My roommate Molly wrote us a nice little Christmas poem. Clever, no? I thought so. Hope you enjoy it. Even though Christmas is over, the holiday spirit can still be around!
Off to Nicaragua. I'm going with Hand in Hand Ministries--just like HHM runs trips to Belize, they also have week long trips to Nica. I will be meeting up with a group from Kentucky in Managua. But first, I get to hang out with the JVs there! Yea! I'll try to write a post about it in a few weeks.
Thanks for all the thoughts, prayers, cards, and little presents throughout the holidays. All, truly all, have been appreciated. Thank you.
‘Twas the day before Christmas, when all through Belize
Not a raindrop was falling, not even a breeze;
The palm trees were decorated in yards with detail,
In hopes for a lee bit o’ shade while enjoying some ale;
The JVs were a-lounging, all sweaty and hot,
Sharing family holiday stories, which perhaps they should not;
Trey’s on the sofa, guitar in hand,
And Mon’s out on the verandah surveying the land;
Maria is sprawled, reading a book,
And Kate’s in the kitchen: the talented cook;
Molly is sipping a cup of hot tea,
While the lights shine colorfully from the fake Christmas tree;
When out on the lawn there arose such a yell,
Just Frankie, they thought, and neglected to dwell;
“Now, white people!” he exclaimed, through the burglar bars
“let me in, I bear gifts,” his eyes shown like the stars;
A broken fan in one hand, a flower pot in another,
They let dear Frankie in—after all, he’s like their brother;
After some drunken stories about France and the army,
Frankie offered a lone swimmie plastered with “Barbie”
He was thanked for his thoughtfulness, generosity, and cheer,
But was helped out the door as the night drew near.
Next up the stairs was a girl named Angie,
Silent and scornful when Molly called her “Flangie.”
She sat at the table while the volunteers reminisced,
Recalling traditions, apparel, and movies they missed.
Angie left quickly, as fast as she came,
She wouldn’t even accept the Christmas cookie they offered—boy, that was lame.
The JVs settled ‘round the table, for a game of “Oh, Heck”
When, yet again, they heard a knock from their deck.
Oh Gosh, they thought, not another passerby;
It was growing late—they were tired—and Christmas was nigh.
Through the door they heard but a chuckle,
And around a big box, they saw a white knuckle;
It was Fr. Harrison, S.J., that jolly good fellow!
He was dressed in his fake Crocs, and a t-shirt of yellow,
A box of goodies, he held in his arms—
His eyes bright with love, hospitality and charm.
He looked a lot like Santa, the volunteers thought with glee,
With his white beard, box of gifts, and round-ish belly.
A wink of his eye, and a twist of my dread,
He conjured some crackers and a vegetable spread;
Some chocolate, some ice cream, some candy canes, too,
Some apples, some cookies, some wine of fresh brew;
And giving a nod, to the shocked faces around,
He smiled and turned to leave without a sound;
And behind him he closed gently the old metal door,
Lest they could hear, “at least they’re not Peace Corps!”
And to bed the volunteers headed, to be rested and ready
For the Christmas festivities scheduled already:
To Rosie’s, to Mrs. B’s, to Dawn’s, and Ms. Jean’s;
With great joy, good company, and plenty of rice and beans.