Pigs, Potholes, and the Road to Forever: A Journey from Sheol to Eternity

By Mary Fox

Pigs, Potholes, and the Road to Forever takes place in La Concepcin , a barrio in a poverty stricken village of Honduras. This fictional biography of Maria, an American seeking her place in life, depicts the truth of poverty through humor, sadness and the reality of living in a third world country. The story unfolds as Maria begins her final week of service and is contemplating her upcoming return to the United States. Had her journey finally come to an end? Or was it just beginning?


Mary Fox is the author of Teach Me Thy Holy Will: A Spiritual Journey (Xlibris 2007.) She currently resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico with her husband and daughter

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 20, 2008
• ISBN: 9781477168042

Mary Fox

Mary Fox’s journey to God began with her education in Christian Junior and Senior High Schools. She continued her Christian education through College, graduating in 1983 with a B.S. in Biology and Secondary Education. Mary spent two years teaching science and algebra in private Christian high schools and more than 25 years teaching Spanish in a variety of private and business settings. In 1999, she made her first mission trip to Honduras. She began spending her annual vacation serving at Casa de Belen, a parish community in La Paz, Honduras, in 2001. She currently resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

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Copyright © 2008 by Mary Fox.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2008900060

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4363-1556-2

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4771-6804-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Photo: Saguaro National Park, Arizona (2007)

Copyright © 2007 by Krista Engholdt

Used with permission.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

PROLOGUE

INTRODUCTION

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Meditation

Quotations to Live By

PHOTOGRAPHER

COVER PHOTO

Endnotes

I thank God daily for guiding me to my current position in life.

Daily He remains my comfort, my guide, and my support.

All praise and glory be to our Lord Jesus Christ!

—Amen.

I dedicate this book to the many friends and family members

who have made my journey in life that much easier to walk.

I will forever be in their debt.

I especially thank my husband, Jon, who not only supports my

desire to write but also encourages me to set aside time to do so.

I am also grateful to my daughter, Juana, who so patiently allows

me to finish each last sentence before we start our days together.

I thank my editors and reviewers Jill Owens, Linda Turner, Krista Engholdt, Susan Lupien and Pauline Fitzgerald who honestly offered their thoughts and opinions as we worked to complete every detail of the cover and interior. Many thanks also to Lisa Cordero, Marian Giblin, Cheree Bertalan, Rose Lopez, Maureen Sorensen, and Diana Gallant for offering their expert opinion regarding details on the cover.

Finally, I thank my friends in the barrio of La Granja, La Paz,

Honduras, who allowed me to live amongst them and welcomed

me into their lives. It is through them that I found my path.

*     *     *

May our Lord Jesus bless you in your life!

Mary Fox

In Loving Memory

Don Abel

Don Oscar

Chiana

and the many other men, women and children of La Granja

who have passed into eternity while on their journey through poverty

PROLOGUE

Pigs, Potholes, and the Road to Forever, although written as a biographical fiction about the main character, Maria, reflects many of the author’s actual experiences. Mary Fox began serving in the mission field of Honduras in Septembers 1999. Her experiences from that first visit until her marriage in 2005 were the inspiration needed to seek the vocation and will of God for her life. Pigs, Potholes, and the Road to Forever focuses on the last four days of her final mission trip to Honduras, Central America, before returning to the states to be married. Through the recall and contemplation of Maria, author Mary Fox provides insight into the poverty of a third world country via humorous, sometimes sad, and often challenging, events.

The scripture references that open each chapter are from Psalm 116, a Psalm suggested for Mary’s reading in the year 2000 by a priest confessor. After meditating on the passage, she realized it reflected her own life’s walk. The words of Psalm 116, combined with her Honduran experiences, set in motion her journey to seek God’s vocation for her life.

Mary hopes that those who read this book will be encouraged to seek the will of God in their own vocation, whether it to single life, married life, missionary life, or consecrated life. Her desire is that the stories reflected on these pages might also give wisdom to those already on the path to the mission field and strength to those willing to serve, on a limited basis, in the field or at home.

All scripture references, unless otherwise noted, are from the

New American Version of the scriptures.

INTRODUCTION

Mornings in Honduras were similar to a field of daisies in one’s dreams—flowers stretching to reach the light of the sun, humming birds darting here and there gathering pollen before the heat of the day forces them back to their nests. Mornings were quiet, with the braying of donkeys sounding in the distance, birds chirping joyously all around, an occasional cow passing by. By dawn, even the dogs’ howling reduced as they sought places to sleep off the approaching heat.

Surprisingly enough, given that Maria was not in anyway a morning person, mornings in Honduras ended up her favorite time of the day. Sitting in the chair listening to the chirping of the morning birds and the fluttering of the hummingbird wings, she could look out over the vast valley and see the distant beautiful, blue, mountains, covered in a slight haze. Mountains rose from nowhere, in the village of Las Lunas—majestic and peaked. They surrounded the valley with beauty and color.

In the morning, the mountains appeared blue, reflecting the early morning light. By 10 AM, their grandeur reflected the blues and greens of the large evergreens covering their surface. In the afternoon, even the evergreens appeared brown as the heat of the day consumed everything in its path. Yet, as in the morning, it was the dusk of evening when the mountains regained their majesty and stature.

This particular morning Maria sat contemplating her Honduran experiences. In a few short days, she would return to the United States. Her fiancé, Jason, awaited her return. Their wedding date was set for one month later. As she sat observing the beauty before her, a comment a young teen said almost six years earlier came to mind:

Maria, I don’t want to go home. Can’t I just stay here forever?

The young teen, and two other young women of similar age, were with Maria on a mission trip to Flores, Honduras. The four had completed three weeks of helping the poor, serving the missionaries that lived at the complex, and perfecting their own Spanish skills. In the heat of their cinderblock room, they were packing suitcases for their return to the United States. While the other two girls were out on an errand, Marissa, the youngest of the three young women, had initiated the conversation.

Maria had paused a moment, caught off guard by the comment, before continuing the conversation: Now, Marissa, why would you want to stay here? You’re the one who won’t eat the food and complains about the heat. Why would you say such a thing? Don’t you want to see your family?

Marissa opened a dresser drawer and grabbed out a stack of folded shirts.

Honestly, I would rather stay here. It’s so peaceful. I feel so close to God.

Marissa, you can be close to God at home, too, you know.

Maria pushed her overflowing suitcase from the bed to the floor and sat down on it.

Maybe the closeness you feel right now will remain with you, even at home.

Marissa’s frustration reflected in her random shoving of shirts into any open pockets she could find in her already overflowing duffle bag.

No, that won’t happen. It can only happen here.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, her head down, quiet, and sad.

Why do you say that?

After a moment of silence, she looked up again, and spoke softly: Because, here, there are no distractions between me and God.

Oh, how true that was! For three weeks, the four women lived without a television, without access to a radio or the newspaper, without any source of electric necessities of life like washing machines, food blenders, or hair dryers. For the first time in all of their lives, they began to hear God in the silence of the world around them. Marissa’s desire to remain in Honduras, to escape the complications of her own life in the United States, only proved that living without material things could be a good thing.

Maria loved the mornings in Honduras. She loved leaning back in the chair, breathing deeply, filling her lungs with the fresh, cool morning air. Every thing was so still, so inviting, so peaceful. The only noises heard in the silence of the hour was God’s nature speaking: an occasional rooster crowing in the distance, dogs barking their final bark as they moved about seeking shade for the day, and donkeys reminding their owners to move them back into greener pastures for food. The silence of God’s nature stilled her soul.

In the quietness of the cool, morning air, the words to a song written to incorporate the prayers of Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta came to mind:

In the silence of the heart God speaks. Do small things with great love. The fruit of silence is prayer. The fruit of prayer is faith. The fruit of faith is love. The fruit of love is service. The fruit of service is peace. In the silence of the heart God speaks. Let God fill us with all that we seek. Do small things with great love.¹

In the silence of the heart, God speaks—so true, she thought. Just as Marissa said, there are no distractions here. Marissa had heard God in the silence of this poverty-stricken land—where she could not at home. It took eliminating the distractions to find the silence. Marissa had come to this conclusion, and she was a mere 15-year-old.

Leaning back in her chair, Maria meditated on the two thoughts: eliminating distractions, and doing small things with great love. As one surrounds herself or himself with silence, prayer emerges. Sure, one can always pray—anywhere, anytime, anyhow. Nevertheless, in reality, prayer is born in the quietness of one’s heart. Sitting in the stillness of God’s nature empowers one to pray. How could anyone sit in this beauty and not pray, not contemplate God, not reflect on His love? Maria closed her eyes, basking in the love of God, which penetrated through the stillness of the morning.

As prayer life increases, so does faith. The more time one spends in quiet, reflective prayer, the stronger the faith and the walk in faith.

The fruit of faith is love. The fruit of love, service. Just think, all of that from silence—love, faith, service. Blessed Mother Theresa of Calcutta most surely knew what it took to grow in love and service to God.

As Maria sat motionless, meditating on that thought, she soaked in the silence of God, mentally preparing for her final week in Honduras. Finally, after years of searching and prayer, the journey to find her place in the world was ending—or, so she thought.

Chapter One

I loved the Lord, who listened to my voice in supplication, who turned an ear to me on the day I called.

Psalm 116: 1, 2

Originally, mission trips to Honduras were to be my manner of serving God. I intended to give of myself for Him, as He constantly gave so much to me. However, as I returned each year to the poor and impoverished of Honduras, a journey towards Holiness surfaced, like a rose bud slowly opening in blossom. I wasn’t seeking it. It just occurred, naturally, as God’s hand held and guided my life.

Holiness is a lifestyle, not an attainable thing. It is an extremely difficult lifestyle to accustom oneself; yet, I felt God leading me in that direction. God is Holy, and in order to be with God, we, too, must be Holy; but even if we obsess ourselves with the effort to be Holy, living the lifestyle seriously, forever, Holiness will most likely not occur—at least not in our lifetime. Even the Apostle Paul tells us in Philippians 2: 5-6, Have among yourselves the same attitude that is also your’s in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God something to be grasped.

Yet, as hard as Holiness may be to attain, it cannot be ignored and must be sought. Christ made Himself like us to show that it was worth the effort. The Apostle Paul continues in his letter by saying, ". . . rather, he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, coming in human likeness; and found human in appearance, he humbled himself, becoming obedient to death, even death on a cross" (Philippians 2:7-8).

If I really think about it, my own journey to Holiness began in 1995, with the death of my spouse. There are no two ways about it—death is not a fun experience. Death of a child, death of a friend, death of a parent, and death of a spouse—all death represents pain, loss, and loneliness. There are many ways to analyze death, but when one is going through the experience of such a loss, one does not sit and analyze the situation. No matter what, the suffering survivor is going to feel the death, feel the pain of it, the loss it represents. I was a suffering survivor.

Perhaps growing in Holiness might compare to an encounter with death. Death results in separation from a loved one, a new life without the loved one. Such drastic separation forces a new relationship with God—whether that be good or bad. The path to Holiness is the same. It involves separation from old ways to a new life with new ways, which cannot but include a new relationship with God.

Psalm 116 begins, "I love the Lord, who listened to my voice in supplication, who turned an ear to me on the day I called" (v 1-2). When my journey began, I was not aware of this particular verse; yet, the words echoed my heart’s response as I healed from grief and began to live life again—alone. With these words, I started down the path towards Holiness.

In the very early stages, I didn’t recognize my walk as heading towards a goal of Holiness. Yet, I’ve come—and gone—a long ways from where I was both physically and spiritually when this process began back in 1995 and I can fully say, when I called for help from our Lord, He turned an ear to me and heard. By the time I was ready to acknowledge my new path of life, I was in the poverty-stricken country of Honduras, serving each summer as a short-term lay missioner.

LAS LUNAS, HONDURAS

As was my custom each day, in the coolness of the early morning, I sat out front of Hogar Benedicto complex, near the entrance to the church, enjoying the silence of God’s creation. In the distance, first one and then another small brown body emerged from shack like homes to perform their morning rituals of feeding the chickens, raking their dirt yards, and walking tortilla masa to the local mill. My hour of silence was quickly ending. Neighborhood dogs curled up under trees and chickens cackled and clucked as the life around me began to wake up. The bright rays of the rising sun stretched for the heights of the sky.

If I learned anything during my stay as short-term missioner in Honduras, I learned that if there was work to do, the early morning hours were the time to do it. By mid-morning, the sun was high in the sky, and burned hot on the skin. An hour had passed since I began my moment of silence on the bench in front of the church. I could feel the dampness of the air tingle and dance on the tiny hairs of my arm. Although I hated to leave such peace, there were many things to accomplish—and the sun was quickly rising.

I laid my hands flat on the open Bible and said my final prayer. "Oh God, my God. I adore thee. Enlighten me, guide me, strengthen me, console me. Teach me what it is that I am to do, then demand that I do it. I promise to be submissive to all that you permit to occur to me, only teach me your holy will." ²

Good-bye, Maria!

Antonio, a tall, handsome young man, carrying a knapsack over his shoulder, interrupted my thoughts. Amazingly white teeth dazzled his smile.

See you later, Maria!

Antonio’s brother, Hector, not quite as tall, but perhaps the more handsome, came running up from behind to catch up with his brother.

A little late today, aren’t you? I called after the two brothers.

The young men of this complex had become like my own children to me. Their smiles, their joyous ways, always encouraged me at my loneliest moments. Although I was not their mother, I felt inspired to be the role model a mother would be to them.

Sure are, Maria, Hector responded amidst gasps for breath as he hurried to catch up to his brother. Antonio was obviously the more athletic of the two, as Hector was already wheezing in his effort to catch up.

Better hurry. It’s already almost 7:30. A tap on my watch only emphasized what they already knew—they were late.

Yes, Maria, you’re right. See you later!

Good-bye, Antonio! Bye, Hector! Study hard today!

The two young men waved as they hurried up the road. I heard the scuff of their shoes on the dusty, rocky road as their fast pace turned into a jog. As difficult as it must have been to run in shoes, their school uniform did not include sneakers. The brothers were quite late in their departure and had only a short time to cover the four miles to school.

Antonio and Hector grew up in the Chinacla area of Honduras—a very mountainous region in the southwestern section of the country, near the border of Salvador. The brothers were living at the complex in order to obtain a higher level of education. Most mountain villages did not offer an education above the sixth grade. The village where these boys came from offered education up through the eighth, making it an exception to the rule. Nonetheless, Antonio and Hector would stay with Friar Alberto, the friar running the Hogar Benedicto complex, until they completed the rest of their high school years—barring unknown future circumstances, of course. The flatlands of Las Lunas provided more opportunity for such higher education than their homeland in the mountains.

I sat back for one last gaze at the majestic Honduran mountains before me. One of my fears, as I considered the decision to be a short-term missioner at Hogar Benedicto, was that I would not have the spiritual support needed to survive as the only female at a complex full of men. I feared I would not be strong enough to balance my work as missionary, serving the poor of this community, with the need to grow spiritually. Yes, there were times of formal prayer each morning and evening; yet, I was on my own to provide personal spiritual food. Did I have the strength and perseverance to grow—by myself?

God heard my supplication and fear, and turned an ear on me on the day of my call. Since the day I arrived, five months earlier, God had used my need for silence amidst the many distractions of the day to bring me to the front of the complex in the stillness of each morning. Here, He gave me my daily dose of spiritual food via the inspirations of His Word and the beauty of His nature. I closed my Bible, took one last glance at God’s majestic creation, and headed back to my room. The day had begun and chores were in progress. The first person I met as I entered the complex was Mauricio.

Eh, Mauricio! How are you this beautiful morning?

A stout, elderly man struggled with a five-gallon bucket of water. Had water not been such a scarcity, his frustration at not being able to lift the bucket might have resulted in a swift kick to its center, causing, for sure, the spillage of its entire content.

"Bien, bien!"

He tipped a welcome with the grimy ball cap covering his shaved head and displayed a gummy, toothless grin—obviously glad to be distracted from his bucket. In the early hours, all living at the complex and not attending morning classes completed daily chores. This morning, Santiago and Ivan swept the walks, Arsenius raked the grass and Mauricio watered the plants.

So what’s on your list of things to do today, Mauricio? Are you going over to visit your family?

Ha… work… work… I work. Ha… we’ll see. Maybe I go.

Isn’t that a long walk over to San Martin? How long does it take you to get there?

Ha… no… short…

He held up his thumb and index finger, barely a quarter inch apart. Then he put his thumb against his four fingers in front of him mouth and bopped against his lips as if were using his fingers to feed himself. I could only assume this meant he would be back for lunch.

I go… and comeback, he said.

Mauricio was one of three elderly men living at the complex. He was a short, stout, yet very healthy man, about 84 years old. Daily he watered the plants around the complex. Mauricio lived at the complex because his family had thrown him out of his own home.

Mauricio had put his home in the name of his children, hoping to prevent estate problems at his impending death. It seemed a logical thing to do since most Hondurans do not live beyond age seventy-two, and, at the time of the change, he was approaching age seventy-five. However, soon after putting the home in his children’s names, his children showed him the door. They could not afford to feed him, and he was beyond the age of useful employment. It was common to hear of children responding to their elders in this manner—sadly so, but true.

Well, take care, Mauricio. I’ll see you later. Don’t work too hard, okay!

Ha… Ha… !

He waved a hand at me as to brush me off like a fly. His toothless grin flared again as he returned to his watering responsibilities. This man of so few words spoke volumes with one ha!

Everyone at Hogar Benedicto had to work for his keep. Homeless by no choice of their own, none did a better job at their chore than did Mauricio and the two other elderly men on site. Even I, as lay-missioner, had a chore. My work included, but was not limited to, driving a 30-foot long school bus as part of a daily eldercare program. My chore involved two 45-minute drives around the village of Las Lunas—first picking up then dropping off—a group of senior citizens and any charges they may have that day. This same group of elderly spent five days a week, four hours a day, socializing and doing craft projects at Hogar Benedicto. Their charges were any grandchildren left in their supervision that day. The eldercare program goal was to restore dignity to a class of citizens considered useless in their society.

Hola Maria! Good day to you!

Domingo’s cheery voice greeted me as I approached my room on the backside of the complex. He was weeding a flowerbed. My living space was actually one of the best areas in the complex. It was more of a suite than a room. Friar Alberto made sure that it was clean, private, and surrounded with plants and flowers—which continuously stayed in bloom and always looked beautiful thanks to Domingo’s weeding and Mauricio’s watering.

Domingo! What’s up?

Oh, nothing much, Maria, nothing much… just weeding this garden.

Well, you’re doing a great job. It really looks nice. Are we going to be playing guitar for Mass tonight?

Domingo stood up, wiping his muddy, gloveless hands on his trousers. He was smiling, which wasn’t unusual. Domingo always smiled. His smile included two gold stars on his front teeth that sparkled in the sunlight. I had no idea how a poor young man could afford gold stars on his teeth—but gold they were (or at least they looked gold.)

Uh… let’s see. Today is Monday, right? . . . uh… let’s see… uh… , he pondered for a moment, his smile disappearing only as he looked down to think.

Domingo was responsible for the music played during evening Mass. This responsibility offered him opportunity to practice leadership, a skill Friar Alberto felt he was lacking. Domingo completed his high school requirements the previous year, and could only remain at the complex if he held a position of leadership. His charismatic personality was great for the position of Director of Music Ministry; however, his carefree, often lazy attitude, worked against him.

Concluding his thoughts, his eyes turned back in my direction, and he said, No… not tonight, Maria. The Sisters have special music they want to sing tonight. Tomorrow… tomorrow we play.

His smile returned, the gold stars on his teeth reflecting rays of light as his head bobbed up and down while he happily announced his conclusion. Domingo’s joy, no matter what the conversation, always amazed me.

Okay… thanks. Should we practice tonight anyway? I always tried to give Domingo opportunity to practice his new role.

Nah… we don’t need to practice… we go, we sing. No big deal.

Although I knew otherwise, I could only lead the horse to water. I couldn’t make him drink!

Well, got to go… time to get the bus rolling.

Yes, yes, Maria! Yes…

Domingo waved a quick goodbye to me as he knelt back down to continue his weeding. The sun was quickly rising and if he didn’t finish his chores soon the heated rays would add a painful tinge of red to his already chocolate brown skin.

One of my personal goals for my journey to Holiness was to practice charity. Charity, as a virtue, is required of every Christian walk. The Apostle Paul said, in his letter to the Corinthians, that of the three big virtues—faith, hope, and love—love (aka charity) was the greatest (I Corinthians 13: 12-13.) Charity, to me, was even more than love. It is in charity that we say thank you (and nothing more) to someone for the information given to us even though we already knew it. It is in charity that we hug that un-bathed fellow brother or sister and not notice the stench. It was in charity that I made it a