Dearest Rachel –
You remember my reaction to the scattering of trash on the roads of Honduras when I was down here last time, and I’d mentioned about the ‘broken windows’ theory of governance in passing a few days ago. Well, on Thursday afternoon, I’d intended to put that theory into practice while dealing with the situation that had gotten under my skin in the process. I’d fully intended, as part of the No Hungry Home walk, to do my part to improve the neighborhood by picking up trash along the way while we were out delivering food and other necessities to homes nearby. I’d even packed a box of full-sized black garbage bags, and a grabber I’d requested for a Christmas present to do the job.
But it turns out that this isn’t a task that can be managed while carrying a bag laden with household consumables. So for the first few blocks (if you can call them that, given the haphazard layout of El Socorro) of our walk, I simply had the grabber slung over my shoulder like a rifle, as if I were a soldier on parade. Although, with the road as irregularly sloped and muddy as it was, it was the sort of march that would have gotten me drummed out of the corps.
At least I was able to drop off my bag at the first house we stopped at – an elderly matriarch named Apollonia, who asked for consideration as she dealt with an unspecified (and probably undiagnosed) illness – possibly because no one else was prepared to be the first to offer to pray for the family we were visiting (not that I was either). Granted, once I did so, there were several who volunteered to do so multiple times thereafter. Apparently, I made it look easier than they feared it would be, although not through myself; I merely followed the pattern suggested by Scott as each of the teams set out. I should point out that it was nowhere near the first house we passed; ours wasn’t the hardest route of the lot (unlike last time), but it was by no means the easiest, either. And the sloppy weather of the last few days made it considerably more difficult than I recall the “hardest” route being when I was doing this hike back in July.
Nevertheless, I was free of the burden of carrying my bag of essentials, and could proceed to load up my garbage bag instead. Or at least, so I thought.
If I was to keep up with the group, I would have to dispense with any thoughts of picking up every last scrap of garbage that we passed along the way. In fact, it got to the point where, between the weight of the bag itself, along with my jacket (which I’d had to shed to carry with me, as the exertion had gotten me rather sweaty), I had to give up on picking up anything at all – even during sections where we were doubling back on our route, thereby in theory giving me a second chance at clearing detritus from the road – because it was getting to be too much to balance everything I was carrying and keep from losing my footing on the slopes and the mud.
It was disappointing to not actually be able to do what I’d meant and planned to do, but it clearly wasn’t feasible to do. For all the effort of bringing the equipment for the task, it only slowed us down from the real task at hand, and didn’t really make a dent in the ground clutter that so bothered me in the first place. I’d meant well, sure, but I’d meant well rather poorly, I think.
Then again, I don’t know I would have known that this wouldn’t work until such time as I’d have made the attempt. Better to try and discover that an idea wouldn’t work, than to just have it eat at me as something I ought to do and not try. I’d like to think that the effort would afford me some credit; but then again, maybe this is just what Isaiah had in mind when he described our futile attempts at manufacturing righteousness on our own. As far as that goes, I’m glad to not have to count on some sort of credit like this to put myself in God’s good graces.
In any event, I’d appreciate an eye on me, honey – and on Apollonia, if you could – and a wish for luck for the both of us. We’ll both be needing it, to one extent or another.
Letters to Rachel 