And then it was back to the inevitable grind — to the homework, the tests, the deadlines, the meetings. And the people I spent every hour with for the past week suddenly became friendly faces that passed by on my way to class. While you all say more with a hug or a look than you could ever express in words, it did not make the transition back to my daily life any easier.
That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place. And suddenly I understood. Ignacio Companion trips can change you — if you let them. As much as I fell in love with the brokenness of the families at the WBC and the country of Ecuador, I fell in just as much love with the brokenness of the people experiencing it all alongside me.
We can serve each other simply by challenging the way someone reflects on a certain situation or by supporting a friend in their struggle to overcome an obstacle. And though I may never be together with the people on my IC trip in the same way, at the same time, again, that does not mean what we shared and what we continue to share simply from having known each other is made any less important by the physical distance now separating us.
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Because in any one moment, we can all be in solidarity with everything and everyone around us. In the end, maybe that is what being an Ignacio Companion is all about — about simply being human with one another in the here and now, no matter the distance between us. After months of snow and ice, the Cazenovia College Alternative Break Club was eager to explore the beautiful city of Quito, but no one expected to learn as much as we did from this eye opening experience. From Mitad del Mundo The Middle of the World to the volcanic crater lake Laguna de Cuicocha, we were lucky to see the treasures of Ecuador, but the most important part of our journey was the people we met.
Living at the Center and working alongside the adults and children was an experience I will not soon forget. Many of us had fun as we assembled empanadas and peeled potatoes with the head of the kitchen, Maria. We were surprised to find out that she is responsible for baking 1, empanadas a day as well as preparing the daily meals for all of the families. Shadowing the volunteers was another great experience.
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Cazenovia students worked with various levels of English classes as well as math classes and special needs students. The hardest part of the classroom experience was to see adults struggle with basic math and other skills that we often take for granted. Seeing these students get the individual help they need and be enabled through education was uplifting.
The work of the volunteers to provide impoverished children with a basic education is not only selfless but the impact is tremendous. Our day in the vocational shops with the students was another special day. Cazenovia students joined students from the University of St. Thomas and spent the day in the bakery, salon, carpentry shop, sewing shop, and automotive shop.
Personally, I have never been so impressed than I was with the group of young boys who worked in the automotive shop. They knew more about cars than I ever will and were excited to teach me how to change a tire, check brakes, and navigate under the hood. The eagerness of these students to learn as much as they can and to apply their skills was an inspiration to all of us.
Volunteers, workers, and students were all so grateful to be at the Center and they taught us to be grateful for all that we have back home. Maria, our tour guide, took us to visit four houses of member families on the outskirts of the city to show us where these families live. Hours of bus rides and many steep ascents up the surrounding mountains brought us to several small two to three room houses.
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Each accommodated as many as eleven people and had two or three beds. Sparse electricity, little running water, and rustic outhouses contrasted drastically to our homes and our dorm rooms at the college. It was hard to imagine what life was like for these families returning home after a long day at work or school. The most dramatic image that resonated with most students was the mother we met living in a three room hut on the top of a muddy hill with a two month old baby.
She was recovering from surgery without proper sanitation and was responsible for singlehandedly caring for the baby while her family was either at work or school.
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The resilience of these families to commute hours to the Center to work or receive their education regardless of how they felt or what the weather was like was incredible. It truly puts our worries and inconveniences in perspective. I am sure none of us will ever complain about the walk to the parking lot again!
These Centers provided elementary education for students as well as adult classes and health services for mothers and their young children. It was extremely moving to see members of the community assist in ensuring the health and education of young children and mothers. We were greeted with cultural songs and dances from the students, and even a few jokes in Spanish. The students were very eager to teach us all that they had accomplished and were kind to give us such a warm welcome.
Staying at El Centro del Muchacho Trabajador was an incredible experience which exposed us to life in another country and taught us about how much a small group of committed individuals can accomplish. We visited the attic of the church where Father Halligan began working with the shoeshine boys of Quito back in and were able to reflect on what they have accomplished in the fifty years they have been established. Currently, the Centers serve families and since they began, they have helped over 30, individuals lift themselves out of poverty.
Approaching poverty from a spiritual perspective gives the tools to families which enables them to work hard and create better lives for themselves. Separated from my own family and friends through distance and time, I formed deep and lasting relationships with the families whom I worked alongside as well as with my fellow volunteers. I remember celebrating Thanksgiving Day at the bakery sharing ice cream cones with my adult education class of four dear Senoras.
I told them about our customs on that day at home, and they told me not to feel sad because they were my family that year. Now, I am about the same age as my adult education students were when I taught them, and I often pray for them and wonder at their tenacity and grace as I experience the ups and downs of motherhood with a small fraction of the challenges that my brave students faced on a daily basis.
I think that my friendships with the families that I worked with at the Center have shaped my perspective on poverty in a way that no other experience could have. The example set forth by Madre Miguel, Madre Cindy, and Padre Juan continues to inspire me to be brave, grateful, and perseverant in life. While I may not be able to visit Quito as often as I would like, Madre knew in her wisdom that they would always be with me in my heart.
My two years at the Center had a direct impact on my career as a Spanish teacher. Madre saw this potential in me too. In my second year at the Center, she motivated me to teach one of the third course religion classes with her, Padre, and Carlos and to help with the retreat that this class takes in the spring.
I stopped drinking and going out with my friends every weekend in Quito that year and spent almost all of my time with the families. Just like Carlos and countless other shoe shiners and families, the Center has been an incredibly transformative experience in my life. Before I left for my first year, my sister Liz gave me an incredible piece of advice: Madre has countless anecdotes about volunteers and their times at the Center. I would always try to talk with Madre after dinner, and she would remember the story of a certain volunteer, the year, and some creative activity or event that the volunteer planned with his or her classes: Well, they showed him.
One of the kids broke his leg! They always led by example. From my time at the Center, I know that all I really need to be happy is to get up, shower, and get to work. I went down thinking that I was going to help people, and they helped me. After visiting Liz at the Center, I knew volunteering there was something I wanted to do.
The August after I graduated from college, I showed up in Quito ready to teach. It turned out that I did a lot more learning than teaching during that year. I learned what inner strength really is. Or, work with a 35 year-old man who is learning how to read, so he can help his children with their homework. I learned what commitment is. I learned just what cooperation and hard work can achieve…6, families moved out of poverty.
She asked us what it meant to us and explained to us why commitment would be so important for us as a volunteer community, and a member of the Family of Families. I knew there was something I was missing in my life when I came to the Center and felt that my commitment to the Center and the families would be part of my personal journey. With that question in mind, I began what would become the next two and a half years of my life. Everyday, no matter how tired, sick or miserable I might have felt, I woke up with a focus, a purpose, and a smile on my face, excited to see my students and what they would bring to the classroom that day.
I pushed myself physically, mentally, spiritually, and emotionally every time my feet touched the ground in the morning, not knowing what challenges or hardships I would face until 8: I came to love each of my students for their own humanity, recognizing in myself my own. I learned what compassion is, how powerful asking someone how their family is doing can be to a person, how to listen, what it means to be present and feel the rain, and the value of sharing in a different culture. I learned what commitment meant. Mother Teresa once said, I have found the paradox that if I love until it hurts, then there is no hurt, but only more love.
As my flight descended into Quito early this January, the nerves and excitement that had been building in my head for the past few weeks seemed to reach a peak. I was by myself, with rusty Spanish two years out of practice and really not much of an idea about what I would be doing for the next week-and-a-half. More and more thoughts began to float around my head as I made my way through customs, but they all seemed to revolve around one pivotal question: What am I doing here? I marveled at the activity bustling around me. I had expected the Center to be a small, self-contained, charity-type organization with the goal of giving access to educational and financial resources to a modest number of families from a couple of neighborhoods in Quito.
What I experienced on my first day and on the days that followed was an institution whose reach extended to all parts of Quito and the surrounding areas, and whose mission was not only to educate and support the working poor of the city, but also to instill a community-oriented spirit in everyone involved at the center, to build a family.
I was surprised and humbled by the fact that I could feel so welcomed by an organization comprised of countless volunteers working full schedules nearly every day all across the city. I forgot my nerves and began to feel like part of a family. So, they both rode the donkey. Now they passed some people who shamed them by saying how awful to put such a load on a poor donkey.
The boy and man figured they were probably right, so they decided to carry the donkey. As they crossed the bridge, they lost their grip on the animal and he fell into the river and drowned. The moral of the story? If you try to please everyone, you might as well The trouble tree The carpenter I hired to help me restore an old farmhouse had just finished a rough first day on the job.
A flat tire made him lose an hour of work, his electric saw quit and now his ancient pickup truck refused to start. While I drove him home, he sat in stony silence. On arriving he invited me in to meet his family. As we walked toward the front door, he paused briefly at a small tree, touching the tips of the branches with both hands. Upon opening the door he underwent an amazing transformation. His tan face was wreathed in smiles and he hugged his two small children and gave his wife a kiss.
Afterward he walked me to the car. We passed the tree and my curiosity got the better of me. I asked him about what I had seen him do earlier. So I just hang them up on the tree every night when I come home. Then in the morning I pick them up again. She glanced down at him and saw that he was carrying a very precious vase that her grandmother had given her.
He continued to insist that he could not get it out. Growing a little concerned, his mother called out to his dad. Dad calmly took control and began gently pulling the arm trying to extract the hand from the vase. He tried loosening it up with soapy water. He then got some vegetable oil from the kitchen and poured it around the wrist and let it seep into the vase.
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He wiggled it some. It still did not budge. Then they heard a clinking sound and his hand slid right out of the vase. They turned the vase upside down and a penny plopped out. I wanted to get it out so I was clutching it in my hand. But when I heard Dad say he would give a dollar to have the vase free, I let go. The cracked pot A water bearer in China had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water. At the end of the long walk from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.
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For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water to his house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do. After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream. That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back, you've watered them.
For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table. Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house. Imagining the little fellow as a person he recalled a few things about the pencil. Always remember these five things - never forget them - and you will become the best pencil you can be!
No matter what else happens, you must continue to write. Naturalists tell us that it stood for some four hundred years. It was a seedling when Columbus landed at San Salvador, and half grown when the pilgrims settled at Plymouth. During the course of its long life it was struck by lightning fourteen times and the innumerable avalanches and storms of four centuries thundered past it. It survived them all. In the end, however, an army of beetles attacked the tree and leveled it to the ground.
The insects ate their way through the bark and gradually destroyed the inner strength of the tree by their tiny but incessant attacks. A forest giant which age had not withered, nor lightning blasted, nor storms subdued, fell at last before beetles so small that a man could crush them between his forefinger and his thumb.
There is a parallel in this story which should serve as a warning to us. Most of us can survive times of crisis. We summon the strength of faith or resolve for most any battle that we face head on. Whether it is in our professional or personal lives, we often overcome great obstacles. It is the small things like jealousy, anger, resentment, pettiness and negativity that eat us from the inside, which often bring about our downfall. Harry Emerson Fosdick The seven wonders of the world.
One morning there was a knock on John's door. He opened it to find a man with a carpenter's toolbox. Could I help you? Look across the creek at that farm. In fact, it's my younger brother. Last week there was a meadow between us and he took his bulldozer to the river levee and now there is a creek between us. Well, he may have done this to spite me, but I'll go him one better. See that pile of lumber curing by the barn? I want you to build me a fence - an 8-foot fence - so I won't need to see his place anymore.
Cool him down anyhow. Show me the nails and the post hole digger and I'll be able to do a job that pleases you. The carpenter worked hard all that day measuring, sawing, and nailing. About sunset when the farmer returned, the carpenter had just finished his job. The farmer's eyes opened wide, his jaw dropped. There was no fence there at all.
It was a bridge - a bridge stretching from one side of the creek to the other! A fine piece of work - handrails and all - and the neighbour, his younger brother, was coming across, his hand outstretched. They turned to see the carpenter hoist his toolbox on his shoulder. Stay a few days. I've a lot of other projects for you," said the older brother. One leads to isolation and the other to openness. The other side of the wall. The two lumberjacks It was the annual lumberjack competition and the final was between an older, experienced lumberjack and a younger, stronger lumberjack.
The rule of the competition was quite simply who could fell the most trees in a day was the winner.
Top five regrets of the dying
The last ride I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes, I honked again. Since this was going to be my last ride of my shift, I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked. As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'm tired. We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move.
They must have been expecting her. I wanted to change the world When I was a young man, I wanted to change the world. I found it was difficult to change the world, so I tried to change my nation. When I found I couldn't change the nation, I began to focus on my town. I couldn't change the town and as an older man, I tried to change my family. Now, as an old man, I realize the only thing I can change is myself, and suddenly I realize that if long ago I had changed myself, I could have made an impact on my family.
My family and I could have made an impact on our town. Their impact could have changed the nation and I could indeed have changed the world. We were driving in the right lane when suddenly a black car jumped out of a parking space right in front of us. My taxi driver slammed on his brakes, skidded, and missed the other car by just inches! The driver of the other car whipped his head around and started yelling at us.
My taxi driver just smiled and waved at the guy. And I mean, he was really friendly. So I asked, 'Why did you just do that? This guy almost ruined your car and sent us to the hospital! He explained that many people are like garbage trucks. They run around full of garbage, full of frustration, full of anger, and full of disappointment. As their garbage piles up, they need a place to dump it and sometimes they'll dump it on you. Don't take it personally, just smile, wave, wish them well, and move on.
Don't take their garbage and spread it to other people at work, at home, or on the streets. The two hospital patients Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room's only window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back. The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on holiday.
And every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window. The man in the other bed began to live for those one-hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and colour of the world outside. The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every colour of the rainbow. Grand old trees graced the landscape and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance.
As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene. One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing by.
Although the other man couldn't hear the band - he could see it in his mind's eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words. Days and weeks passed. One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away. As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window.
The nurse was happy to make the switch and, after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone.