After being in Nicaragua for 4 summers and the past several months, I've been trying to put my finger on what exactly draws me here, and what keeps me here. I could go the easy route and claim that its the people who have the hold on my heart, but I know it's something much deeper than that. My dear friend Iris was describing it recently, and I think she found the perfect answer to my quandry. "We feel more here," she explained. In every sense of the phrase, Iris is correct. At home, when it gets a little too warm, you adjust the temperature of the room, you roll down your window, you jump in the pool. At home, when your shower isn't hot enough, you turn the dial. Things change for you, you don't change for them. In Nicaragua, however, it's the opposite. You are forced to feel the heat of the sun, and to learn to enjoy how it kisses your face. You make yourself love cold showers, you get used to the shivers that take over your entire body when you turn on the water. At home, you sit two seats away from people in the movie theater. Here, there's three people, not to mention someone's pet chicken,perched on your lap on the bus ride home. At home, everyone stays in their respective lanes on the road and a drive anywhere is usually uneventful. Here, your heart takes permanent residence in your throat whenever getting into a vehicle, because each ride is filled with the exhilaration of high speeds as you veer into other lanes to narrowly avoid knocking over horses, cows, peleways, and people that often crowd the road. At home, you compliment a cute baby, and they politely thank you and walk away. Here, you compliment a cute baby, and the next thing you know, the kid is in your arms and the mother is patting your shoulder. Even God's very nectar, Coca Cola, is sweeter down here due to the sugar cane. Iris is right... you just feel more.

Now, ordinarily, I would say that this is a good thing, feeling more. However, recently, I experienced a feeling of MORE that isn't comfortable, and I don't know how to acclimate myself to like it.

What is it, you ask, that I am feeling MORE of down in Nicaragua?

Fear.

I don't mean this in any sort of poetic or profound sense, by any means. I haven't discovered something new about my self or my heart that is causing me to fear.

Oh, no. This "something" I discovered comes with several beady eyes, hair, eight legs, and very sharp teeth prepared to chomp me into tiny bits at will. That's right, folks. There's been a security breach here in the Casa Blanca, and something told the tarantulas they were welcome to join in the party with the mice. Let me be the first to say that this is not ok. Just as the mice had to be evicted, we are going to have to take drastic measures with these 8 legged monstros that are parading around my house. I can deal with beetles. I can deal with moths. I can even deal with the occasional roach. However, last Monday I awoke with a tarantula situated comfortable on my neck, probably planning how many ways he was going to eat me.

Needless to say, I've had a little bit of trouble sleeping comfortably these days.

After 4 years in Athens, 3 years in an elementary school classroom, and all my combined time in Nicaragua, I have seen my share of amazing.  I could sit with you all day and marvel over the extraordinary, and find ways to make the ordinary spectacular.  The cynical would call me easily amused, but I prefer to think of myself as one who remains in awe.  I think we were created for wonder, after all.  The sky has really been doing in for me the past few evenings.  I don't think the sight of a puffy white cloud resting on a pink and blue western sky will ever get old to me. I certainly hope not.

The story I am about to tell you, however, can not be filed under any sort of small wonder.  This is my share of amazing that ought to bring a tear to your eye, that ought to give you hope, that ought to find you looking for the greater metaphor and the highest of hopes.

Her name is Sasha.  We did not come into friendship with each other until just this past summer, though we had both heard the other's names in the Nicaragua circle, always formidably.  She'd come to Nicaragua many times before, but always in the weeks after I had returned to my classroom, so I never had the pleasure of her company.  And what a pleasure indeed.  For the two weeks I spent with her, we spent most of our time laughing and sharing our hearts, trying to figure out exactly what the Lord was doing with us. Our hearts were drawn to the other, both finding so much joy in the other's company.  Simply put, it was lovely.  

For Sasha, however, her time in Nicaragua has it's moments of bittersweet.  Her years before had found her scaling the volcano at top speed, shoveling selecto until the sun took its rest behind the mountains, and showing off on the field like only a NYU soccer player can do.  

This year, plans were different. Last November, Sasha's heel got caught in the grate of her fire escape and she tumbled off,  leaving her paralyzed from the waist down.  With that one night, Sasha's life changed drastically.  What I admire so much about this young woman is what she did with that change.  I can not imagine that state I would have allowed myself to rest in, the words I would have shouted at the Lord or anyone else who tried to offer me any sort of comfort or help.  Sasha refused to let her anger override her will or her purpose, nor would she let her injury define her.  So, in August, she boarded a plane to Chinandega as she always had in the past, refusing to forsake what she loved.

There was no shortage of help for Sasha to provide.  She shoveled, she carried, she played, she cleaned, she loved, she hoped.  It was almost the same as it had been before, minus the obvious differences.  She could participate in nearly everything as she always had.

It's that "nearly" word that drove her crazy.  "Nearly" everything.   

One clear Sunday, we took the group to Cerro Negro, per usual.  Cerro Negro translates into English, roughly meaning, "My own personal hell."  This volcano, though I conquer it every single week, still continues to mock me.  I might win the weekly battles, but she is absolutely still winning the war. There are two ways to climb it, the "easy way" and the "hard way".  I prefer to call them the "Scenic Way" and the "I'd rather drag my teeth down the highway going 80 than go this way" way.  The former is straight up, most of the climbing on your hands and knees on the ash.  For every two steps you take, you fall back three in the loose rock.  The very first year we climbed it, it was April and sweltering hot.  The sun refused to back down and I found myself next to John Bland, my boss.  John looked at me, held up his empty water bottle and returned his gaze to the neverending climb that ascended before us.  "Kelly, don't be offended," he began, "But i've been praying for the last ten minutes that this thing would errupt so we could just go ahead and die and not have to climb the rest." 

On the Sunday that we went with Sasha, she sat at the foot of the monster, sketching it with charcoal and taking in the day.  Though outwardly she seemed pleased with her afternoon plans, she had a hint of unease.  When I asked her about it, she simply said, "It occured to me that I won't see that view again.  I wish I would have taken it in better the last time I climbed it."  She shook her head, and brought herself into a better mood, showing everyone her artwork.  The next week when we returned to the volcano, Sasha did not come with us, understandably.  

Her time here grew shorter, and each day presented a new adventure, as it always does.  And though everything was wonderful and new and fantastic experiences surfaced daily, Cerro Negro still loomed.  One morning, John had had enough.  Gathering up a few of the staff, we made our way to that awful thing with determined hearts.  The scenic way, though typically easier, was much rockier and would have been too much of a challenge.  This left us with only one choice.  With smiles on faces, providing our own pump up music (El ojo de tigre), we began to ascend Cerro Negro, Sasha situated on the backs of the men in the group.  For an hour, we climbed, the boys trading off as carrier so often.  And there we sat, at the top, looking out at the greens and the blacks and the blues of the landscape as if it were the first time and as if it were the last time.  It was the most beautiful I have ever realized it to be, each color serving its different purpose to make a masterpiece. We sat in awe, drinking it in, (and each smoking a cigar, without doubt the greatest cigar of my life) Sasha called her dad (each of us, at this point, turning away as to not show anyone else the fact that we started weeping as soon as she said, "Hey, Dad- guess where I am!") and then, each of our hands finding anothers, we prayed.  Earnestly and emphatically and gratefully, we prayed.

I don't have words to describe the feeling that washed over each of us that afternoon; there was a peace and an exhilarition all at the same time. Nothing is comparable, but that's ok.  I don't want anything to be.

We made a video of sorts of the entire adventure, from struggling up to the tumble down (we took out the cigar scene and replaced it with us singing a cheesy Christian camp song with hand movements, because we figured it would sell better to the baptists that way).  Check my facebook for said video, as I don't know if I can post it here.

There are all sorts of metaphors and stories I can pull from this, but for now, I will let you take it in on your own.  

God is good. That's about all I know.  He's tricky, but, in the end, He's good.

Things that are happening in the end of September that are slightly important:

1. September 25th... Golf Tournament at Chateau Elan (That's right, folks. Said in snotty British accent- Chateau Elan. A fine winery, if you will.) Play golf, help provide water for a thirsty child. Fair trade, I'd say.

2. September 26th... 9 a.m. Strides for Strength 5k. Run a 5k. Walk a 5k. Either way, feed a hungry brother in Nicaragua.

3. September 26th... 1 p.m. Pedal for the Poor, 4 mile or 16 mile Bike Ride. Strap on your neon helmet, tie the basket to the front of your wheels, and help build a school in a rural community and hand hope of a different future to Nicaraguan children.

4. September 26th... 3 p.m. Salsa Showdown. Top Chef style, cut throat and serious. Dice some tomatoes and provide pipe that will connect to a well that will bring water to dried out crops.

5. September 26th... All day. Run about through Suwannee Town Center Park, listen to great live music, dance in the grass, play tons of games, jump on those inflatable jumpy things, eat delicious food.

6. September 26th... 10:30 p.m. Find me in the corner passed out from exhaustion, put me in the car, drive me home, and tuck me in. Wake me up at some point, buy me a drink, and tell me I don't have to do this again until next September.

In all seriousness, I would love to have the support of my family and friends in this endeavor. I have never been one who is good at asking for donor support, which is what kept me from coming to Nicaragua for several years. Before I was on full time staff, I used my own paychecks to send me on these mision trips, because the idea of asking for money makes me that uncomfortable. However, this is different. I live amongst people who are in need. This summer, we worked in the community of El Chonco, laboring it out to build a school for children who would otherwise have no hope of every being anything other than what their parents knew. I got to know these people, I spent time in their houses, laughing hysterically and telling stories of both joy and heart break. This year, the Celebrate Service Festival is raisining money for the community of El Chonco. Specifically, we are working on a water system to provide each of the houses in the area with running water for cooking, bathing, drinking. So, this year, asking for support is different, because I am not asking you to finance something that I could on my own. This year, I am asking for help because we can't build this water system on our own.

Come join us the last weekend in September. Be a part of a greater thing. Check it out-

http://www.amigosforchrist.org/

www.firstgiving.com/kellyfitzgerald1

It is September 4th. I have been Stateside for an entire week now, and have eaten at Chickfila approximately 4 times. I have taken at least 21 hot showers, and drank 9 glasses of ice cold skim milk. I have slept in sweatpants and sweatshirt each night, sometimes complementing the outfit with a pair of wooly socks. I have also contracted pink eye three times. Twice in my right eye, once in my left. I have complained 48 times about the cold, be it outside or fabricated cold inside some icebox of a restaurant, and complained 3 times about how expensive things are in the civilized world.

The greatest thing I have done since my return home, however, took place yesterday evening, at Taco Mac in Atlanta, seated next to my dear friend, Amber Smith. Last night was our first reunion since I left, and Amber, a knower of my soul indeed, had very exact plans for our time together.

As I awoke yesterday morning, something in my soul stirred. A familar feeling washed over me that took me but a moment to place. Yesterday, my dear friends, was start of the greatest holiday season of all time. Yesterday was, indeed, the first college football game of the year. "Happy Gameday!" exlaimed a text message from Amber, sent , no doubt, as soon as she had woken up. Obviously, there would be no questions as to what we would be doing together that evening, and we found ourselves seated in front of a big screen TV, eyes glued to the jerseys of USC and NC State, hearts hoping for a thrown visor on Spurrier's end. The season has begun and my heart will once more be at ease knowing that collge football has returned, but will also start to panic as I stress over what Mike Bobo, Willie Martinez, and Mark Richt will be directing our boys to do.

Tragedy strikes, as I will only be making a brief appearance in America during this blessed season. My Dawgs will have to play their hearts out without me when they battle Auburn, Georgia Tech, Tennessee Tech, Vandy, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Tim Tebow. I cringe now realizing how many games I will have to watch through poor internet connections, and I wonder just how possible it will be to tailgate from our Casa. We do have an excellent grill, folding chairs, bug spray, cheap beer, and random drunk neighbors- which, as far as I am concerned, is an excellent recipe for tailgating.

The silver lining to this cloud is that next Saturday, I will take a deep breath and breathe in Athens air. Not just any Athens air (though Athens air is lovely no matter how it is taken in, be it the petchulli of dirty athens hippies or the cologne of a slightly intoxicated frat boy), but Athens Saturday in the Fall air. It is perhaps the most rejuvenating thing for a person's lungs, the sweet smell of hamburgers grilling, leaves falling, and victory. I can taste the crisp air just thinking about it. Dear Lord, Thank you for making Athens, Georgia so that we all could have a little taste of Heaven.

In 1998, Hurricane Mitch ravaged Nicaragua. Chinandega saw tragedy like it hadn't in over a century. Rain fell as if the sky had been holding it in for decades, just waiting for one giant release. Casita, a volcano just outside of the city, had been extinct for ages and had thus formed a beautiful crater lake at top. However, with the heaving rain, the capacity it could hold reached its maximum and the water came overflowing out the top, taking the mud, the trees, and the people with it, leaving no mercy for those in it's mighty path.

3,o00 people lost their lives because of that rain, and thousands more lost their hope and their homes. The ever trust-worthy government of Nicaragua sent forth their empty promise to rebuild what had been destroyed, and displaced the homeless to land located next to the Chinandega city dump. The Red Cross and a few organizations brought in tarps and other supplies to make temporary houses, called "chompas", to give the people a shelter while they were waiting to return to their homes.

These "temporary" houses soon became permanent, as the waiting became endless and the glimmer of hope of returning home diminished with each day. The people learned to live off the dump, scavenging for food and metal scraps they could sell in town for enough to survive. Those displaced forgot how to live, and learned only how to survive. Dreams disappeared, as it seemed there was no longer anything to dream about.

Here is where we come in. Armed with faith and truth and a few Spanish speakers, Amigos went into the dump, beckoning those who still clung to the sliver of hope to rejoin life, to rejoin joy. Land had been bought, and materials were ready to build up a community- their hope had arrived.

But the people were wary, and with adaquete reason. Why should they trust these strangers; what makes us any different from the others who claim to make changes that never came to be?

Yet some came, and mustering up their last bit of strength that hadn't been squelched by their circumstances, not allowing themselves to be conquered by misery and fear. Others stayed, content in their complacency, refusing to believe that they were created for something greater. Moving meant changing, and changing meant courage, and tenacity, and more so, work. Still others came, but returned to the dump, after seeing that in order to live again, to really live, would mean matters of the heart. So they took residence again where they were not meant to be, amongst the garbage and the filth and the hopelessness.

This story, however, is not about those that stayed. I could spin whimsy forever, comparing the two groups that stayed in El Limonal to our own hearts and sin situations- but that shall be for another day. Today I want to talk about the people who knew they were meant for greater, the group that took the grand adventure to move into Villa Catalina.

Ever, who was very small when he first came into my friendship, was a resident of the dump with his 2 sisters and older brother. He was bound to a life of garbage, living shoeless and shirtless, scavenging through piles of trash to gather in order to help feed his family. His parents refused to sell themselves or their children to such a circumstance, and they were among the first to pack up their things for hope. There is a picture of Ever we used to have up on our website, his dirty face and half naked body standing in front of a pile of trash, filthy river in the back ground, sky black from garbage fires. If a photo can break your heart, this is the one.

This Saturday, he and a few of my Villa Catalina favorites (Julio, Enrique, David, Hector, and Leandro) all went to Poneloya, my favorite beach. We spent most of the morning running in and out of the ocean, throwing a football on the shore, and making drip castles that no one will ever see the likes of again. Our appetites called, and the boys and I sat on the 2nd floor of a little beach side restaurant, eating cheeseburgers and drinking bottled cokes. Ever's grin was wide, his chest still heaving from general beach exhaustion as he wiped ketchup off his face and looked out on the daunting waves. "I am going to have a boat one day, Kelly," he began. "Do you want me to take you for a ride on my boat? We can come here alot. I will buy a house for all my friends after I go to University, and we'll play on the beach all the time. How do you like that idea?"

And now, I have a new picture of Ever.

We are dealing with a new problem in room 6, and I am not quite sure how to go about approaching it.  A few roommates have decided to take up residence in the love shack, and well... quite frankly, they aren't welcome.

It started with the occasional scurry across the room, a girlish scream would quickly follow, and the furried rodent wouldn't show its face again for several days.  At this point, we assumed it was just one little friendly, big eared, long tailed visitor, so we aptly named him Ralph, figured he wouldn't return, and then let it go.

But then Ralph started leaving his evidence everywhere, and the executive decision was made by the roommates (Stacey, Rachel, and I), that our little friend had to go.  We didn't want to get vicious about it, so we bought "Paper Cats", sticky paper that his little tricky paws would get stuck on and then we put him out to the street to flourish, and live the dream as a mouse in the most garbage filled country in the world.  Everybody wins in this situation.

Within an hour of tempting Ralph with an oreo (a big sacrifice for the three of us, indeed) and some sticky paper, we had captured him and removed him from the premises.  Sucess!  Or, so we thought.  Another mouse appeared on the paper... and another.... and another....  with each mouse captured, we hung a new picture on the wall- the "let this be an example to you and your kind" wall, we called it, thinking that the mice would see this horrifying display and escape forever. Afterall, we live in walking distance from downtown Chinandega, a hispanic mouse's paradise.  But no. They were by no means swayed by the images, and continued to make their presence known in our room.  

In fact, they are getting bold.  They no longer scurry across the room in order to be inconspicious- oh no.  They sashay around, trying on my tee shirts, using my toiletries...  I caught one flicking me off as he poured himself a bowl of cereal at the breakfast table this morning.  These rats are taking ownership were ownership is simply not due.  And I don't like it. Not one bit.

How to solve this problem?

An eviction notice.  With our wit and brilliance, I am expecting very big things from this.  Be waiting with baited breath...

Things I miss, in no particular order.  (expect for the first one).

1.  Chickfila.  There is no getting around this.  I think about Chickfila more than I think about anything else- that includes my job, my family, my own well being.   At least once a day, it crosses my mind that I would do almost anything for chickfila chicken strips, waffles fries, and a large coke with extra ice.  Or a sandwich, wheat bun, extra pickles on the side.  Talking about it now was a terrible idea, because my heart actually aches with emptiness.

2. Hot showers.  Though the cold shower is refreshing at times, there is something to be said for shaving your legs in warm water and not having to worry that all of your hair is going to grow back immediately.

3.Skim milk.  Dear god, I would kill someone for an ice cold glass of mayfield right now. When I get home, I might drink milk with every meal just because I can.

4. Common courtesy.  I might look like a gringa, but I live here, you Nicaraguan jerks- don't think that just because you are brown means that you can cut in line in front of me every where we go.  Don't even think about it... I will tell you how I feel- because- I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE SAYING WHEN YOU TALK ABOUT ME INFRONT OF ME.

5. Leaving my clothes in the dryer.  At home, you do a load of laundry, and you can leave your clothes in the dryer for a few hours and not worry about them.  That is not the case here.  Patricia, I am convinced, watches all of us as we wash our clothes.  Once that buzzer goes off, if we aren't there to retrieve our ropas, she swoops in and acquires more bounty for her bazaar.  I am missing, actually, all of my socks.

6.  Fake mexican food.   Soft Tacos, cheese dip... processed magic.   In 19 days, I will sit down at El Azteca and tears of joy just might fill my eyes.

God bless America. 

Last year, a group from St. Louis joined us for a week.   Though the group was full of personality, not too much sticks with me from the year before.  There were, as always, a few nights sprinkled with life conversations and laughter, a few powerful devotionals; but, as a whole, it was another group in the mix of many.   I do, however, remember, ALOT of general murmuring about work, and the case often seemed to be that much wasn't done after 3 pm.

This year, the same group came in and I expected the same- laughter, good conversations here and there, but nothing much past that.

I was wrong.

St. Louis came into our houses with hearts and arms extended.  I found that I never wanted to go to bed, I never wanted to be in my room, I never wanted to not be surrounded by this group of people.  

If I had my doubts before, God found this house last week and was standing in our midst in the most prevalent way yet.  I can't put my finger on it exactly, what made last week stand out above anything else I have experienced yet.   There was something, though, about the adamant faith dwelling in the casa last week that changed things.  Something about our voices raised in vibrant praise each night, something about the way this group disregarded logistics and just loved the Lord.  I can't place it, but I just know it.

On our last evening together, we paraded out to the new property with guitars in hand- sneaking through our neighbor's rice fields to get there, with a little thrill of terror creeping through my heart, as we were doing a bit of trespassing... and we weren't terribly inconspicuous with 60 people.  

But we made it.  And, looking a little cultic I am sure, we made a circle and began to pray for what God had in store for that plot of land and for the hearts standing on it. Between prayers, during prayers, we sang- with voices raised, we sang. Yet again, God finds me in song, but this time, it wasn't me being moved by the people singing as it was with my sweet sacred heart girls, it was God shouting at me in song....

"You said,  'Ask and you will receive whatever you need.'

You said, 'Pray and I'll hear from heaven, and I'll heal your land.'

you said your glory will fill the earth, like water to sea.

you said, 'Lift up your eyes, the harvest is here, the kingdom is near.'

You said, 'Ask and I'll give the Nations to you...'

Oh, Lord, that's the cry of my heart!  Distant shores and the islands

will see your light... You said...."

It makes me want to ask for the Nations.

Allow me to introduce you to perhaps the most ridiculous human being on this planet.  Words will never fully do him justice, but I will try my best.  Meet Saoul.  Sauol is both a professional bus driver and a professional eater, and it would not surprise me one day to find that he is also a professional wrestler.  Sauol has three gold teeth, an enormous belly, and a glow in the dark rosary which he displays proudly around his neck.  

My first memory with Sauol came 3 years ago, when we were working in a small fishing village near Honduras.  He didn't speak much that didn't come out in grunts, but one word was always clear, "comida."  "Comida", meaning "food", is usually Saoul's main reason behind taking any sort of action.   A gigantic iguana crossed our path, and Saoul burst into joyous chortles, waddling after it in the brush, murmuring to himself.   A few moments later, he emerged, holding the dinosaur by the tail.  Proudly, he held it up and announced, "Comida."  The day went by and I later found him slurping out of a rather large bowl.   Protruding out of the bowl were the claws, tail, and head of his captured beast.   I don't think I ate for days after that experience.

Since then, my love for Saoul has continued to grow, and so has his vocabulary.   He still speaks in mainly grunts and the occasional shouts, but his gold tooth grin rarely leaves his round face. Every morning I find him in the fridge, searching for something new to munch on, or just looking at things to daydream about all day.  He frequently takes his shirt off just to rub his watermelon of a stomach, but never does so without cracking himself up.   I have yet to meet someone who is that content in their mere being, and I must say, I appreciate it.  His ability to make me laugh simply by existing is a stellar quality.  Well done, Saoul.

It was my plan to write all of the above last week, but never got the chance.  Now that I have shared with you my dear love for that rotund man, it would be remiss of me not to tell you the rest of the story.

As I have made quite clear, Saoul is difficult to understand when he speaks.  His Spanish is slurred, and I find myself often having to repeat it in my head before I answer.  Last week, Saoul was sitting at the beach with several women from the group, looking pleased.  I approached them to check on their afternoon, and one said to me, "We've been talking to Saoul.  He lived in Canada for two years, did you know that?"  At hearing this, I laughed, and said, in English, to Saoul, our pseudo-spanish speaking bus driver, "That's a load of crap.  You did not."  And without hesitation, he replied, IN ENGLISH, "I did.  In Toronto."

Do with that what you may.

I am planning on killing a bird.   I am not sure how to go about this task, or even the right tools to accomplish it, but I know that once the deed has been done, life will be better for everyone who resides in this casa blanca.

Here is the problem.  This creature has encroached about my personal time more than once.  In fact, I would venture to say that he has violated my ears at least 8 times a day since I have taken up residence in the country.  Granted, he was here first, so the tree hugging argument might be that I should, in fact, acclimate my hears to his sweet melody. However, I am not a tree hugger and his melody is by no means sweet.  It might be the worst sound that has ever been emitted by a living creature.  I dare to say its the worst sound ever emitted, though I am sure that a few Euro techno clubs could rival its horror.  Therefore, the only logical solution is to find a sling shot and relieve everyone else around me.

I climbed up on the roof recently, to watch the sunset and spend some time with the Lord, finally escaping for a moment alone before another group arrived.  Just as I has positioned my self comfortably on the mattress I had precariously dragged out to rest my weary self upon... he appeared.  And by "he", I don't mean Jesus.  I mean this monstrous creature, with beady black eyes, black feathers, and a black beak.  He had a smirk on his face, because he was knew exactly what he was up to.  He had come to ruin my silence, to impose him self uninvited, and to be a general DB.  We had a stare down for a while, both of us refusing to move, breathe, distract our intense gaze.  Who would win?  Who is, in fact, more powerful?

Then that little winged devil did something I could not.  He wailed.  He opened his throat and let out that wincing cry, and I could do nothing but cringe.  Then he fluttered away with contempt, knowing that he had, for the time being, conquered me.

He may have won the battle, but this war is longed waged.  And I will win it.

I am also waging war with the beetles.  They have moved in to my bed,  built a subdivision, and they throw a block party on my body every night.  They must be in cohoots with the demon bird, because they are conniving about their attacks.  They wait until I am just about to sleep, and then they nestle themselves into places they have not been invited.  Namely, my hair and my knee pits.  Every time I find one, I rip him off,  tell him something negative about himself, and then violently though him out the window or onto the floor.  I was hoping that if I don't kill him, at least my words will make him feel so bad about himself that he won't want to come back.  It hasn't worked.  So far, it's only upped the challenge, and he and all his beetle friends have invaded my personal space.

Other than the birds and the beetles, Nicaragua is simply delightful.  It never ceases to amaze me, as the people are just their own unique brand.  I have started scribing a list, entitled, "Nica Things I hope never cease to make me laugh."  Here is a sampling:

1. Shirts worn by all the local with highly inapproprate phrases, unbeknownst to the wearer.  Direct example from this morning- (worn by an extremely obsese woman., who was by no means wearing  a bra nor did this shirt cover her entire mid section) "What's wrong with big tits?"  Yes.

2. Staring is culturally acceptable, and it is done without shame.  Sometimes it is accompanied by the phrase, "Gringos!"- as if the parade has just come into town.

3. The fair makes its way to Chinandega at least once every two months.  The hierarchy of the carnival rides is as such:  1. Rejected in America 2. Rejected in Mexico. 3. Rejected in Costa Rica. 4. Accepted gladly in Nicaragua.   Bolts are flying everywhere, each structure is so rusty that I wait for it to snap mid ride, and whatever speed regulations/precautions that are taken anywhere else, they have been thrown to the wind here.  Safety bars are a thing of the past.  Each ride has a sign that clearly states, in Spanish, "We are not responsible for any of your injuries due to our own negligence." Do with that what you may.  The good news is, the fair is never without carmel apples.

4. The musical genuis of the 70s and 80s has only just now reached Chinandega, and it is being well appreciated.  I hear, at least once a day, the ballads of Toto, Bonnie Tyler, and American Heartbeat. I sing Eye of the Tiger at the top of my lungs everyday.   And I don't complain.

The list goes on, but I really ought to be doing the things I stayed in the office for today.  I will do my best to do this once a week... but I am not making any promises...

My favorite group has come and gone, and I am still mourning their loss.  Though I love my job regardless of what personalities are filling my house, a very special place in my heart is held by a group of girls from Sacred Heart, an all girls private school in New Orleans.  Now, to the ordinary person, the thought of 40 high school girls all under one roof might be a little terrifying.  I, however, am not the normal person.  When their bus pulls up, I come running out of the house to greet them, recounting stories from trips past, retelling jokes that have been dormant for a year, talking about how long/short our hair is now, how tan/skinny someone is, and then just the general gossip that comes along with all high school girls.  Nutella and teddy grahams are pulled out of suitcases, someone starts french braiding my hair, and the inevitable conve lrsation of boys, food, and embarrassing moments begins. For the past three years, I have made it a point to get learn all of these girls' names.  I have made it a point to make memories with each of them.  I have made it a point to make it clear to them how dearly I adore them.   Because of all of this, I have earned the right to make it a point to share the gospel with them.  Note that I say I "earned the right".   I know, I know- as if wearing chacos and carrying around a mountainsmith bag wasn't enough to prove I am a young life lifer, now I have to use the jargon.  However, it is unarguably the truth.  These girls are not from the bible belt- they are from New Orleans, where you emerge from the womb with drink and poboy in hand.   My conversational prayers blow their mind, and the idea of song merely for worship rather than to pass time at mass is a foreign concept.  Knowing this, I asked Rachel, our music intern, to play one song and one song alone for our daily devotional.   It was not a song proclaiming how Great the Lord is, or how wildly we love him; instead, it's anthem rang out simply of the Lord's love for us. And, to my shock, they sang along. I would catch them during the work day, humming the cords, singing the chorus.  Could it be?  My heart leapt with each note.   It was on our last day, however, at the beach, that I was moved to tears. We had mass on the sand, in the light of the setting sun.  Waves crashed violently upon the shore and the wind was whipping up something fierce.  It came time for communion, and I heard a faint voice, joined by another, then another, and another, until the beach was filled with the song.   My girls, my 40 New Orleans girls, who sneered at worship, who keep their eyes open and staring at each other during prayers, MY girls were looking to the sky and the shore, singing,  "He is jealous for me. loves like a hurricane,  I am a tree, bending beneath the wind of His grace and his mercy. When all of the sudden, I am unaware of the afflictions, eclipsed by his Glory, and I realize just how beautiful You are and how great your affections are for me. And oh, how he loves us so, oh how he loves us how he loves us so. we are his portion and he is our prize drawn to redemption by the grace in His eyes if grace is an ocean, we're all sinking. when heaven mets earth like a sloppy wet kiss and my heart beats violently inside of my chest i don't have time to maintain these regrets  when i think about the way he loves us..." All of their voices joined into one, to sing about the fact that the Creator of the universe wants to romance their hearts.  I will replay this moment in my head for quite the time to come.

Well, folks, its seems that I have made it.  Though I have been here for nearly a month, it would be remiss of me not to recount my journey into Nicaragua, as no good story is complete without an adequate beginning.

The airport in Managua is an experience to be had, indeed.  Though only about 4 people in Nicaragua have contracted swine flu, the Nicaragua CDC (which I can't even remotely take seriously) has taken on their job of preventing and protecting.  Every airport worker is fully equipped with gloves, masks, and hair nets.   As you arrive in the country, they insist that you step on some sort of contraption that displays your body temperature to all the world to analyze.  Because, clearly, if you have any sort of fever, the obvious solution is that you must have swine flu and you must be hosed down.

I survived the poking and proding of the high skilled and trustworthy Nicaraguan health workers to move on to my favorite airport experience- the getting of the bags.  This is only fun in the Nica airport, because it has become a spectator sport.  Baggage claim is blocked off by a giant glass window, which is guaranteed to be filled with faces, peering in at the new arrivals.  I feel as if I am stuck in some sort of gringa fishbowl, fair game for all the Nicas to scrutinize at will.  Our baggage was successfully claimed, but not after some argument over Kristin and Jeremy's new TV.