Late night Margarita.

As I said in my previous blog the mid-way point is here. Sometimes it seems like I stepped onto the plane in Atlanta, Georgia headed to Nicaragua about 5 months ago. Yet, looking back on my time here it seems to have flown by. There is nothing more to look forward to like mid-way debrief. Not that there is nothing to look forward to in general. There just isn't anything to set a plan of time on. The next big move is our plane ride home. I only have as much time here now as the amount that I have already spent here. This tends to frighten me. I think that I have looked at this trip in a different way than most people would have. I came on this trip only thinking about what it would be like when I got back. Like, who I would be, who would I hang out with, what changes would be made in my life, and what I would look like when I got home. Instead of thinking about how I would change, what would change me, and what my community would look like here. I was more excited for my time in Nicaragua to be over before it even started, than I am now. I'm not ready to leave. Now all I can think about is how little time I have left, and the impact that this place has had on me, and the people that have touched my soul.

There are only a few times in my life that I have weeped. This just so happens to be one of those times. A time that is hard to remember and hard to forget. We had just eaten dinner in Granada for one of our last nights there. Our group had gone their separate ways after dinner. The Eskimo ice cream cravers, and the too full to function. I was surprisingly not in the ice cream cravers group. I was with Alisa and Saleena and we were walking back to our Hostal. As we were making our way back a woman caught my eye. A thin, young woman in torn and tarnished clothes. She was holding a small boy on her lap who appeared to be sleeping. They were laying on the steps in the doorway of an old building. I will never forget the look in her eyes. I had to stop. I had to do something. I told the girls that I wanted to talk to her. If nothing else I at least wanted to give her the last little amount of cords that I had left. They agreed. We walked over to her and I handed her the small amount that I had. I crouched down by her. She gratefully accepted my presence, and my gift. The closer I got, the more my heart sank. We asked her what her name was. She said it was Margarita. We asked her if we could pray for her in broken spanglish. She said yes, and as we all started to pray I noticed that the cloth covering them was moving beyond the small boy. There was another baby boy completely covered up under the blanket. I hated knowing that another child was added to the harsh conditions. I truly felt the spirit of God, and an abundant amount of God's love while we were praying. But that didn't seem like enough. What else could I do? While I dug in my purse Alisa gave her a water. I found wet wipes, kleenex, half a water, and a chicken mask that I had saved from a restaurant that I had eaten at a few weeks ago. I gave her everything that I had in my bag that I thought might be useful, and the chicken mask. She lit up every time she received something new. By this time we were all sitting down beside her. We tried our best to ask her questions. She started talking about her life. Somehow I understood. Tears filled her eyes as she told us that home was not a safe place, because her husband had beaten her and her boys. She also told us that her son had a skin disease. She showed us, and we all cringed at the sight of his small blemished-covered body. At this point my eyes blurred, and tears were falling. We were crying together. She was crying out of hopelessness. I was crying because I hurt for her. I tried to take a deep breath and suck all my emotions back inside. Another boy, about 9 years old came up to us. As she told us he was her son I was thinking "No, not another one..". He shook our hands, and put the chicken mask on. He loved it. I still remember the joy in his face. God really does provide. Even if it's just a chicken mask. A rugged looking man had been walking by a few times. Every time he looked at us Margarita would signal for us to hold our bags tight. When the man would walk by her face would turn white with fear. She finally told us to leave because it wasn't safe. I didn't want to leave her. It was one of the hardest things that I have done here. In the process of walking away Saleena asked her if we could meet her and give her bread the next day. She agreed to meet us at the church in the market. We said our goodbyes, and I thought for sure that this would be the last time that I would ever see this family again. 

I was silent the whole way back. I was sad. I was angry. I was confused. I was dazed. The sniffles turned to tears, the tears to rain, the rain to torrential downpour on my face. Why God? Why this woman? Why this situation? Why couldn't I do more? What would happen to her? Who would her sons grow up to be? Would they even survive? Why was she protecting us? How could she protect herself?

Then it hit me. Maybe God placed us in her life for a reason. Maybe we helped her out more than we knew. The only thing I could do was wait for the morning to come, and continue praying. 

We went to meet her at the church. She wasn't there, and I was really discouraged. We prayed, and waited for awhile. Since she still hadn't shown up so we decided to walk around. A boy came up to me with a huge smile on his face. He was saying something in spanish and pointing to the church. We followed him. Sure enough, there was Margarita walking with her sons. We gave her the bread and she was very thankful, took it, and then said that she had to be going because she was in a hurry to get her sons to school. She hugged us, and went on her way. 

I felt happy. Standing there watching her walk away. Watching her smile holding bread in one hand, and dragging her sons by the other. I knew that we had crossed paths for a reason. I still think about Margarita. I still pray for Margarita. I have a deep passion for women like Margarita. Margarita touched my soul.