Day, to unite forces and clean the yard. They all brought something, whether it was seeds to plant, plants or flowers, the necessary tools, or even food for the feast that was prepared after a hard days work.

It was inspiring to see what a community can do when they unite and work together, unselfishly. As the adults said, even 'dem pickney helped out! (Even the children helped!)

Throughout the day, the bugs were BAD...I pretty much got attacked so badly that it created a huge infection going from my ankles to my knees on both legs. I went to the Dr. and got a prescription for the infection, so I am fine now, but my ankes and feet swelled so badly I couldnt even walk!!! So I hope you enjoy these gross pictures haha

If a flower could do it...

These pictures were taken at sunset at Treasure Beach a week ago, where we went for our first retreat. Breathtakingly beautiful. In the first, the water reflected the red sky. In the second, the world took on a golden hue, healing and peaceful.



I am trying to start a garden. It has been a feeble attempt because I think I may have the opposite of a green thumb, but I am just hoping a green thumb can be acquired and it is not something you have to be born with.

So my garden. It is built into this ledge in front of my house, being held up by a rock wall. I have already planted sorrel (a flower to make my favorite juice), tomato and Irish potato. Next is cucumber and pineapple. Now, although I have initiated this project, I am not the brains behind the operation. Frank, a man who has worked here for about forty years, has been helping me acquire the seeds and proper planting technique. He basically prepares the land, digs the hole, and I drop the seeds in, one by one, until he says “alright, alright”. It could be at times pretty comical, because I tend to make mistakes often and he just takes it from me and does it instead.

So I guess what the first line of this entry should have been was: I am helping to start a garden by incorrectly placing seeds in holes. Haha

I tend to check on the saplings every morning before I leave for work. It is exciting to see the tiny stems break though the man made hole and then sprout tiny leaves that will soon turn into flowers that I will (hopefully) one day be able to pick and make juice out of. This morning, when I walked out, the sun shone on the little guys as it seemed they were stretching to take in all they could.

But what grabbed my attention was not that a new sapling had broken through. Instead, I saw that a huge flower had emerged from a vine that was growing out of the side of the rock bed. Giant and pink, and growing essentially out of rock, the last place I would imagine a flower to emerge. Here I am, nurturing the saplings of the Sorrel flower, hoping that just one will grow with enough love and care (aka water and sunlight), and out of rock came this beautiful entity, made by God just to brighten someone day, despite all that was betting against it.

So it got me thinking about purpose. Purpose of flowers, purpose of sunshine, purpose of lightening bugs, purpose of people. Purpose is a loaded word, huh? Purpose is even a scary word, because it demands you to dig deep into yourself, a place that can be intimidating, unknown, and even tumultuous. I mean, I wonder what the purpose of that flower is. That single flower that has emerged from rock, that will not turn into fruit for us to eat. I guess scientifically thinking, flowers produce pollen…blah blah blah. This is true.

But what about its beauty?

What about its wonder?

What about the smile it put on my face?

We too, have purpose. We too, come from tough, tough places where it is easy to doubt that anything beautiful can come from it, like a rock wall. But it happens. Beautiful people emerge from hard places all the time. And it is those beautiful people that bring a single, solitary smile to a persons face. To show that it can be done.

It can be done.

And lets be serious, smiles are contagious, right?

I see it here a lot, in children who have nothing positive to go home to, in parents who have been overcome with sickness and poverty, or in teachers who have drowned in being overworked, underpaid and discouraged.

Or even in you and me who have our own struggles we deal with every day. We all struggling. But there is still beauty present in humanity. Despite all the hurt, pain, ugliness, destruction, and rockiness, there is still that lone flower that shines as bright as day to help bring out the beauty in the surrounding flowers, the surrounding people.

So if a flower can do it, so can we. Bloom from that rocky place where nobody thought you could! Or help someone see they can too. Because we each can, and I think that if each of us even does just one thing for someone else, together we can make the world a better place, or at least a better the world for that single person, and in the long run, what really changes the world? Each individual, of course.