Merry Christmas!

Happy holidays, everyone! Thank you for all of your prayers, letters, and blessed packages!

Love,
Molly

‘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.

So the parish truck was stolen ...

Fr. Dan had left it parked outside of the church's garage before the 9:00 am mass on a sunny Sunday morning, locked and pretty well hidden from the main road. But when he went to go drive it back to the Jesuit Residence after the 7:00 pm mass, it was gone.

Now, we're not talking a 2008 Dodge Ram with 5 seats, 4 wheel drive, leather interior, a CD player, and chrome rims -- no, no. The St. Martin's parish truck is a 1994 red Ford, trusty as all get out, but with few functioning parts (i.e. the radio only works sometimes, and when it does there's no volume control; the windows are, in Ellen DeGeneres' words, "churn butter-esque" and squeak terrible going up or down, which is often considering the A/C is also shot; the muffler shakes and bakes like a putting motorboat; the ignition locks so as to embarrass the driver as people stare wondering why the Gringa can't start the vehicle; and of course, as any classy truck should have, the spare tire is padlocked to the roof) -- and, to be honest, I know nothing about automobiles and the heart of the truck is undoubtedly in worse shape than the unaesthetic exterior. Needless to say, I love this vehicle and because I have yet to learn how to maneuver our motorcycle, I spend about five hours a week in it tootin' around Belize City running errands for the parish and school, rusty muffler and all.

So, I was pretty disappointed when I heard the news.

We moped around Monday and Tuesday, Fr. Dan bitter about having to go get the mail (my job) on the scooter during rush hour, Mrs. B stressed as to where we would possibly get the money to buy a new truck, Esidoro upset that he couldn't go get the supplies he needed to fix the door of the church, and Angie and I disheartened at the cancellation of our afternoon joyrides. At this point, we were certain our truck was absolutely dismembered -- probably in Guatemala -- and the parts that were of no value were probably being sold as playground toys for children. Shucks.

And then, Tuesday evening as I sat in a dreadfully boring and doodle-filled St. Vincent de Paul Meeting (another entry -- I'm not yet ready to talk about how I spend my Tuesday nights), I heard the familiar "put put put," and thought to myself, no...it can't be. With a quick sneak of a look out the upstairs parish meeting room, I saw a beautiful sight: Esidoro, Mrs. B, Fr. Dan, and Ms. Florette (the cleaning woman who is, inadvertently, hilarious) getting out of the two-person cab of OUR TRUCK!

I have since vowed that anything in my life can be solved by this unstoppable foursome. Ms. Florette, who knows not only how to get a stain out of anything but also the names of every cop in town (though she won't admit how), had mentioned to her "cop-friend" 'Coon (short for Racoon -- I'm not sure if this refers to looks, or what) that the parish truck had been stolen. 'Coon said he'd keep his eyes and ears open, and that he'd spread the word around. Mrs. B, whose husband was a BDF member (Belize Defense Force), asked around as well. And my favorite -- Esidoro called all of his friends in the "auto industry" in Belize City; he knew a guy who sold tires and whose stock, incidentally, is received anonymously ... maybe they had gotten some parts from a Ford recently? And Fr. Dan, well, he's a priest. So I'd like to think he had God on his side. In any case, these Fantastic Four had their eyes, and the eyes of all their friends, peeled like a street vendor's orange.

As it usually happens in Belize, gossip got the better of this "teef" (thief, in kriol). The truck was found less than 48 hours from when it was stolen, less than two blocks away from the church and, hilariously enough, one lane over from Mrs. B's house. The truck was missing only the grill (which was probably a blessing -- that thing was rusty!), the lightbulbs from the headlights, the back bumper, the spare tire, the two emblems that said "Ford," and as we found out later, one windshield wiper. We'd like to think that this character started to take the things that were easiest to carry first, and then halfway through his work, he/she let their conscience get the better of them: "I am stealing from a church, for God's sake! What am I thinking?" And so, as they loaded up their bag of truck accessories, they decided it would be best to leave the truck -- in tact and absolutely drivable (except in the rain and at night) -- by the good church lady's house. "She'll definitely find it."

And a good deed it was. Fr. Dan's scare with the errands has passed and I'm back behind the wheel towing Angie around town; Esidoro can again accomplish his skilled carpentry work; and Mrs. B's heart rate has finally slowed to just about a healthy rate. Although our church still has no money, at least we're not in the hole. Better yet, we all had a great laugh together -- especially at the contacts that revealed themselves through the frantic race against time and Belizean looting. When Fr. Dan called the Belize City Police Department to cancel the report he'd filled out (on the back of a receipt with a "Hello Kitty" pen -- I was there, I know) he mentioned, "I just wanted to let you know that your buddy 'Coon really helped us out."

"Who the Hell is 'Coon?"

And that, my friends, is why I love my co-workers.