I wasn’t going to blog tonight, but when I got this picture out, I thought an explanation might be interesting. This is a group of boys who live in El Conejo, Honduras. I was there for about eight months, as a volunteer at a certain mission. Tragedy struck; I tried, in my youthful idealism, to make the place better, and when it didn’t seem to happen, I wrote to the Guy in Charge, and was kicked out. Drat. All I wanted was for the families to get to go to Mass… It was a Catholic mission, after all.

The real excitement was that, when I happened to be kicked out, the house leader was leaving to visit his brother for Easter. I was told to leave before he did, and he was leaving in 36 hours. The only people I knew outside the mission were in another mission nearby – people I met two years earlier, and with whom our mission was forbidden to associate. (Of course, in heading to Honduras, I had to end up at the “bad” mission – the other was associated with the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal. Mine was a random Franciscan priest.) So, I tried to get in touch with them, but of course, they weren’t around; a lot happens in Honduras around Easter, and phones go unanswered.

I desperately planned around how much money I had left, how many people I might possibly know and whether I could sketch for cash in the city square. I had my room packed up, said all my goodbyes – which was horribly unexpected for all of us; anyone who has broken a promise to a child knows how it would be to tell sixty children that I’m leaving a month early. I had my plane ticket already for a month later, though I suppose the easiest way would have been to change the date on the ticket and paid the fine; I just never thought of it. Worst of all, there was a group of Americans down, having to be led around to the sites and taken shopping and taken to work, so everyone had to keep up the cheery atmosphere and I didn’t have a lot of opportunity to say goodbye to any of my fellow volunteers.

Just when I had resigned myself to my fate and had started almost enjoying my position as martyr, the house director got a call from the Guy in Charge. “Was Catherine the tall one?” he wanted to know. “She was a decent person, and he was sure that the house director knew best whether to let me stay or go. The decision was up to him.” (I don’t think it’s the only time my height has saved me.) So, with loud acclamation, I was welcomed back into the bosom of the mission, despite my misdemeanours and idealism. It was nice to spend Easter there, but I still didn’t feel that I was on solid footing, so I ended up making contact with the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal and their organization, and spent the last couple weeks painting murals for them. I’ll show you guys the murals some other time.