Graciasgiving

     I woke up this morning to an unusually frigid morning for Honduras.  Even Midwestern me broke out the only jacket I brought along.  As my roommate commented, "it'll actually feel like a real Thanksgiving!"  Glad she was able to start the day off in gratitude even if my internal monologue was slightly more cynical.  Bracing the outdoors, I buried myself under a quilt to do my early morning devotions on our back porch.  And so began my first Honduras Thanksgiving.  And what a long, slow, beautiful morning it was.  Gracias Numero Uno: Thursdays are my day off, which was such a blessing to have after our long weekend traveling with the boys.  We had such an amazing trip rafting, cliff jumping, and all sorts of bus bonding, but I was definitely thrilled to have some time to myself.  The extra time also allowed me to skype my family in IL for Thanksgiving breakfast.  It was especially fun for me to see my bro and Christine, since I hadn't seen them since their wedding.  (Although I could have done without the random items my mom enjoyed shoving in the computer screen, not sure what the waving donut was all about... haha, kidding mom--loved every second of your nonsense ;)...).
   Around lunch time, I began helping (more like watching) my roommate to prepare a few things for an American Thanksgiving dinner through a few women in our Bible study.  I would obviously love to spend this holiday with the boys here, but since the Hondurans don't really have the same attachment to pilgrims and Native Americans as we do (or do we really?) there isn't as much of a draw for them to celebrate.  Yes, I was certainly looking forward to filling my belly with the American delicacies (mainly sweet potato casserole), however my plans changed drastically fifteen minutes prior to departure.
     When I walked over to the boys' place to check in on a few things, I found the staff and boys getting ready to depart for "un entierro."  A funeral.  The father of one of the teenage girls next door, a girl who is in my Bible study and soccer outreach, was murdered last night.  Her father, a taxi driver, was murdered by one of the gangs by not paying him "un impuesto"--a gang "tax" of sorts that they'd forced him to pay.  Keyla, beautiful sweet Keyla, lost her father to the violence of the city.
     When I arrived at the funeral, I couldn't help but notice by the faces of those around me that death was no stranger here.  Other than immediate family, many people's expressions gave the impression that this was just like any other gathering.  There were even a few venders selling some sort of pudding.  Murder yesterday, funeral today.  So fast, so a part of life's rhythm... A crowd of 100 or so were gathered for the ceremony--a shoulder to shoulder huddle around the dirt mound with people shuffling forward to catch a glimpse of the man praying over the casket.  Keyla stood with a fierce, contemplative expression as she and her mom watched in a daze.  At first everything seemed like a hurried activity--but then, the prayer.  With an ever increasing voice, the man who was praying kept speaking "Gracias a Dios... Gracias a Dios." Gratitude after gratitude, praise after praise, the man praying kept lifting up all the things we have to be thankful for.  I could hear the crowd around me mumbling and speaking their own praises and thanksgivings to the Lord until a somber yet sweet song started to break through.  At first I couldn't tell if it was people or angels--it was such a beautiful song.  I couldn't help but marvel at the strength of those around me.  In the midst of such injustice, suffering, and pain, the song that broke through with such honesty and beauty was a song of praise.  Thanksgiving in its purest form.
     After the prayers and songs began to fade, a few mourning women let out their heavy wails, people scurried forward to snag a peek at the descending casket, and Keyla and her mom embraced in a prolonged hug.  Rather than join the rubbernecking crowd (being the only white girl with a head of cornrows and a bright yellow sweatshirt already draws enough attention--I'd rather not appear like a funeral tourist...), I stayed aside and listened to the thuds of the dirt hitting the casket.  Thud.  Thud.  Thud.  Another body.  Another life.  Another death.
     As the dirt kept piling up, the people started to trickle out... As I watched the people part, I was confronted with the reality of our mortality and how life goes on...  From dust to dust... But beyond that, I was reminded of the deep gratitude that is mine as a believer in Christ.  Praise the Lord that he has conquered death.  Praise the Lord that there is hope beyond the grave.  Gracias.  Gracias. Gracias.  Every day belongs to the Lord, and every day is worthy of praise.  Thank you, Lord, for another day, but thank you that when it is my last here on earth, it is my very first in the wonderful, extraordinary life to come.  In the meantime, comfort those who are tasting the bitter fruit of death, and give them hope that there is life to come.
     And now, hours later, not only did the Lord shake up my afternoon plans, but he even allowed me to have my Thanksgiving dinner with my beautiful Micah family (even if they didn't know it was Thanksgiving dinner).  Whether they know it or not isn't important to me, but I know.  And for each and everyone here that I was able to share this day with, I am eternally grateful (literally).