GGGGGGGGOOOOOAAAAAAALLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Practicing for the big leagues.

This is what I was shouting back on the 6^th of February in a small restaurant less than a mile down the beach from the Finca. And I was wasn’t alone either. There were about 4 or 5 of us American volunteers there watching the US vs Honduras World Cup qualifying game. Yeah I know, it probably seems a little strange that I’m watching a soccer game and getting excited. I mean, it’s never really happened before. Football, baseball, basketball. Yeah, sure. Heck I even got pumped up over Olympic swimming and gymnastics more than I did soccer. But when you live in Honduras, a country where the people think soccer is the only sport that really exists, you started getting sucked in. So there were all were watching the match between the motherland, sweet America, and our current home, Honduras. But we weren’t alone. Virtually every kid from the Finca, along with a good number of the house parents, and even one of the nuns, trudged down the beach to watch this epic showdown. Virtually every school and place of business in the country shut down that afternoon as everyone headed for a tv to see if the pride of Honduras could take down the big bad US. And as American scored that first beautiful goal, I started licking my lips. You see, at least a few weeks before the game, I had already started running my mouth. “Hey Carmen (a 24 Honduran care-taker on the Finca), if you’re so confident in your Catrachos (slang for Hondurans), why don’t we just bet on this game,” I smarted off. “Okay, let’s do it,” she says. “A three liter of Coke then.” “Consider it done.” And we shake on it. I mean, how could the US lose? We were considered a much better team than the Hondurans, and throughout the history of the two teams playing, we virtually always won. I was pretty sure I’d be sipping my three liter and bragging to everyone I could find by the end of that game. But sometimes things don’t turn out like you plan… Just a few minutes after I jumped up and yelled goal, every Honduran in the place erupted into cheers as Juan Carlos Garcia flipped around backwards and scored on a bicycle kick. Oops. Well that’s not good. But so what, no way we’re gonna lose this. We’re America. However as the second half of the game continued, the combination of Central American heat and great Honduran footwork proved to be too much for the US to handle, and as the minutes winded down I watched in horror as Honduras punched in another goal and finished the game in a 2-1 victory. And man was everyone excited. Kids jumping up and down, yelling and screaming, and threatening to grab me and throw me in the ocean was just the start. The next morning I had to drive to town to pick up the Honduran school teachers, and for the whole 20 minute drive back they had to retell the story of the game, as if I had forgotten it. That whole week kids were constantly coming up to me and asking me what the score of the game was. “Uh, sorry guys, I forgot,” was normally my reply. As I walked through the neighboring village one of the men asked me if I needed a shot of whiskey to help drown my sorrows, and while it might have actually helped, I passed. And of course, as I promised, I had to buy Carmen her three liter of Coke, which I’m sure she thoroughly enjoyed while replaying that bicycle kick over and over again in her head. 

While soccer is one of the most storied traditions of Honduras, the volunteer house at the Finca has a few of its own customs, although they’re a quite bit stranger. Probably one of the most infamous is the rapid loss of weight among male volunteers. That’s right, if you wanna lose weight, just head down to Trujillo, Honduras, start on the strict diet of rice, beans, and tortillas, and the pounds will soon start falling off. No one can really say exactly why, but basically all male volunteers drop at least a few pounds during their time there, and most drop quite a bit. So while we were sitting around discussing this in the kitchen one day (really thrilling conversation, I know) I thought to myself, why don’t we really put this nonsense to an end and have a weight gaining competition. So I discussed it with Kevin #1 and Kevin #2, the other two male volunteers in the house, and we decided that for the next fifty days, we would stuff ourselves with every parcel of food we could find and see who could pack on the most pounds. The winner could have their choice of an entire chicken and three liter of coke, or a huge jar of peanut butter, both very coveted prizes. And off to the races we went. For the next fifty days we literally ate everything we could find. If there wasn’t much lunch in the volunteer house one day, we would sneak off to one of the kid's houses and beg them for any leftovers. In fact, for quite a while there I had a steady stream of 3 o’clock snacks coming from House 4. And by snack I mean an overflowing plate of rice, beans, tortillas, eggs, vegetables, and possibly a chicken leg if I got lucky. I supplemented my meals with an extremely unhealthy amount of soda, and Kevin #2 supplemented his by doing 3 sets of push presses with the 25 lb steel door to our outdoor oven each night. We even got to take advantage of the Christmas and New Years feasts during our competition. But soon the fifty days began to wind down, and while my pants still fit, I was confident that I had tucked away a couple extra pounds and could come away with a victory. Even at the midnight cut-off before weigh-in, I ate a quesadilla, a plate of rice and beans, a couple protein bars, five eggs, and three quarters of a liter of water (which was what I assumed was the maximum I could drink without having to pee in the middle of the night). So there we were, Kevin, Kevin, and myself, at 6:45 Sunday morning, one by one taking our turn with the scale. And the results? Drumroll please… Kevin #2: +1.5 lbs, Kevin #1: -6 lbs, and Harrison: -1 lb. Wait what. After all that, only one of us was able to pack on a measly 1.5 lbs, while Kevin #1 and myself both lost weight? Pitiful. Absolutely pitiful. So the tradition of emaciated male volunteers continues, and I’m looking for a big jar of peanut butter to buy.

"Working"

Just about the time our weight gaining, or rather weight losing competition was ending, another important period was ending at the Finca. Winter. However, winter in Honduras has a little different meaning than winter in the US. There’s no snow, there’s no ice, heck, I don’t think the temperatures ever get below 60. But what they do have is rain. And lots of it. In November and December, I think I could have counted the number of days we didn’t have rain on one or two hands. Some days a little, some days a lot, but pretty much every day there was something. And while that may seem like a little bit of a downer to us, winter is the most joyous time of year for the kids. But not because of the rain. For them, winter means no school. Because of the problems constant rain can cause, the three month break from classes happens from November to January each year. At the Finca, however, winter vacation entails more than lying on the beach or playing soccer all day. It entails work. Each day, all of the kids 11 years and older work at least 3 hours. Work spans all sorts of things like chopping wood, raking leaves, painting, cleaning the school, and distributing food to the different houses, just to name a few. They get a break for Christmas and break for New Years, but other than that, they’re pretty much working. And each day while they work, they’re awarded points based on how hard and how quality their work is. Over time these points add up, translate into money, and at certain times the kids can go into town and buy little things, with the idea being that they learn how hard work pays off, and the harder you work, the more you can gain. So one day I’m sitting down talking to one of the girls about all the points she’s accumulated and what she wants to buy. “Well, after working hard all winter, it looks like you’ve got about 150 Lempiras (Seven dollars) to spend in town this Friday. What do you think you’ll buy?” I ask her. “Hmm,” she thinks, “Well what would 5 chips and 5 juices cost?” I’m sure I gave her a blank stare. I mean, I’ve seen kids spend their money on some pretty dumb stuff before, but this one might take the cake. She works hard all winter break, and wants to spend her money on a bunch of junk food. “I think that would take about all the money you have,” I say, hoping she’ll change her mind. “Okay, then I think that’s what I’ll get.” Well... Okay… At least she’s young. Maybe she’ll get a little smarter as time goes on. But then, right before I walk off, it occurs to me. She has four brothers and sisters here at the Finca. She wanted to buy chips and juice for all of them. She wanted to spend her entire savings from that winter just to buy a little snack for her brothers and sisters.

I think the idea of founding the Finca was for the adults to teach the kids what it means to be loving Christians in a rough place like rural Honduras. But more often than not, I find, they are the ones teaching me what real love looks like. Logically speaking it’s rather dumb to blow all your cash on chips and juice. I think when I was a kid I was always saving my money to buy the next big toy that came out or the next football card to add to my collection. But that was me thinking about me. Me loving me. And that’s not how Jesus loved. Jesus loved wrecklessly, even foolishly by our rational American standards. He roamed around Palestine with his friends. He lived homeless. He didn’t turn stones into bread when he was hungry in the desert. He turned water into wine at the party at Cana. He loved others wrecklessly. Foolishly. Selflessly. Purely. And here I am at 25 years old, a volunteer missionary, being taught that lesson by a 12 year old. 

Kevin #1, myself, and the older boys doing a little swimming.