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.