Sarah Green, now a recent Graduate of Davidson College, spent her
spring vacation on a mission trip to Nicaragua. To fund her trip she
received grants from different groups: one being our church. In her
thank you note she enclosed a copy of a report she wrote for a grant
from her college. It is with great awe and joy that we share this
look at a world so different from our lives here in northern New Jersey.
The face of God, the face of Christ peered out at me from the crumbling
poverty I witnessed everywhere in Nicaragua. His face changed continually,
but each incarnation inspired me with a love and reverence I had never
felt in quite the same way before. I heard Christ calling through
the voices of the Nicaraguan people, calling me to join in community
with the poor, to lead a more just life, to act for the improvement
of the world, to let God guide my hands and my heart. I want to share
a collage of some of the images and the words that still echo through
my mind and keep alive the seeds of a passion for God' s people that
were planted within me in the stunningly lush Nicaraguan landscape.
In the grassy center of a traffic circle in Managua, Nicaragua' s
capital, stands a giant stone statue of Jesus, arms spread wide, balanced
atop a globe. He beckons to the world to be gathered into his welcoming
embrace, while smoke-belching buses, outdated cars, and whining motorbikes
swarm like nettled fire ants at his feet….
Foul fires smoldered and blazed up on all sides, and the brisk breeze
smeared the acrid black smoke and gray dust across the apocalyptic
landscape of La Chureca, the Managua city dump. Dim figures moved
in silhouette through the haze on the trash hills, and ragged tents
and cardboard houses huddled in the middle of fields, almost indistinguishable
from the garbage all around them. The brooding eyes of a teenage boy
followed our bus accusingly as we entered a world that seemed more
documentary than reality. A young boy, barefoot and shirtless, bounded
up to us, a huge grin brightening his dark face. A smudge of soot
stained his forehead, like the cross of ashes worn by a worshipper
returned from an Ash Wednesday service. Layers of dirt and grime blackened
his skin and his hands were callused and worn. Eddy Perez, one of
the directors of Dos Generaciones, an organization that works with
the dump children, walked over to the boy, shook his hand, and stood
with his hand on the boy's shoulder. He did the same with every person
we passed, extending the clasp of Christian compassion to the "untouchables"
of Nicaraguan society. The rest of us just stood awkwardly by, unsure
of how to act, where to look, what to say.
"Do you think this is the kind of life we want for our children?
Give us jobs! Give us a chance." The words of the dump worker
cut through the heavy air like an accusation, stinging my sensibilities
and making me want to crumple in a teary ball at his feet. His little
girl clung to his hand and nervously tugged at her torn dress that
was more gray than blue from days spent sifting through trash. What
was I supposed to do in the face of so much misery, such hopelessness?
This was not how God intended the world to be.
"If you're rich inside, you can break through whatever material
barriers lie in front of you," Eddy told us. "We try to
teach the children to value themselves."
"What do these people do if they can't come to work in the dump?"
a member of our group asked.
"They die."
It was as simple as that. They die. How can I reconcile words spoken
in hope with such despairing reality? How can I respond as a Christian
to these horrors? I still do not know, but I continually see the images,
hear the words, and ask the questions.
Sunday morning found us in a community center-turned-church sitting
in a circle with members of the Fourteenth of September community
and the families we had been living with for two days. A Murillo-esque
painting of the Virgin Mary hung behind a folding table covered in
lace. Two small candles flickered beside an assortment of religious
statues, plastic flowers, and pretty trinkets laid out to enliven
the "altar." Several young people sat behind the table,
preparing to lead the morning's worship, and they invited me to join
them as a representative of our group and to read the Scripture in
English. They welcomed me with open arms and encouraged me to share
my thoughts and feelings during the service. Outstretched arms, embraces,
extended hands, and smiles were everywhere around us. The passing
of the peace lasted for close to ten minutes, and I hugged more strangers,
shook more hands, and laughed more than I have in any other church
I've ever been in. That night I wrote in my journal, "It was
then that I really felt connected to that community. I felt the peace
and good wishes, the connection in Christ, in that room. It was so
powerful. That is how barriers get broken. That is how progress is
made." Love and mutual acceptance overflowed from that room and
I felt a warm and deep-seated joy.
Thirteen women sat in a circle in the middle of a giant warehouse
in front of rows of sewing machines, telling us about the growth of
their cooperative. Over two years of blood, sweat, privations, and
tears, they had built their enterprise from the ground up with their
own hands. I tried to imagine these beautiful, petite women hauling
bags of cement or moving the massive iron beams that hung over our
heads, but it was nearly impossible, despite the blaze of fierce determination
I saw in their eyes. To be sitting where they were that day, these
women had walked over four kilometers of dusty, dangerous roads every
day to get to work, overcome the disbelief of their friends and the
objections of machista husbands, and gritted their teeth through hunger
and the pain of leaving crying children in the arms of others. Most
poignant of all, however, was their desire to not only improve the
quality of life of their own families, but to help their communities
as well. Their main priorities were to pay back their loan so that
the money might be lent out to others like themselves, and to provide
good jobs for more people. Their first concern was not to amass obscene
amounts of wealth for themselves, but to help their community and
the less fortunate.
What now? A few hours in a cramped airplane seat were enough to transport
me back to an entirely different world, a different life. Deeply rutted,
dusty roads and scrap-wood shacks gave way to smooth asphalt, brick
pathways, and stately colonnaded buildings. Classes, papers, and assignments
cluttered my mind and tried to rob me of everything I had seen and
experienced. The apathy of my classmates threatened to inundate me
once again. But as one of our team members said, "We were essentially
tourists of poverty, and if we don't do something with that, then
it's just sick." So, what now? How do I remain faithful to all
that God has shown me? The passion and inspiration I returned with
compel me to do something, to help the world somehow. But what can
I do? Right now I ask the questions, I relive the emotions, I see
the faces, and hear the words. I talk and I write and I listen for
how God will speak to me next and show me what path to take.
