A Post About Coffee

Our awesome, well-caffeinated partners at Boston Stoker Coffee Co. have done the legwork to sponsor the Ohio premiere of a new movie about specialty coffee. The best news... it's right here in Dayton! Next month Heart to Honduras will join Boston Stoker to present A Film About Coffee in downtown Dayton's favorite independent film venue, the Neon Theater. With portions of this film shot near where we live and work, we are excited to see it on the big screen. See the bottom of this post for the showtime, trailer and information on how to purchase tickets.

In honor of this news, the self-appointed coffee experts here at Heart to Honduras have decided to review the Honduran brews offered by Boston Stoker, our favorite Dayton coffee roaster. Since Gordon was unable to attend the testing, dedicated readers will have to put up with the unrefined palates of the decidedly less-experienced, although only marginally less-passionate testers, Matt and Kaleb.

Thoughts on the Honduran Immigration Crisis

Photo by Peter Haden / by CC

Not dozens, not hundreds, not thousands, but tens of thousands of Hondurans are expected to emigrate from Honduras to the US in 2014 alone, shattering previous immigration records. Tens of thousands of husbands, mothers, sons, and daughters will leave family and home behind to seek opportunity, safety, and freedom from fear. Some come purely on selfish terms, seekers of fame and fortune that the Fat North has to provide. Others will arrive scarred from near-misses -- carrying jagged white lines on arms, legs, and faces, their eyes and hearts unable to maintain contact. Children seeking parents. The elderly craving rest. Gangsters fleeing a rapidly falling hatchet. Battered girls chasing promises of love and safety like so many vanishing butterflies. Young men hunting the Almighty Unicorn- the American Dream - find only a nightmare.

Alive and Well in Lomitas

During my week-long visit home (Honduras) in June, I drank more than a few cups of Honduran Hospitality (not to be confused with Southern Comfort), especially my first few days. While sipping the coffee-flavored sugary liquid known locally as coffee, the conversation immediately turned towards their Gringos' offspring. Once the pictures of Stacey+Tiny White Baby made an appearance, I ceased to exist for a little while. Once news got out to the community at large that I was in possession of pictures of Stacey+Tiny White Baby, visitation to the house to visit the pictures of Stacey+Tiny White Baby dramatically increased. I acted as priest and gatekeeper of the sacred objects to the pilgrims young and old that arrived to pay homage to the wallet-sized likenesses. Even after nightfall they arrived (dim flashlights bouncing down the path), asking to borrow the pictures to take to show to some grandma out in the sticks. Without fail, Stacey+Tiny White Baby were returned within 15 minutes, gingerly carried by the designated child errand-runner which expressed profuse thanks for their visit.

Mechanic Work = Flowers

About a year and a half ago, Humberto broke down in Las Lomitas on a Sunday afternoon. He had a classic Honduran work truck, a 1980-something 4-cylinder Nissan pickup - frame bent , headlights busted, metal cage around the bed, exhaust constantly emitting a cloud of varying color and rhythm, leaf springs suspiciously unspringy. However the real problem was the front right wheelbearings... or sudden lack of them. The wheel in question would not be turning any longer. I brought down my socket set, and set to work with about 5 other quasi-mechanics. Between the 6 of us, we the managed the know-how, muscle, and colorful Spanish euphemisms necessary to remove the offending rusty thing within a couple of hours. Triumphantly clutching his rust ball in one hand and a motorcycle's flimsy grab bar in the other, Humberto putted on towards Los Caminos on the back of a friend's little one-cylinder motorcycle, promising to return early the next morning.

Don Pedro

Back in January, laying in my hammock on a Sunday afternoon, I heard someone hesitantly call my name.

"Don Kahleb..."

On the front porch, gazing into my yard, I found a wizened Lomiteñan. Don Pedro had come to visit. His garden-ward glance betrayed the reason for his visit. Since arriving in Las Lomitas, we had exchanged pleasantries at community meetings or upon passing each other on the road, but had never really communicated. Now two years later, here he was to visit, if not me then at least my vegetables. We soon began to discuss vegetable gardening. For two years, he had been silently watching the garden and was finally convinced that he might be able to succeed, but he wanted to do it well. Could I come up to take a look at his lot to see if he might have a suitable place to plant?

Alida Fe

After a sleepless night in labor, our beautiful daughter, Alida Fe, was born into a bit of a crisis at 7:42AM on Sunday, May 25. Many people have asked exactly what happened, so I will do my best to explain it briefly here. As it turns out, she aspirated (inhaled) meconium (an infant's first stool) while still in the womb. Although this normally is not much of a concern, the amount that she inhaled threw her into a bit of a downward spiral. She was born full term at 7lbs 14oz, but was not breathing, and even after intensive suctioning by the NICU unit and 100% O2 application, she continued to have very low levels of O2 in her bloodstream.

Lessons Learned

Have you ever been caught by a trap-door question?
"Have you ever been to Paris?" 

Before you can take a closer look at the little red light starting to flash in your head, you answer.
"No." 
You fool.

"No? Well, let me tell you about it. It's absolutely amazing..." 

For the next thirty minutes, not one time will you think "Wow, I think he asked me that question and is now answering that question himself because he really cares about me." Quite the opposite, you will be waiting for the egoist to take a breath or pass out from oxygen deprivation. You probably will not hear or remember a word he said. You will do this because you are a human. Just like the other 7 billion people on the planet, you want to be known and cared about.

We're all poor

Just came across a great article that sheds some light on the attitude that often plagues the average Christian approach to poverty. When we learn to unite under Christ's hope, we will go further.

Read Chase Miller's short article here.

Emergencia! Urgente!

Fredy has a couple of favorite words. Unfortunately, they are words that tend to raise my blood pressure. It's not just the words themselves, although they do have significant cortizone-inducing properties. No, it is more with how he says them. Never are the words stand-alone. They always immediately accompany my name, and a situation that I am perceived to be capable of remedying.

Emergencia: Emergency
"Emergencia! Kaleb, el carro esta en fuego!" 
Emergency Kaleb, the car is on fire!

Urgente: Urgent
"Kaleb, tenemos que entregar este reporte mañana. Es urgente!"
Kaleb it is urgent that we turn in this report tomorrow!

If Fredy actually used these words in these contexts, it would be very understandable. However, Fredy's emergencies tend to be a little more subtle.

"Kaleb, it is an emergency! You need to get out of bed and drive down here, right now! We cannot wait, please, please come now!"

As you can imagine, this level of franticness tends to grab your full attention, and learning to live alongside a man with what must be the equivalent of a fire-alarm in his head is difficult. With the first dozen-or-so emergencies, I leapt into action like the good friend that I am and raced down the road to save Fredy... from slow internet.... in Honduras or his dog's exceptionally-bad gas. You would think I would learn after a few such emergencies, but the man's concern is so real that you can literally hear the sweat popping out his pores over the phone. You feel like your heart is going to stop when he says these words. You do soon learn that if you're going to say no, you had better have the mental fortitude of Abraham Lincoln or else you will be signing your own Declaration of Surrender. You will be battered, and probably broken.

However, as time has progressed, I have become perhaps more heartless and learned to deny many of these emergencies. I know the drill now. I am prepared.

1. Phone rings.
2. I answer.
3. Fredy breathes in deeply.
4. Fredy says 'Emergencia/Urgente.'
5. Kaleb begins walking the path of inner-peace.
6. Fredy explains the world's current Armageddon scenario.
7. Kaleb says no.
8. Long silence on the phone.
9. Fredy begins to fire cannons upon my will's fortress.

However, every once and a while, Fredy's favorite words do apply. One day I received this ear-blistering call at 3:15PM.

"Kaleb, it is an emergency! You need to come here RIGHT NOW! I have an appointment for a US Visa TOMORROW in Tegucigalpa at 7AM for my trip to a conference in California next week and I just saw that my passport expired yesterday! My car is broken-down and the ministry's vehicles are all in use! The Immigration office in San Pedro Sula closes at 5PM!"

Off to the launch pad. It's go time.

Boom.

In this instance, the drill looks a little more like this.

1. Flip-flops on.
2. Kiss Stacey on cheek.
3. Get into truck.
4. Push big red mental "Go Baby Go" button (the one you're never supposed to push).
5. Fly 2 feet above the road all the way down the mountain.
6. Slow down for Fredy to jump in car.
7. Point car towards San Pedro.
8. Position one hand over horn.
9. Find out how fast an old diesel Pathfinder goes.

As it turns out, pretty fast is the answer to Step 9. Horn blaring, Fredy sweating, and white man most certainly sweating. We wove through and around sugar cane trucks, cattle, homemade motorcycles, some potholes that were recently awarded National Historic Monument status, and several thousand Honduran traffic cones, also known as vultures. We drove the 1hr 30min drive from our house to San Pedro in record time; the only trick was to get to the other side, to immigration where Fredy...

"Oh sure, sure, I can get my passport in 30 minutes. Don't worry about that. Sure, sure, sure. If you can get me to the door in time. I can get my passport."

My surroundings proved that Fredy could convince anyone of just about anything. When it came to San Pedro though, it was a situation of can't go around it, can't go over it, gotta go through it. And through it we went, with the same gas, horn, swerve (order is important here) strategy that had gotten us this far. We plowed our way through San Pedro, its theoretical traffic laws, and a couple of medians and miraculously arrived at Immigration at 4:58PM. In went Fredy. Skeptical, I found a nearby KFC to wait for the "30" minutes.

An hour and a half later, Fredy emerged victorious. I don't know why I ever doubted him. Arm that man with two little words, wind him up and watch him go. He could (and will) change the world.

We feed on ashes.

One day long ago, a woodsman bought his prized possession, a piece of solid metal in a world full of wood and stone. The rest of the morning he walked through the woods, head tilted back, practiced eyes searching for a handle in a sea of oak, cedar and pine. Returning home with the appointed limb, he carefully slid his knife under the bark along its entire length, checking for imperfections, learning its shape. Satisfied with the result, he carefully tamped and shimmed the axe-head into place on the new handle. Now complete, he leaned it against the wall and slid into bed, pleased with the day's work.

Day after day he rose, bathed, ate, and stretched out his hand to the companion of his labors, hefting the axe fluidly with battered fingers. Out in the soft morning light, he checked the head's fit for any hint of fatal looseness that could signal the beginning of the end to his faithful friend. With practiced hand, he ground metal on stone until convinced that each stroke would complete its task. Focused and sharp, woodsman and axe disappeared into the crowd of quaking victims.

Winter's necessity has chilled the bones of many a man, but the woodsman was prepared. Finding a mature oak with towering trunk reaching skyward, he began his work. His body soon fell into the familiar rhythm of the staccato dance between man and tree. Feet planted firmly, hips leading, twisting before outstretched arms following through to drive the axe-head powerfully into silent partner. Its melody filled the woods. With the first notch reaching well into the oak's heartwood, he sharpened his instrument and began with renewed vigor on the opposite side. As he neared the tree's center, his ears began to detect the subtle signs of the music's impending finale. The splintering crescendoed into powerful cracking that resonated deeply in the earth beneath his feet. Respectfully, he backed away from the failing giant as it drifted slowly earthbound. Violently she met the ground, returning briefly heavenward before settling in silent exhaustion.

Piece by piece, he parted out his treasure. Deliberate strokes returned hard-earned rewards. Over the following week, the mighty tree gradually withered away as the woodpile at his home fattened. The woodsman returned the axe to its resting place, its repose well-earned. Once the oak wood had cured, he began to cook over the fire it produced. As winter approached, he burned it with increasing frequency, relishing the warmth so hard won. The tree had been enormous, and he had harvested such an amount as to be without want for the rest of the season. Just half of the wood would be enough to sustain him for many years. Maybe he would give some of the wood away to the families nearby that would soon begin to feel winter's fingers reaching under their ill-fitted doors. He had seen their woodpiles and knew they would be found wanting.

However, in the reassuring warmth and comfort of the fire, his mind began to dwell more on the wood and less on his neighbors. Finding a particularly striking piece, he turned it over and over again in his hands. In the quiet light, he focused on the grain, admiring its tightness and uniformity. What was once a dull wash of brown came alive in his hands with the very tones of the fire - subtle variations of reds, browns, ochers, and greys. The more the fire's warmth massaged him, the more comfortable he became, and the more he was entranced by the wood's beauty and worth. Each passing day produced new wonder, and he soon realized that he loved it. Even sooner he forgot why he had harvested it in the first place.

At first, he answered the door when they came knocking, but soon he began to resent the interruption and stopped responding to them. "They should have planned better," he thought. "How could I be expected to help someone that was so painfully irresponsible?"

With time, the knocking stopped entirely.  

His own looming woodpile would not be sufficient, that much was clear to him. The coming year he would need to work much harder in order to maintain the pile, and hopefully grow it to the size he wanted. No, what he needed. The very thought making a withdrawal from the pile hurt him. He needed to find a way to augment the pile, in order to stay warm of course, but he would certainly need a great deal more in order to be at peace. He would cut enough. Enough to never need again.

But clearly, there would never be enough.

This little tale is based on the story of the woodcutter in Isaiah 44. Everything we have, we are expected to administer wisely; that includes our excess. Until we understand what enough truly means, we will never be able to appropriately manage our excess. I submit that in a culture that claims to never have enough money or time, we should begin our self-examination in our wallets and on our watches.