Casa, sweet Casa

Well, good folks, I am home. Or, more appropriately, my second home. It's been a week of cold showers (which I have evaded by boiling water in a pot and pouring it over me with a cup), falling asleep to the lull of a fan, and Patricia's cooking. I haven't been here in nearly six weeks, and my heart has missed this place dearly. However, I can tell you with full affirmation that I have not at all missed the sheer honesty of Nicaraguans.

Apparently, I gained weight over the holiday season. My size six jeans are still fitting comfortably, but, according to the Nicaraguans, it's "showing in my face".

Allow me to give you a few examples. If I were a less confident girl, I might be in shambles right now.

My friend Hazel came over for a slumber party last week, and we dressed up, fixed hair, makeup, all the girly essentials that one must go through in order to have a proper sleepover. She sat on my bed, picking up my shirts and carefully critiquing each one. She was gingerly handling my strapless pink shirt with a grimace on her face, "I don't like this one. It's ugly. It's too sexy." My quick response, per usual, was, "You told me I needed a new boyfriend. If I am going to accomplish that goal, I need a sexy shirt." Without missing a beat, Hazel replied, "If you want a boyfriend, you're going to need to lose some weight."

Benito, our truck driver, who is no jewel of body image himself, was standing behind me the other day, whispering with his counterpart, Hector, our bus driver. They were both giggling hysterically. I whipped around, demanding to know the course of their laughter. Grabbing my stomach, Benito managed to get the message out through his chuckles, "We've been needing an extra tire for the ford."

I took Tobias and Pablo, two of my dear hearts from the Villa, to the town pool. (That is a post all in itself, wait with bated breath for that one to come). I was stretched out on a towel, begging for the sun to kiss my body, as my friend Carolina pointed out to me, "You are whiter than a sheet of paper." So here I am, already a little... well, less than positive about my body image (to say the least), and Pablo came over to me, patting his protruding belly. "You're getting fat like me. Do you still run everyday?" he asked, as if this were just a normal conversation starter.

Though it is more than wonderful to be back, to feel the Nicaraguan soil beneath my toes, to have hands constantly reaching to hold mine, to have Spanish flow out of my mouth as if it were my own, to be reunited with friends who act as if six weeks apart has been an eternity... but it is not always nice to be back to honesty.

Someone get me a slim fast.

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.