"Caserio" was a new word for me (not shocking. one of thousands). It literally translates to "small group of country houses," like a step smaller than "village." It's just over the river, through the woods, up a mountain, down a mountain, up another mountain, around a ridge, down the dirt road, take a left, then up, up, keep going, and then there's a little valley you go around. That's Caserio Chua Cruz. A healthy and bumpy hour off the main road. That's where Molesto lives. On the outskirts of Chua Cruz. So, when you get to Chua Cruz, you keep going into the woods, through a cornfield, follow the bend down and around the mountain before descending on Molesto's abode. What I'm saying is that getting there is about like getting to Hogwarts through Gate 9 3/4.
I arrived for the first time led by two or three village children who knew where the 3 remaining sites were for building new houses in the caserio. The kids always knew where things were, and were much more helpful than your average Menards employee in terms of showing you where things are. There were a few young women cooking, one weaving a güipil (traditional Guatemalan woman's clothing), others sitting. I met Molesto, maybe 5'4", the father of nine children and owner of a small plot of land on which sat his "duplex", two outhouses, a tool shed, and a small hillside field of corn. When I say "hillside" I mean that Molesto, though a representative statistic of "below the poverty line," had a view that would make his property worth millions in the States. Absolutely breathtaking.
I had come to Chua Cruz by way of a rag-tag group of 20-some Gringos from Michigan/Alabama mostly. My parents had gone on this trip thrice before, so they invited us to come along and see "their" side of Guatemala for the week (which was so good for us). Anyway, for the last 15 years, groups of Gringos like us have been coming to Guatemala this way for a week at a time and building houses in the villages surrounding Chimaltenango. They also do some clinics with medical teams too. Someone on staff had visited Chua Cruz (somehow) a while back, talked to the community leader, who agreed that Molesto (among others in the caserio) deserved and could benefit from a new house. Or in this case, 3 new houses. His oldest sons had reached 22 and 21, respectively, and had married a year or so ago. That's a lot to fit in a 2-3 room tin shack.
Mind you, these houses were but 12' x 12' shacks made of wood and tin, with a cement floor and a lil' porch. Not much, but it means our team could make 20 houses in 4 days of building! By Day 3, I had figured out enough about squares and holes to be able to set the posts for such a house, and being one of two folks on the construction team who spoke a lick of Spanish meant I gravitated toward using some of the willing souls from the community in the beginning phases of construction. That's when I met Mardoqueo (Mordecai) and Francisco, the eldest sons of Molesto and future owners of the houses. Not only had they spent 6 days beforehand preparing the sloping ground for construction, they were eager to help build their own homes when I showed up. This doesn't happen at most of the homes because the male figure is usually out working all day in someone's field.
The three of us, accompanied by our van's driver, Herman, dug a few dozen 20-inch deep postholes. Not a big deal, but my heart sang because while many other families were recipients charity (albeit grateful ones), these fellas were participants in their own growth. When they look at their houses, they don't have to think "some Gringos came and built that for me," they can say, "some Gringos came and built that house with me." It's rare, but when we can do generosity with people, it preserves dignity, but it also begets a much more rewarding experience on both sides. I walked away knowing how Francisco met his wife, about Mardoqueo's work on his father's farm, and their ambition to use a chainsaw for the first time. They (sadly) got to listen to a gringo excitedly speak broken (or perhaps, "shattered") Spanish. They learned about the lovely city of Holland, American Football, my wife, my continual searching for what God wants me to do in my life. Molesto learned how to say "what's up" in English, and I learned the same phrase in Kaqchiquel ("utz awech!"). This doesn't happen if I don't share time with the people I am trying to help. It's rare. It doesn't always work out so nicely. Even so, during the dedication of the houses, Mardoqueo, Francisco, and Molesto probably felt a little weird with all those Gringos taking pictures of them, clapping for them, praying for them, giving them stuff. But, I liked that I knew them. That we could look each other in the eye some more. That they had some pride in those houses (mind you, they did the cement for all 3 of them during the night after we left...).
So I walk away from a week of learning how to build these shacks, screwing, digging, and leveling, encouraged. Unlike other mission trips, I don't really feel that good about the work I did, or even what I learned or what God taught me. But I'm warm inside knowing that Francisco and Mardoqueo are sleeping in a house they have pride in. One built with them not just for them. One with an awesome view. One that their wives tell their kids that "Daddy built this home."
I'm not sure how they feel or if they even care about all this dignity and poverty alleviation banter, but Molesto has a proud smile, complete with a gold frame around his front tooth, and I saw smile shining bright like sun reflecting off brand-spankin' new tin the day we left. Molesto has a proud smile.
I arrived for the first time led by two or three village children who knew where the 3 remaining sites were for building new houses in the caserio. The kids always knew where things were, and were much more helpful than your average Menards employee in terms of showing you where things are. There were a few young women cooking, one weaving a güipil (traditional Guatemalan woman's clothing), others sitting. I met Molesto, maybe 5'4", the father of nine children and owner of a small plot of land on which sat his "duplex", two outhouses, a tool shed, and a small hillside field of corn. When I say "hillside" I mean that Molesto, though a representative statistic of "below the poverty line," had a view that would make his property worth millions in the States. Absolutely breathtaking.
I had come to Chua Cruz by way of a rag-tag group of 20-some Gringos from Michigan/Alabama mostly. My parents had gone on this trip thrice before, so they invited us to come along and see "their" side of Guatemala for the week (which was so good for us). Anyway, for the last 15 years, groups of Gringos like us have been coming to Guatemala this way for a week at a time and building houses in the villages surrounding Chimaltenango. They also do some clinics with medical teams too. Someone on staff had visited Chua Cruz (somehow) a while back, talked to the community leader, who agreed that Molesto (among others in the caserio) deserved and could benefit from a new house. Or in this case, 3 new houses. His oldest sons had reached 22 and 21, respectively, and had married a year or so ago. That's a lot to fit in a 2-3 room tin shack.
Mind you, these houses were but 12' x 12' shacks made of wood and tin, with a cement floor and a lil' porch. Not much, but it means our team could make 20 houses in 4 days of building! By Day 3, I had figured out enough about squares and holes to be able to set the posts for such a house, and being one of two folks on the construction team who spoke a lick of Spanish meant I gravitated toward using some of the willing souls from the community in the beginning phases of construction. That's when I met Mardoqueo (Mordecai) and Francisco, the eldest sons of Molesto and future owners of the houses. Not only had they spent 6 days beforehand preparing the sloping ground for construction, they were eager to help build their own homes when I showed up. This doesn't happen at most of the homes because the male figure is usually out working all day in someone's field.
The three of us, accompanied by our van's driver, Herman, dug a few dozen 20-inch deep postholes. Not a big deal, but my heart sang because while many other families were recipients charity (albeit grateful ones), these fellas were participants in their own growth. When they look at their houses, they don't have to think "some Gringos came and built that for me," they can say, "some Gringos came and built that house with me." It's rare, but when we can do generosity with people, it preserves dignity, but it also begets a much more rewarding experience on both sides. I walked away knowing how Francisco met his wife, about Mardoqueo's work on his father's farm, and their ambition to use a chainsaw for the first time. They (sadly) got to listen to a gringo excitedly speak broken (or perhaps, "shattered") Spanish. They learned about the lovely city of Holland, American Football, my wife, my continual searching for what God wants me to do in my life. Molesto learned how to say "what's up" in English, and I learned the same phrase in Kaqchiquel ("utz awech!"). This doesn't happen if I don't share time with the people I am trying to help. It's rare. It doesn't always work out so nicely. Even so, during the dedication of the houses, Mardoqueo, Francisco, and Molesto probably felt a little weird with all those Gringos taking pictures of them, clapping for them, praying for them, giving them stuff. But, I liked that I knew them. That we could look each other in the eye some more. That they had some pride in those houses (mind you, they did the cement for all 3 of them during the night after we left...).
So I walk away from a week of learning how to build these shacks, screwing, digging, and leveling, encouraged. Unlike other mission trips, I don't really feel that good about the work I did, or even what I learned or what God taught me. But I'm warm inside knowing that Francisco and Mardoqueo are sleeping in a house they have pride in. One built with them not just for them. One with an awesome view. One that their wives tell their kids that "Daddy built this home."
I'm not sure how they feel or if they even care about all this dignity and poverty alleviation banter, but Molesto has a proud smile, complete with a gold frame around his front tooth, and I saw smile shining bright like sun reflecting off brand-spankin' new tin the day we left. Molesto has a proud smile.