It was not how I expected it to be. As we swerved up the protruding mountains, strong aromas of cows and garbage mixed and soaked into our rickety, non-air-conditioned van. I looked out the window to the Honduran people smiling, joking, and waving as they stood on the makeshift "land" packed down solely by garbage trucks year after year. 1,000 people in this place. This horrible shock to us Americans was normal to them; recycling from the city dump was their living. I asked someone where the people slept and they answered, "Some have sleeping bags or cardboard boxes." My heart broke as I realized - not only was this their job, but it was for some, basically their home. I sat in the car looking at the stray dogs running around, vultures flying close, and random cows walking around. We sat there in silence, already overwhelmed. "Usually ladies first, but not this time," someone said. And he got out. I followed him and we stepped out onto the indescribable earth. I looked down at the ground that my shoes were forced to step on. I recognized a coffee cup from the place where we had just been. We started having a service for them as about 100 people gathered in line behind the van, where the soup lay in the trunk. It was very overwhelming as we stood there. I was surprised to see some people sitting down in the trash. Mr. Kuhns preached and prayed for them and then I helped to serve the soup. We made an assembly line where someone scooped the rice, I scooped the soup, and someone else did the spoons. I had served food before but never in a place like this, where people desperately needed it. I vividly remember the very moment we ran out, as I scraped the bottom of the gigantic pot in vain. It was not nearly enough. We had one little cup half-full left, and as we stared at it we felt so guilty about the many people still waiting in line. I had never felt this way before. But i had to tell them. Slowly I turned around, and as I did I made eyecontact with a few people. I quietly trembled out, "Uno mas." But they knew. They knew we were out. Mr. Cressman gave the last cup of soup to someone that I didn't see. And as I looked into their eyes I somehow connected with them. They didn't even protest like I expected. They didn't protest or fight or complain, they just quietly walked away. I looked around and I saw many many more people, who hadn't even bothered to get in line in the first place. They were used to not having enough. Some of my other friends passed out tracts. They saw some people laughing and joking. A husband shared his small little cup with his wife. It was so sweet. By now we had gotten used to the smell. We wanted to talk to the people, but we didn't know how because we only knew a few things in Spanish. I just said "Lo siento" a million times. My friend knew how to say "I like your clothes," but she couldn't say it.. because their clothes were so ragged, dirty and worn. We started to leave, and get back in the van. I would never be the same after this day. In the midst of trash and turmoil, yes there was probably danger but there was also love. Mr. Kuhns preached a message to them. People shared their food. There had been a tiny shack of a church there once. They didn't really have a bathroom or shelter. Their job is digging through trash. But we can pray for them, that they have Jesus. As we drove away I knew I would never forget that horrible, vivid moment of eyeopening grief.
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about the authorAs a 21 year old aspiring teacher, Karissa loves to write, travel, play piano, and read. Many creative things have her heart. archives
November 2021
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