If we could only offer them enough love and stability and peace in the midst of the tempest around them and behind them in their past, they might have a fighting chance, we believed. Our goal was to prepare them for healthy and productive lives in Honduras, despite the brutal and heartbreaking childhood they had suffered. “It was not safe” is all he would say.ĭuring my two years in Honduras, I learned to love those kids at our children’s home like they were my own. He was thrilled to see me again but cautioned me not to take the bus next time. Years later, when I moved to a town just on the other side of that mountain, I jumped on the bus to visit Luis and his family. He had a wife and young son, a good job, a community where he was making a difference he could not imagine leaving. When I asked if he had ever thought of making the journey, he shook his head. There was no shame in his voice it was simply a fact. I once asked Luis if many of the young men in his village would eventually leave for the United States. With determination and a good heart, one could be a pillar of the community-a community worth staying for. Luis and his wife stood out as towering examples of what was possible even amid extreme poverty. He returned in time for breakfast and prayers and to greet us in the morning at the school. He had taken a neighbor who had stomach pains to the hospital in the middle of the night-more than an hour’s drive each way, around to the other side of the mountain. One morning he greeted us with bags under his bloodshot eyes. He ran the school, helped settle disputes, led the community Bible study and Sunday service, and as one of the only residents with a car, also provided ambulance service. Luis was the closest thing the small village had to a mayor.
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For a week, I helped lead a group of high school students from all of the Catholic schools in the Diocese of Dallas who wanted to offer some manual labor and supplies to our “sister diocese.” In the shadow of a massive green mountain, we worked to rebuild and paint a crowded school where Luis, our local guide, and his wife were teachers. When my taxi finally did arrive, he holstered his gun and offered an apology, but I did not stick around long enough to acknowledge it.īefore I moved to Honduras, I visited the country. “I can go wait on another block,” I offered. I wanted to go back inside the seminary, but the 15-foot-high gate had slid closed behind me, and I could not open it again without waking up all the priests, nuns and seminarians inside. “Nothing good happens here this time of night.” Surrounding us were houses that were mansions even by U.S. “Then why would you be waiting here on the street?” he asked. “What are you doing here?” He squinted at me, blinking back sleep. Paradise and hell are next-door neighbors, and you can hear the gunshots at night from both places. He climbed down from his turret on the street corner and approached me with a machete in one hand and a raised revolver in the other. The security guard saw me standing outside the seminary where I had spent the night as a guest. I first had a gun pointed at me while waiting for a cab before dawn in the wealthiest neighborhood of San Pedro Sula, the industrial center of the country and, at the time, the “murder capital” of the world. We learned firsthand that paradise and hell are next-door neighbors, and you can hear the gunshots at night from both places. On Christmas Eve, New Year’s, Independence Day, in every barrio across the country, shots echo in the dark like a posse galloping out of town in an old Western.įive years ago, I left the States to volunteer alongside other Americans and Nicaraguans at a children’s home on the northern coast of Honduras that served orphans and kids who could no longer live with their families due to extreme poverty, abuse or both. On holidays, there are no official fireworks, only a handful of illegal firecrackers and gunshots exploding in the night air. When you enter a pharmacy, the guard with a shotgun slung across his chest will considerately hold your pistol while you wait for your prescription to be filled. There is an armed security guard at every Dunkin’ Donuts in Honduras.
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