I was nearly overcome with emotion on the ride from the airport to the hotel. I held back the tears that came as an unexpected surprise -- tears borne of everything at once familiar and foreign. I feel like I have come home and I feel I am far from home. I feel like I have a place in this world and I feel like I have no place. I feel like I have come to a real place, the place where all the world lives, not the false place we have built around ourselves in America.
Here it was again: the children selling goods at each intersection, one with a stack of Gideon Bibles, snapping his wrists just so to draw attention. Here it was again: the loaves of bread, phone cards, hedge clippers, bags of purified water, doughnuts, newspapers all sold in the midst of traffic and trotros sporting slogans of faith, like "Heavenly Victory" and curious ones like "Still Staff." Here it was again: the burning pile of trash; the used car lot with European and Korean cars for sale; the cripple at the roadside; the motorbikes carrying people carrying packages on their heads; the people cutting the grass with cutlass (machetes). Here it was again: the poverty amidst plenty; the plenty amidst poverty; the go-go-go of this slow-slow-slow place.
And now I sit with my tears in my hotel room, with its air conditioning and refrigerator, crying for this place -- and the places that are this place. Crying for Kingston and San Pedro Sula and Mexico City and New York City. Oh, New York, you hide so well! I see you more clearly across the Atlantic Ocean.
James (Kwamla)
Here it was again: the children selling goods at each intersection, one with a stack of Gideon Bibles, snapping his wrists just so to draw attention. Here it was again: the loaves of bread, phone cards, hedge clippers, bags of purified water, doughnuts, newspapers all sold in the midst of traffic and trotros sporting slogans of faith, like "Heavenly Victory" and curious ones like "Still Staff." Here it was again: the burning pile of trash; the used car lot with European and Korean cars for sale; the cripple at the roadside; the motorbikes carrying people carrying packages on their heads; the people cutting the grass with cutlass (machetes). Here it was again: the poverty amidst plenty; the plenty amidst poverty; the go-go-go of this slow-slow-slow place.
And now I sit with my tears in my hotel room, with its air conditioning and refrigerator, crying for this place -- and the places that are this place. Crying for Kingston and San Pedro Sula and Mexico City and New York City. Oh, New York, you hide so well! I see you more clearly across the Atlantic Ocean.
James (Kwamla)
1 comment:
Beautifully written description of the mixture of contrasting emotions, lifestyles, cultures and scenery. Made me feel like I was there with you.
God Bless you and the entire mission team!
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