That’s my garden above. It’s growing. And so am I. But I want to talk about Jerusalem. La Paz is situated on sloping hills that rise up gradually to high mountains from the Comayagua Valley floor. On its upper outskirts, on steep hillsides and arroyos, rock-impregnated dirt streets meander among simple adobe and concrete-block homes of many poor people: what most westerners would call classic third-world conditions. Donkeys, cows, pigs and chickens roam free and few folks own a vehicle. I have been accompanying my friend Celeste on Sunday mornings after church and sitting in as she teaches catechism classes to several children. They’re preparing for their First Communion. I was, however, struck by an epiphany last Sunday. I have volunteered with Sister Edith’s Fundación for at-risk children for the past seven years and helped to raise their level of existence. At Celeste’s side I have melded into the poverty-stricken Barrio Jerusalén at its most basic level. For now, I will devote my energies to these poor children and their families. My heart breaks every time I walk into Jerusalem.
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