Mutual respect between cultural barriers

I was a North American snot. If there was one thing that I learned by going to Honduras, it was this fact. In every activity there was something holding me back, something in the way of me participating with my whole heart; I felt like I was better than these people.

When I joined a missionary team to Honduras in the fall of 2000, I had no idea of the kind of work that we were going to do. I had signed up with the full intention of working construction after the devastation of Hurricane Mitch in 1998. So it was a huge surprise to find out that this was not the plan, but that we were going to be involved in children’s programming.

I resented every moment with those children. At any given time I could be found in the clinic, in the kitchen, or down the street buying a Coke. I found it much easier to hide than to face these kids. These 60 children were hungry, poor, needy, and starving for attention. I had never been any of these things, so how was I to identify with them. Teaching is not one of my gifts anyway, so my resolve was to leave the teaching to the experts.

One day about a month and a half into our outreach, while I was hiding in the kitchen, one of the mothers handed me her three month old baby girl and said, "I talked it over with my husband, and if you want her, you can have her." I wanted to cry. How could a mother just hand her daughter to me? How could she care so little? Who was I that I could be trusted?

I decided that day, that it needed to be my goal to earn others’ respect regardless of my skin color or my home country. I needed to start acting in a fashion that was deserving of any gift, let alone a daughter. In a moment I realized that this brown-eyed baby girl needed a mother and a father, something that I could not provide for her. It was a little hard to say, but she deserved more than what I could offer.

Thus began my journey. That day was the first day that I truly started my mission. I found myself striving to learn the language, eat the food, make friends, smile, and look at these people through Christ’s eyes. Suddenly I had a purpose. God loved these people so much more than any human heart could. He saw a piece of Himself in them, just like He saw in me and every other person He ever created.

God had restored my vision of healing and hope. Now I had a purpose. It didn’t matter that we spoke different languages; these people were my brothers and sisters. Going to the comedor to work everyday became less of a trial and more of a blessing and time of personal growth, and I found my own way of ministering to the families of the settlement. I would watch the infants and help in the clinic while the mothers would cook.

Four months later, there was a thank you lunch in our honor. It was two days before we were scheduled to leave. The children of the comedor and their mothers had gathered from all across the settlement to say their goodbyes. With tears in my eyes, I thought of all my new brothers and sisters and the way that they had impacted my life. I would forever carry them in my heart. Even today when I think of the children of Chuleteca, I cannot help but smile. They not only are a part of my past, but they are a part of my now. My job was to teach, but in fact I was a student learning the lesson of a lifetime.

Sara can be reached at sara.heatwole@emu.edu for further discussion.