Monday, July 11, 2016

Honduras: July 9

Today, after doing a couple of touristy things (visiting two Catholic churches, eating pupusas and plantains in a street café), we rode to the base of the hill where Diamanté is located. Last year, most of my trip was spent in Diamanté, but this year I have not visited.

We pulled up by a small cinderblock building. On top of the building are two white plastic tanks. This is the well. There is a pump and someone has to turn on the pump and refill the tanks multiple times during the week. Various missionaries and one Honduran pastor handle that.

As soon as we got out of the truck, a man in the field behind us began smiling and waving. He walked across the road and spoke with Tim. Jamie and I stretched our legs and looked up toward Diamanté, the village where I built a memory house in 2015. We chatted about how things have changed from last year and when we may go back to see that house. Tim unlocked the building and went inside.

Then there were two little boys, niños, beside us. Their mothers stood nearby, holding buckets, waiting to draw water from the well and carry it back up the mountain to their homes. I went back to the truck and grabbed a plastic bag one of the other mission groups left behind for us. I pulled out a tennis ball and held it up to one of the boys, saying, “Pelota?”

The boy smiled. I handed a tennis ball to him and one to his friend. Jamie started up a game of catch. More children appeared with more mothers and a few fathers. I gave out all of the tennis balls, one Frisbee, and a bag of toy dinosaurs. I snapped photos while Jamie told one boy to throw the ball, “Tira lo.”

We laughed as the kids missed the balls again and again and finally started trying to catch with their feet. In America, we play some form of catch almost from birth. In Honduras, they play soccer instead. If we’d had a ball to kick, those boys would’ve showed us up. Instead, we were asking them to use their hands, stretching them out of their comfort zones.

Then the tanks were full and there was water.

Water poured from above, overflowing the plastic containers, raining down on us. The women laughed, scrambling to grab buckets and catch the falling water.

I asked Tim how to say “Water from Heaven.”

Agua del paraíso…

Agua del cielo…

As the water poured, I snapped pictures. The women grinned at my camera and laughed with me. The children shouted, ran, threw the ball and giggled when it hit someone or bounced into the tall grass nearby.

“Listo?” Jamie asked the kids.

“¡Sí!” a little boy cried, shrieking with joy.

My heart was fuller than the tanks above the well. My mind drifted to the church family growing back home, The Well @ Lewisburg.

This is why we chose to call our new church The Well. Because when the water is flowing, when joy is falling from heaven, people come. Community forms. Language matters little, because thirst and happiness are experiences universal.

I wiped drops of water from my glasses, and I prayed for drops of joy to be flung far and wide, here in Honduras from the well at Diamanté and back home in Olive Branch from the Well at Lewisburg.

Today, may you be thirsty. And may you drink.

May you be filled. And may you overflow.

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