Reflections on the climb

Up-Hill
by Christina Rossetti

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.


But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.


Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.


Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.


I´ve said in earlier posts that somehow I find the words of others more fitting and more moving than my own when I´m trying to express some profound sentiment. Most of the climb up the Pico Duarte I was thinking about the above poem of Christina Rosetti. In reality, the road up the mountain was, indeed, uphill all the way. It did indeed take the whole long day -- from morn to night. As it was for Rosetti, my own physical journey was metaphor for the spiritual journey. Some reflections then:

1. It ain´t easy. In 21st century USA we seem to have developed a sense that life should be easy, smooth, and problem-free. Maybe it´s because we have found so many ways to protect ourselves from the physical difficulties and discomforts of this world -- we are accustomed to heat in the winter, air conditioning in the summer, ample food when we are hungry (and when we are not), closets full of clothing to choose in whatever weather or season, cars and trains and planes and buses to transport us from one place to another without the effort of walking long distances.
Try as we might to avoid the reality: the road winds uphill. The way is steep and rocky. Sometimes the exertion is arduous, and seems more than we can bear. Here in this country I have been aware, every day, of how much steeper the way is for the average journeyer in the Dominican Republic. So many have little to shield them from the difficulties of life. Some collapse along the way, and give up, because the exertion is too great. But some manage to continue, finding the strength and the determination to put one foot in front of the other.

2. You need a guide. Joel and Rocelio knew the way to the top of the mountain. They loved their work, and counted it a joy to be able to be on the journey to such a remarkable place. Both were confident, sure-footed, and strong. And they watched out for me, doing their best to keep me on the path. And at the point when I was injured, they showed genuine concern.
Such is the spiritual life, too. All who walk the uphill way of the journey in Christ need guides. I have been so blessed to have so many guides and companions on the journey -- guides who have been sure-footed, confident, and strong when I have been weak. I hope and pray that I have been so to those entrusted to my care.

3. Sometimes you need a mule. I doubt that I could have ever have made it to the summit without the aid of Paloma. Although she had something of a mind of her own, in the long run she knew her job and she did it. Without complaint, without asking questions. When I couldn´t walk, she did the walking for me. When I couldn´t carry my own weight, she carried me.
We are so used to being independent, free agents, we forget that we can´t do it all, and we can´t do it all the time. And to be carried by the mule was not a passive endeavor anyway. I had to learn how to shift my weight to counterbalance her movements -- when to lean forward, and when to lean back. And I needed to learn to hold on and trust the instincts of the pack animal.
I am grateful for so many who have carried my weight, when I could not go any further. They are hard working, faithful servants who uncomplainingly, without asking questions, forge ahead, seeking only the most meager of rewards.

4. There is beauty along the way. It wasn´t just the sunrise on the mountaintop that was inspiring. There were flowers along the steepest places in the path. There was the song of wild parrots in the distance, and the tapping of woodpeckers above. There were breathtaking vistas of mountains and valleys. There were remarkable sights, like giant ferns.
So often, when I´m forging ahead, putting one foot in front of the other, I forget to pause for a moment, and notice the beauty around me: the love of friends and family, the sight of some natural wonder, the joy of accomplishment. It is not just the arrival that matters, it is the way itself that matters.

5. It´s important to take care of yourself along the way. Climbing the mountain, arduous as it was, did include moments of rest. We stopped to eat, to catch our breath, and to sleep. Without these moments of refreshment and relaxation, as brief as they might have been, the climb would have been sheer drudgery.
God has blessed me, and the congregation I serve has been generous to provide this period of sabbatical rest for me. But I need to learn a rhythm of work and rest that allows me to take care of myself daily, weekly, monthly, yearly, and not just for a longer time once every 7 years.

AMDG

Christ the Redeemer

Arms outstretched, looking over the city...looking over his people with benevolent care and love.

Another Mountaintop Experience

I´m not really much of one to sit on the beach and soak up the rays, so in some ways it´s a bit odd for me to have chosen to be here in Puerto Plata which is a huge resort destination. However, I´m not in one of the 'all inclusive' resorts, but a very small apartment hotel at the very edge of the downtown, along the malecón (sea walk), across the street from a quite small but very non-touristy beach. So I have been swimming each day, and enjoying the view and the breeze from the balcony as I read or just sit in quiet.

But since I´m not a beach person, I have wanted to explore a bit, and yesterday went to Monte Isabela, which is looms over the city at about 2600 feet. This time I did not walk to the top, nor did I take a mule -- there is a cable car. Standing on the platform, looking up the steep slopes and seeing the mountain top in the distance I thought, ¨I´m going up there?¨ And then when I saw the cable car appear in the distance I thought, ¨On THAT thing???¨ I have something of a fear of heights, and I kept looking at the size of the cable car (large) in comparison with the cable that was holding it up (slender) and having second thoughts...

I decided to put myself in the frame of mind that I was taking a bus ride up the mountain, and that the bottom of the car was not in mid-air, but instead resting solidly on terra firma. Amazing what the human mind can do. Sometimes denial is a good thing.

As it turns out, I was the only one in the cable car with the operator. Between taking about a bezillion (is there a word for this in Spanish?) photos, and saying over and over to myself, ¨it´s a bus, I´m on the ground...¨I managed to make it from the bottom of the mountain to the top without the haunting feeling of fear or panic that I usually sense in such situations.

One of the things that tour books don´t mention is that it´s not such a great idea to take the cable car in the afternoon, since it´s often overcast then. The whole point of taking a cable car ride to the top of the mountain is to see the view, which was obscured by a cloud. I did get some great pictures as I rode the cable car to the top before the car actually entered the cloud. I was feeling slightly disappointed about not being able to see from the mountaintop, until I realized that the mist-fog-cloud that blanketed the mountaintop actually had its own unique beauty.

At the top of the mountain there was a huge Dominican flag, plus a snack bar, restaurant, souvenir stands -- typical stuff you´d expect to find in a touristy area. There were also walkways winding through what was a sort of botanical garden. Supposedly there are over 200 varieties of flowering plants in the area. I didn´t count, but there were quite a few, plus giant ferns, palms of various descriptions, and other exotic plants. Strolling along the pathways, in the cool of the mist I had the impression of being in a rain forest -- and maybe it actually WAS a rain forest, with the occasional droplet falling from the treetops onto my shoulder. It was a stunning location, and a living reminder of the beauty, abundance, and majesty of God´s creation.

For me, the most impressive item at the top of the mountain was an enormous statue of Christ the Redeemer, standing with arms outstreched watching over the city. It is supposedly a replica of the statue that stands high above the city of Rio de Janeiro. What struck me about statue, which I understand is visible from the bottom of the mountain in clear weather, is that it could be seen only as I approached the top. At first, i had only a vague image of a dark figure in the mist. But the closer I got, the more clearly I could see the figure of Christ. But it was still misty enough that it was not possible to make out the full details of the Christ as long as that cloud hovered above the mountain.

I thought about the statue in the cloud as a metaphor for the spiritual life. Christ is there, present, arms outstretched, watching over his people in benevolent care and love. He is always, always there. But he is not always visible. Faith, says the epistle to the Hebrews, ¨is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.¨ The spiritual journey is something like that cable car ride -- it´s a bit scary, but at the same time exhilarating. It offers a perspective on the world that is not apparent from any other vantage point. The destination, the mountaintop goal, is Christ -- in this world and in this life obscured, not always visible. But he is there, always, always there. One bright cloudless day we will see him in his fullness, every detail.

Ubiquities 2

Cafeterias, Colmados, and Comedors -- There seems to be at least one of these on nearly every block. A colmado is a corner store and most of them are tiny -- some just about the size of a closet. They seem to sell more beer and water than anything else, but in some you can buy a tiny quantity of flour or oil or sugar or rice. Most appear not to be very clean, and seem to be neighborhood 'hangouts,' with people sitting in plastic chairs outside on the sidewalk, just chatting, maybe with a beer in hand. Cafeterias and comedors are sort of 'fast food' joints with very limited menus. The majority prepare large quantities of one particular combination platter daily usually chicken (sometimes beef or pork) and rice and beans. They are quite inexpensive, and the one time I ate at one, I though the food was pretty tasty. Sometimes a sandwich can be purchased there as well.

Bright colors -- Many of the older, traditional Carribean style Dominican houses are painted in bright colors: robin's egg blue, cantaloupe, hot pink, or canary yellow. It was explained to me (I didn't quite understand this) that the bright colors are more suitable or reflect the light or something of the tropical sun. At any rate, I know I've read newspaper articles in the Star-Ledger about how neighbors complain if a home on their street is painted a garish shade. Not so here.

Chickens. Yes, chickens -- live ones, that is. Both Fr Hipólito's have chickens. I asked if they were for eggs or meat and was told 'neither, we just like to hear their songs.' I've heard the crowing of roosters in the middle of a city just as often as I've heard the barking of dogs. Yesterday I was walking down a main avenue and a chicken jumped out in front of me from behind a dumpster. With a chick in tow. Another time there was a rooster simply wandering around an outdoor market. I think that some of them are rescued from a life of crime -- the cock fights that are popular in some areas of the country.

Gomerías. This is basically a tire repair business. With so many potholes, bumps, and divots in the roads, flat tires are pretty common. So are shops to repair them.

Saludos

That´s Spanish for ´greetings´and with this blog I send greetings to St. Peter´s Church in Freehold, New Jersey from the people of the Church of Cristo Salvador in Santiago, and Jesús Nazareno in San Francisco de Macoris, where I spend the weekend.

The Church of Jesús Nazareno is quite a bit different from Cristo Salvador. It is located in the downtown part of the city, and the congregation is much more middle class (NB: middle class in this country is certainly less affluent than the middle clas in the US). There is also a colegio -- sort of a parochial school attached to the church.

I arrived in San Francisco de Macoris on Saturday afternoon, in time for their youth group meeting. Their concept of ´youth´ is a bit different than ours in the US. They include young people from ages of 13 up to about age 30. There were about 25 or 30 total in the group, and it began with two youth (who appeared to be approximately college age) leading a Bible study on the parable of the prodigal son. There was prayer, and a couple of songs. Then Fr. Hipólito, son of the priest in Santiago and a priest himself, gave a power point presentation on the subject of ¨Why young people distance themselves from the Lord,¨ using a passage from Hosea as his topic. I was impressed with his teaching, which was solidly Biblical, well organized, and spiritualy challenging. Then the visitors were asked to introduce themselves. Before closing, there was more prayer, and another song.

A couple of differences between youth group here and youth group in the US that I noticed -- this was a very serious group. No entertainment, joking around, or ´fun stuff.´ And no food. I had brought a bottle of water with me which I quickly hid, feeling as if I were doing something verboten every time I tried to sneak a sip. The other thing that I noticed was the warmth and genuine Christian love demonstrated: every person who came into that parish hall greeted every other person personally -- sometimes with a handshake, but more often with an embrace or a kiss. ¨See how they love one another...¨ I thought. I´m not necessarily saying the Dominican way of Youth group is better than the US way, but I do notice there are distinct differences which are related to culture and tradition.

I spent Saturday night with Hipolito and his family. His wife is quite a fabulous cook, and I felt that she made a special effort to create some terrific dishes. Clearly she understands the meaning of Christian hospitality, and was demonstrating it. They have three children ranging in age from 7 to about 11 -- it has been so long since my own daughters were that age, that I´ve forgotten what it´s like to share a meal with children. I really enjoyed the time with them, and had the feeling that these are friends I had known for my whole life - and surely would know for the rest of my life.

Sunday morning I had the honor of preaching at Jesus Nazareno. I also assisted at the Eucharist. A wonderful, wonderful day.

Now things are winding down... with a few days of rest for reading, writing, and a bit of sightseing.

Success

Just to set the record straight -- not EVERY family in Cristo Salvador is living in poverty. (Nearly every family, but not all...)

Last week I had a dinner invitation to a very gracious and lovely family who are members of the congregation. To be sure, through hard work they have lifted themselves into the middle class (upper middle class). The parents both grew up in the barrio where the church is located, and the father was basically illiterate, and learned to read as an adult through a program at the Church. Despite that handicap, he had a good business sense and an excellent work ethic. He built up a business that (as I understand it) tansports produce from the fields to the local supermarkets. Or something like that. His two young adult sons also work with him.

Dinner was typical Dominican fare, which is to say that it was very flavorful, meat simmered slowly with an abundance of herbs and aromatics, served with rice, beans, and salad. Dessert was absolutely the sweetest thing I have ever eaten in my life. It tasted like pineapple jam straight from the jar, mixed with coconut.

It's encouraging to know that it is possible to lift oneself out of poverty in this country, even with what seems like the odds stacked against one. It offers hope not only to me, but to others in the church, especially since this particular family has been generous with their time and their money to support the ministry of Cristo Salvador.

Give a fish...

... to a person, and that person eats for a day. Teach that person to fish, and they eat for a lifetime.



There´s a proverb to that effect I remember hearing some time ago. And yesterday I saw an example of that philosophy in action.



Some St. Peter´s people may have heard of Food for the Poor or remember some years ago when we had a speaker from that organization give the sermon one morning. I was a visitor at their center in El Cercado yesterday, and saw the work that they are doing for the poor of this country, and of Haiti, which shares the island.



It was a very impressive operation, which included resources not only for food distribution, but, more importantly, agricultural self-sufficiency. There were about a half dozen hen houses each containing several hundred hens, plus ponds for a fish hatchery where tilapia are raised for consumption. There were also hothouses where tomato plants were growing, plus gardens containing yuca, plantain, and bananas, which are all staples here.



But the organization goes further than that: they have also built schools, medical clinics, and houses. In fact, they have constructed whole villages of simple 2 bedroom homes for local campesinos, replacing the jerry-built shacks and huts that most of the rural poor in this country live in. And they have projects to bring electricity and potable water to the new homes. All in all, a very impressive enterprise run not by US or European missionaries, but by locals, which helps to keep the cost down.



I won´t share the story of how I got from Santiago to El Cercado -- believe me, any attempt to use local transportation here has turned out to be an adventure. But I will share my impression that this organization seems to be doing a great deal of good for a great many people. Sometime in 2010 one of their speakers will be at St. Peter´s, and we will have the opportunity to hear another voice.

Ubiquities

1. Emaciated, unspayed dogs, typically rummaging through garbage, or lying down on the sidewalk in a motionless sleep so that it appears they are dead.

2. Bancas -- a sort of local betting parlor. More on this later, in another post.

3. Street vendors. They sell everything from clothes and sandals to belts, earrings, and accesories. Also: cell phone cards, chargers, and covers. Food: some of it looks positively awful, although some things are actually better, or at least cheaper and more abundant on the streets -- fruit, for example, of which I buy only unpeeled items -- i.e. bananas, oranges, mangos, pineapples.

4. Haitian immigrants -- they are identified by their skin tone, which is much darker than the Dominicans, who are almost all of mixed race ancestry. They also speak Creole, which sounds a little bit like the French to which it is related.

5. Beggars. I was told NOT to give them money, as many work for crooks who give the beggars only a portion of their proceeds.

6. Shoe shine boys. This is very sad -- most never go to school, and try to eke out a living by charging $10RD per shine, something less than 30 cents. Evidently some of them sniff the shoe cleaning products for a high, as it eases the hunger pangs. Every time I walk on the streets during the day I am asked if I want my shoes shined. This happens even if I am wearing sneakers.

7. Traffic. Cars, taxis, buses, trucks compete for space on overcrowded and inadequate roads. This leads to --

8. Horns blaring. Used nearly as frequently as steering wheels, accelerator, and brakes. I can´t imagine why. No one seems to pay the least bit of attention to a horn honking, no matter how loud or insistent.

9. The love of God for each human being, and every creature under the sun. Good to know when I feel a bit overwhelmed.

Living Sermon

Who am I to get up in front of a church full of people to preach? What right do I have to offer any word of counsel, instruction, or exhortation? Those questions go through my mind nearly every time I step into the pulpit. And so does the anwer: It has to do with vocation, with the reality that God has called me to preach the gospel, not that I have any right to preach, or even any choice in the matter. And every once in a while, I have the sense that the Holy Spirit is trying to get my attention, and is asking me, "OK Frank, do you really believe this stuff? Are you willing to put self behind your words and DO something about this? Is it just words or is it the Word?'

I had an experience like that on Sunday.

Using the text from Genesis, Sunday morning I preached at Cristo Salvador on the text¨It is not good for a person to be alone,¨ I spoke not only about Jesus´ words regarding marriage and divorce, but also about the church as a community where we learn the meaning of not being alone. It was an important lesson, and I stressed the connection between St. Peter´s in Freehold, NJ and Cristo Salvador in Santiago, DR. We are not alone, but together, praying for one another, working together for God´s purposes.

Just words, or the Word?

After service, I went on a Pastoral visit. The young boy who had been selling coconuts with his uncle reappeared in the church with his two young cousins. (I later learned that he actually had several other cousins in the church, plus a younger sister, but I did not catch the connections until later in the day.) I say reappeared because he had been absent the day before at catechism class, and Fr H had his doubts about whether this youngster was going to be back. Turns out that one of the reasons he was selling coconuts in the street was so that the uncle could take his time away from work to drink.

So it was a pretty desperate situation, and it felt to me as if I needed to go forward with some kind of plan for this boy, otherwise he would never get to school, never learn to read, never again know the kind of experience of support and love that the church community could offer. And the cycle of poverty would continue for him. So I told him that I wanted to speak with his grandmother and the uncle with whom he lived.

So after service, I headed off with him ( his name is Victor Manuel) to speak with his family members. The house, well, the shack, where he lives was quite a distance from the church, but a number of the other children knew the location, and offered to accompany me. Fr H stayed behind because he felt it would be too far for him to manage with his advanced age. So he sent Papolito, the guy who cleans the church, as his emissary. Papolito´s son Andris is about the same age as Victor Manuel, and Fr. H has been making a special effort to watch over Andris, who is a charming , enthusiastic, and energetic youngster. Papolito knows personally that his son is benefitting from the advantages of being involved in church and beings watched over by the members of his community. He might not be able to articulate it, but Papolito (and his wife) are anxious to see their two children escape the life of ignorance and poverty that has kept them trapped.

So off we went, Fr. Frank, Papolito, and about a dozen children, walking the streets and back alleys of a poor barrio. We must have been quite a sight: an American priest in black clerical collar (in that heat!), another adult from the neighborhood, and a dozen kids ranging in age from a toddler to a 14 year old. Once they understood that I wanted to visit Victor Manuel´s family, all of the children wanted me to visit their homes as well. And they were not about to take ¨maybe next time,¨ let alone ¨no¨ for an answer.

It was quite a long walk to the home where Victor Manuel´s family resides. Avoiding potholes and the occasional car, we followed the steep and winding streets for a while before heading down a path. The further we got from the street, the more dilapidated the housing became. The neighborhood is ribboned with streams and creeks, so we crossed a number of makeshift bridges. All the while the children were trying to get a turn to hold my hand. I felt like the pied piper. Or some celebrity surrounded by teeny bopper groupies.

You can see in the photo above the shack where Victor Manuel´s family resides. I have never before in my life seen or been in such a place. Cement floor, no door, bare wooden walls through which light -- and I should imagine, rain and wind -- entered. Very little furniture -- a couple of plastic chairs, a few old wooden ones, a table -- that was all. Windows were simply holes cut into the walls to allow for air and light. In a conversation with the grandmother, the uncle, and a number of assorted relatives who crowded the front room of the shack, we struck a deal. My church and I from the US would provide enough money for Victor Manuel´s fees, clothes, and shoes as long as he remained in school, and as long as he continued to attend catechism class and church. I estimate the cost of this on most months will be $25 or less. (How often I WASTE $25 -- on a shirt I´ll never wear, food that spoils before it gets eaten, a restaurant meal when I could have eaten at home...) I´m hoping to develop some kind of long-range plan for our church´s relationship with Victor, maybe one that could involve some of the children. Fr H will be the one to see that Victor Manuel (and his family) keep their end of the bargain.

That should have been the end of the visit, but the grandmother had explained that she wanted to go the church herself, but was not well enough. So I closed with a prayer, with all of us laying hands on her. Then I took the snapshot you can see above of the large family group gathered outside the home. Victor Manuel is the boy in the center, wearing a white polo shirt.

The pied piper and his groupies did not head immediately back to the church, however, but each of the children wanted be to visit their home and meet their family members. All of the houses were (slightly) better than the one in which Victor Manuel lived, although none would merit any status other than ´shack´for us. This was an ¨up close and personal¨ view of third world poverty for me.

The last home we visited was that of Papolito, where I was greeted by his lively and energetic wife, who rarely leaves the home because of a physical disability that impedes her her ability to navigate the steep streets and the distance to the church. Their house was quite literally falling apart. They showed me a wall that was in the process of separating itself from the rest of the house, and the water from storm runoff that seeps beneath the concrete slab on which the shack is built. The other picture above is of Papolito, his wife Dora, and their son Andris.

The church is the community where we learn the meaning of ´not alone.´ It is the family of Christ where we begin to understand that we are connected, one to another. It is brothers and sisters in the faith, welcoming me into their small and simple homes with a shy smile and expressions of thanks for coming.

Driving me back to my apartment, Fr. H mused that the poor are sometimes more ready to respond wholeheartedly to the gospel, because other than hope they have nothing else.

Questions and (some) answers

Saturdays is the day for catechism class at the Church, which is done on Saturday since there is not the space to do a (traditional) Church School program on Sundays. Fr. Hipólito picked me up at 8:30 outside the apartment, as usual. We were talking about various subjects, when I realized that we had failed to pick up Doña Adela. Turns out she wan´t coming since she was in San Pedro de Macoris for a diocesan meeting of the Daughters of the King. Not to worry, Fr H assured me, Maribel will be there and the two of you can do it together.

I suppose I would have been more reassured if I could actually remember who Maribel was, but I didn´t. And anyway, she didn´t. Show up, that is. So I was on my own.

Those who have worked with me know that I am quite comfortable leading children´s programs, and really enjoy working with them. However, I quickly realized a couple of things. First: I really wasn´t familiar with some of the vocabulary I needed to know to maintain order. Like: Listen up, people! or Is everyone using their listening ears? I resorted to something I thought was I would like everyone´s eyes up here. Which got their attention (briefly at any rate) when they looked at me as if I had invited them to participate in some sick American ritual of child sacrifice.

The other difficulty I faced was a rather different language barrier. Children seem to lack a sense of what it means that someone is a learner in their native language. They speak as fast to me as they do to each other, liberally using slang and shortcuts as if I understood precisely what they were saying. Which of course I didn´t. Throughout the morning children would ask me questions either mumbling or hollering or otherwise not articulating slowly and distinctly and using standard conversational Spanish. And aware of my priestly work of representing Christ, I smiled benignly and nodded my head after asking them to repeat themselves approsimately 50 times. For all I knew, they could have been asking me, ¨Father, my bratty little brother is bugging me. Can I pound him?¨ and in the name of Christlike charity I was permitting it.

Which brings me to the third and greatest difficulty I faced: Classroom control. Hard enough under normal circumstances, but add to the mix the language barrier, no curriculum or lesson plan, and a group of children aged 5 - 15 with widely varying abilities...you get the picture. Some of the older ones led the singing (more like choral shouting) since I know all of about three religious songs in Spanish. After we had sung them repeatedly, even the most patient of the bunch grew a bit restive, so a couple of the older ones led them in some songs that they (supposedly) all knew.

During which time, I hurriedly had to decide what the heck I was going to do by way of instruction. Over 20 years of priesthood I have learned -- in a pinch, use the Prayerbook. In the back is The Catechism, which I thought would be a dandy idea to use in catechism class. Those Episcopal, Roman Catholic, and Lutheran Christians of a certain vintage will remember the question and answer format as well as the memorization from dreary weekday afternoon sessions in the church basement. I chose 5 questions and answers from the Catechism, and proceeded to try to teach them to the children. Occasionally, when I grew exasperated with the inattention of some, I recovered enough language ability to ask them ¨Do you want me to go back to the United States right now?¨ which got the older ones upset enough to shush the younger ones briefly. Guilt and manipulation -- a great strategy in any language or culture.

At one point Fr. H came in to see how things were going -- believe me when I say that he gets their attention. The children know how much he loves them. And they also know that he stands for no nonsense. He gave a nice improptu lesson on Dios creador de todo lo visible e invisible. He later encouraged me by saying that in his experience, he has come to realize that you will never reach everyone, and if you reach 3 out of 100, that´s far, far better than reaching no one at all. Wise words, I thought.

Afterwards we did the most simple art project. I had purchased 5 large pieces of posterboard to make a ´Jesus loves the children´ mural. I traced each of their hands and had them draw a picture of themselves inside the handprint then write their names, too. They adored doing this project, and really threw themselves into doing the best they could.

The differences in the children´s abilities were very striking. Some could hardly write at all, some wrote legibly in good penmanship. One boy -- and I didn´t think he was fooling around -- wrote his entire name backwards. Isn´t that an indication of some kind of learning disability? If it is, I seriously doubt that the child has been diagnosed, and if he has, I doubt he´s getting appropriate intervention. Another tiny little boy seemed to be quite bright -- memorizing the catechism quickly, answering questions, etc. I thought he was quite advanced for a five year old. Turns out he was 8. I don´t know if he was battling a medical condition or if his stature is simply the result of malnutrition.

Which brings me to lunch, which was Comida Criolla -- white rice, abichuelas -- Dominican style beans which are much tastier than Mexican refried beans, and a piece of beef that had been simmered with many herbs and vegetables. I have said before that for many, if not for all, this is the best meal they will have all day, maybe all weekend. Fr H often has no idea where the funds for the next meal are coming from, and then a friend will give him a couple of thousand pesos, or someone will donate a sack of rice, or a couple of pounds of meat, and like the loaves and fish -- there is enough. This is faith in action.

When I got back to the apartment I was exhausted, and took a 2 hour nap.

Even more odd...

The museum of ham was, indeed, odd. But not by any means the zenith of oddity in the DR. Possibly the Museo Folklorico de Tomás Morel could claim that title. This being my third trip to Santiago, but not having seen this particular site before, I decided to use my free (except for homework) time to visit.

When I got there at 3:15 yesterday afternoon, I found it was located in a rather unlikely gritty commercial district, about a block from a busy thorofare. I also found it closed. The building, a dilapidated 19th century home with a wide front porch, looked so negledted that I wasn't sure if it would ever open again. Turns out that like a lot of places here, the museum closes for a couple of hours in the midday, for folks to take a long lunch, which is the main meal of the day, and a brief siesta.

Let me note that the dilapidated exterior did not hide a lovingly restored or well-maintained interior. If anything, the interior was in worse shape. The floor sagged in various places, and a couple of times I thought I was going to fall through to the basement. Where the floor did not sag, there were planks and boards of varying heights and shapes which I presumed were placed strategically around the exhibit area over the worst areas of deterioration. The entire floor was covered in what appeared to be a kaleidoscopic array of different colors and designs of contact paper.

In theory, the museum houses the collection of folk art of a Dominican writer named Tomás Morel. Most of his personal collection seems to have consisted of carnaval masks worn by revelers in the annual pre-Lenten celebration of Carnaval, also known in other locations as Mardi Gras. Beats the heck out of pancakes supper, I'd have to say.

The masks are absolutely enormous -- most having 'horns' of three feet or longer. Many are comical, some frightening, and all are meticulously constructed. The curator (an exalted title for the guy in blue jeans and a t-shirt who seemed to be the boss) explained that every year a contest is heldfor best original mask, and that most of the winning entries eventually end up in the museum.

But so did some other stuff, for example the reproduction of a rustic kitchen of a campesino, complete with the oven that locals use to bake yucca bread. There were some Taino artifacts, some religious pictures and statuary related voudon and santería which I found creepy, and a couple of murals on the walls of a ramshackle backyard. There was also a haphazard collection of other stuff I can only classify as junk: a bunch of old typewriters, movie projectors, and faded and discolored matchbook covers.

Evidently I impressed the curator -- I was asking a lot of questions, and must have demonstrated if not a basic knowledge at least a respect for Dominican culture -- when I left he gave me a book of Tomás Morel's poetry. Glancing through its contents, I noticed an ode to John F. Kennedy. And also another ode written to mourn the death of Walt Disney.

Odd.