broke my bonds: an exodus.
led through the desert; i was starved.
belize heaps my daily bread.

I won a half marathon.

Therefore, strengthen your feeble arms and weak knees. "Make level paths for your feet," so that the lame may not be disabled, but rather healed. -- Hebrews 12:12 - 13

Since I've been tagged a "bible-thumper" recently, I decided to open this quarterly report (way overdue, I know) with a verse that's been resonating with me for the past few days. At first, upon reading it, I took it as some inspiration for the day -- "Man up!" it called to me, after a few days of self-pitying and moodiness. "Get dressed, go to work, slap a smile on your face, and remember that God is good." And I did that ... Well, mostly; I got dressed, went to work, tried my best to smile, and made it through another, hot, loud, chaotic Belizean day.

I remember a time just about a year ago while riding my bike to downtown Belize City to pick up the mail or something, thinking to myself: "I'm tired of being pushed around by this place. I'm tired of feeling sorry for myself and not fighting back. Get scrappy, Molly. Get scrappy." With years of athletic discipline in my bones, that tactic worked for a while: when I was homesick, I set my eyes on July 15, 2008 for the visit of my family; when I was frustrated at work, I turned off all my appliances in the office and copied things only by hand and didn't check email for weeks at a time even though the internet was literally a click (and a power button) away; and when I was feeling lonely and isolated, I filled my mind with short stories and books I found in our house library. I ran probably about 25 to 30 miles a week, I didn't communicate with people from home very often, and I withdrew from a growing spirituality for fear, I think, of confronting the real questions of why Belize was so dang hard for me.

And, with all of that effort, I made it. I stayed here. I saw my family in July. I finished a year of work. I won a half marathon. I found a lot of authors I liked.

And my heart was hard.

I know I have written a bit about "humiliation" in my previous updates, but that continues to be the ongoing theme of my experience here, so I'm going to let it flow again. Besides being told yesterday at the dentist that I have 22 cavities (!!!!!!! very embarrassing) and besides ripping the backside of my shorts in front of the youth group while racing someone to a stray volleyball (it sounded like a huge fart, which made it even worse), the most humiliating thing that has happened to me recently was a conversation I had with a friend, a Belizean. She told me that for some time now, she's hated me. She listed off -- openly -- the many ways that I've hurt her, the many ways I've failed to support her, and the many ways she laments the distance that has grown between us in the past few months. Wow. In my meek defense, I will say that there are some cultural and personal circumstances that have also contributed to such miscommunication, but the bottom line is that this friend, in whom I've invested the most effort, the most intentionality, and the most care over my past 20 months in Belize, doesn't feel loved at all. Now, with two months left, my heart is broken for the self-absorbed determination that has been hammered between me and someone I love.

And so, my reflection leads me to recall the second half of that verse from Hebrews. What it speaks to me, then, are not words of chastisement akin to the "encouraging" words of coaches and even sometimes parents who tell us to get back up, to try a little harder, to fight a little more scrappy ("Get to the bloody ball, JP!!!!!!!!!!" -- Amy Milhomme and Kristen Blake know exactly who I am talking about!). Instead, these are words from a loving God who wants us to be disciplined in Him, focused on Him, so that the "lame may not be disabled, but rather healed" on His even path. I think that is so beautiful; I don't want to be strong for only myself anymore, or to speed crazily along my own bumpy path focusing only on the end result and not the fact that I'm getting serious whiplash and also dragging people along behind me -- so far, that method has got me nothing but a hard heart and a lot of awkward conversations! No, thank you.

I am a determined person by nature, and I like a challenge just as much as the next adventure-seeking tomboy. But how blessed am I for the experience here that has shown me which things are worth being determined for, and which adventures and challenges are worth seeking. I know from documentation in the pages of my four filled journals from last year that my main goal was "to make it." To make what? My time commitment to JVI, to St. Martins, to Belize? I think, in reading between the lines of my own writing, my actual goal was "to not fail" -- to not fail that time commitment I pledged to, to not fail my job responsibilities, or my placement in this program. But instead, I failed myself and more importantly, as He already knew -- and already accepted -- that I would, I fell short of how God has called me to be.

For some strange reason, this whole bit makes me think about my dad and the skating rinks he used to build in our backyard for us growing up. They were awesome, and certainly the coveted "toy" of the neighborhood. Kids who I was never even friends with would suddenly start talking to me at school, or even less discreetly, would just show up at my house with their skates and a hopeful smile. Anyways, my dad would be out there in the yard in the wee morning hours, shoveling the snow off the rink, spreading a thin layer of hose water on top and circling the ice with his homemade zamboni broom/cloth contraption that smoothed out the water over all the bumps and cracks in the ice. By the time we came home from school, the ice would be hard, smooth, and ready for me and my "friends" to skate and play hockey for the afternoon. The few times when bumps resurfaced, or cracks split in the ice, I remember wiping out unexpectedly, and falling flat on my face. Playing pick-up hockey on bumpy ice was a) not fun, and b) dangerous; while my dad's disciplined daily care of the rink was a little bit a result of his control compulsion, it was also in the sake of his concern for us. He understood that it was to his own benefit to make that ice good quality: when he evened out the ice and made it look nice, we wanted to play. And when we wanted to play, we wanted him to play with us. And when he played with us, he knew he would always win.

If you have the time, which I know most of you who have real jobs and mouths to feed probably don't, I'd love to hear your personal reflections or thoughts on the verse above, on life, on my aimless emails, whatever.

Much peace and love to all,
Molly

It's really all of your business.

My experience of JVI so far (I still have a lap to go) has felt nothing short of being blind-folded and sent out onto a stage in front of thousands of people buck naked. Seriously. The people I have met here have shined a gi-normous spotlight on my most private parts (not the external ones) – the parts of me that I've worked very hard over the past 23 years of my life to cover up. For all this time, I’ve been ashamed of who I am and what I (fail to) stand for; being in Belize has swiftly and effectively stripped my soul of that inner shame, and slapped it right on my forehead for all to see.

It’s been really great to be one of oh, say, about 12 white people in this small city where everyone’s business is quite literally, everyone else and their mother’s business. There’s really nothing like being yelled at, “White girl, you’re getting wet!” while bike riding in a rainstorm. Yes, I know, thank you. I can feel it. What if I am choosing to ride in the rain? What if I enjoy bike riding in the rain? And if I am not choosing to, and I’m not enjoying it, then that probably means I’m disgruntled because I’m 15 minutes late to a meeting and all my crap is soaked – so STOP YELLING AT ME! Kind sir with many rasta dreadlocks wrapped around your head, my rainy bike rides are really none of your business.

I am beginning to accept the degree of my incompetence, I think: how incapable I am at controlling things, how my thoughtlessness results in hurting people, how easy it is to fail others’ inborn and sometimes unexplained expectations, and of course, how limited I am in my skills and knowledge of “how to do things.” The “how to do things” part covers most of what people usually call “common sense” – after spending some time recently with my younger sister Martha, I would guess that this deficiency is genetic, but I can’t be sure. In any case, it inhibits things like my cooking skills, my card playing skills, my general wit, and of course, “getting things done” in the workplace. Well, maybe that has more to do with motivation and investment, but whatever.

While all of this is humiliating even as I write now, there has been nothing as humiliating (and correct my common sense if I’m wrong, but I’m using the word humiliating as in, “it incites humility”) as living in an intentional community. Jeepers, talk about inescapable confrontation with one’s own very human and not-so-capable self. I can say, knowing that my favorite part of community is the second best aspect of my life, that the worst—the hardest, most uncomfortable, most frustrating—parts of community living have actually given birth to some of the most meaningful experiences and conversations in my life.

Basically my experience of community living has looked, at different points in time, one of two ways: either I’ve been wandering around the house, internalizing my perceptions that I’m annoying and can’t do anything right OR I’ve been in a conversation where I’m being told that I’m annoying and can’t do anything right. I’m kidding, kind of – what I mean to say is that community living, for me, has been a humbling affirmation of all the complications that my feelings, experiences, and beliefs bring to the table. Those added to all the feelings, experiences, and beliefs of my housemates – all of which are equally as valid as my own – makes for some pretty permanent knots and kinks in our relationships.

In any case, I write this today (yes, I’m finally getting to my “point”) to share some of what’s been going on in my life. Not a smooth segue, I know, but what’s been happening over the course of the past six months has contributed to these insights on community living, and the feeling of vulnerability that’s associated with it.

As you (all four of you who read this) probably are aware by now, Trey and I have decided to get married. We are elated, not only because, in the wise words of my good friend Jenny Bilsten Woodrow, we’ve “found someone we want to hang out with for, like, forever,” but because we both feel as though this is an important step in our respective spiritual walks, and soon, in our joined service to God. Discerning marriage was a confusing and muddled process at times, but sorting through the thoughts and ideas surrounding both my fears of commitment and my compatibility with Trey has been so rewarding. I feel remarkably at peace about my life with Trey, and all that God has planned for us. When it comes down to it, I can rely on Trey to be by my side in my efforts to love God, and Trey knows that I will be there likewise for him.

All that said, this decision has of course made a splash. I mean, six months ago, I was still debating whether or not I wanted to stay in Belize because I was so unhappy – and since, I’ve not only met the love of my life, but have decided to get married? Just eight months ago I questioned God and declared that life was just easier if I didn’t believe – and now I’ve come to Jesus, yearning to feel loved, desperately so, and trying to get to know God as deeply as humanly possible? Yes, these changes are sudden and, in the way that they’ve been sewn together, inexplicable except if I trust that God has put them there with great intention. And I do.

But in the reality of my circumstances, this newness of my spirit is hard to convey. In community, for example, it’s been heart wrenching to see the ways that my happiness has inflicted discomfort on others: the seriousness of my relationship with Trey is not an advisable practice in intentional community living, and my spiritual conversion has been defined by an affection for Protestant doctrine. Moreover, it’s aggravating to see the ways that my own pride has come between protecting my relationship with Trey and developing relationships with my two other community mates, and also in my attempts to explain my spiritual regeneration. How is it that my heart hurts for these circumstances and the unhappiness or discomfort they’ve created for others, yet selfishly, I have found a deep joy in their very essence? Complicated, I tell ya.

Even beyond community however, the implications of these changes in my life have created tension and confusion in my family. I understand so clearly how surprised they have been with my seeming fickleness, but that’s just it: I think I’ve been fickle my whole life – that’s the Molly they know – and now, for the first time, I’m not. But, this is just the beginning and there’s really no way to prove that these changes in heart and spirit are lasting. And anyways, I don’t think that those things are really mine to prove.

Kind of like the rasta man on the side of the road who so aptly pointed out to me that it was raining, or like the people waiting for the bus outside of the post office who like to remind me to lock my bike as I’m wrapping the chain around my wheel, or like the students who like to tell me that I have chalk on my butt or tell me I’m fat, or even like the grocery store clerks who look intently at each of my items and sometimes even ask me what I’m planning on doing with them, hearing—perhaps for the first time ever—what my most beloved friends, family members, and community mates are concerned for in my life is all at once embarrassing, frustrating, and even though I don’t want to admit it, helpful. With the exception of a few creepy men who have said things to me here on the streets of Belize City that aren’t really worth documenting, all of these people have expressed themselves from a place that falls along a spectrum of care. Okay, maybe not the kids who call me fat, but everyone else. Most of all though, I have felt in the presence of these tough questions and even tougher answers the love of my family: my mom, my sisters, my dad; my community mates. Even when it's hurt.

There is much about being open with people and sharing yourself that seems scary, and I will attest that such a fear is a legitimate one: the risk, and my result for one, is that you bare your soul and instead of being wrapped in warmth and love and told that it is beautiful, it is poked and prodded. If I took one valuable lesson away from my business degree though, (besides LIFO, FIFO, and pension accounting, of course) it is that the greater the risk, the greater the reward. That is not a necessarily conditional statement in that order—great risk can obviously lead to great loss, too—but in reverse, it is: in order to have great reward, great risks are necessary. And I believe in a God who provides for us, for me, when I take great risks in His name. Moving to Belize was one of those choices, though unbeknownst to me at the time, and marrying Trey is the same deal. And while it’s been trying and disappointing, I’m more than humbled that such a clear decision to me has been so unclear to many others … Why, I ask myself, would one let herself be pushed onto a stage in front of thousands of people, blind-folded and naked? The best answer I can come up with is, of course, another question: Well, why would God let himself be dragged and nailed to the cross? Perhaps, then, that's what I'm called to do: to hang my business, all the substance of myself and what my life stands for, out for all to see.

Belated Tidings

Dear All:

Officially, happy season of the holidays, 2008! I regret my slacking – I'm not sure what the fines and penalties are for belated quarterly updates – but I am happy to report that my lack of news has been, according to the old adage, good news.

As I am rounding lap #3 (lap #3!!!) of my time in Belize City, I can finally say that my adjustment to this experience, which had been delayed for approximately a year by homesickness and various forms of personal stubbornness, is coming to a cacophonous and praise-filled close. Of course, the feelings of familiarity, comfort, and routine arrive just before I am forced to enter into yet another period of transition and adjustment, but in the wise words of my favorite 8^th grade pop group, B*Witched, c'est la vie. I'll be ready when June rolls around, I suppose. Do I even have a choice?

As for now, much has contributed to finally feeling settled in my community, in my job, and especially in my faith. In terms of my job, I'll admit that most of my adjustment has been in resignation—not an "I'm helplessly giving up" but in an "I'm humbly giving up fighting against it" kind of way. Much of that accomplishment has to do with feeling settled in the other two areas, so I will highlight those instead of dwelling on the disappointments and frustrations that have come with working in a ministry for which I am ill-equipped.

When I mention "community," I speak to both Belize and to the other three volunteers with whom I currently live and share this experience. Being accustomed to language and communication nuances has been a huge help on both of these fronts this year so far: I am finding my understanding of Kriol and its spicy character immensely helpful in my everyday routine, including answering the phone at work and playing some sort of unqualified disciplinarian role for students in the school library (school zoo is more like it), and I am finding a second year of living in an intentional community very beneficial to my practice of articulating, expressing, and listening to the needs and feelings of our household. While I'm not sure I'll ever utilize my comprehension of Kriol again, I'm pretty sure that the communication tools I am gathering through the intentional relationships that this living experience demands will be helpful in the future. Or at least I know that conversations in life couldn't possibly get any more awkward. Amen, amen.

Much of my last year's maturation has shown me that inevitably, I will become exactly like my mother, which is to say that I recently adopted two kittens who were rescued by the Humane Society (you wouldn't know from the swollen-nippled mange that wander the streets—impoverished dogs, I mean—but yes, Belize does have a Humane Society). These cats were already fixed, and up to date with their shots; basically it was a deal that could not be refused. I let them sleep on me, I feed them scraps while I'm cooking (and eating), I let them sit on the table, bite me, fart in my room, and wake me up at 4:30 am every morning to "play." I clean a full litter box every day, I spend portions of my small monthly stipend on special indoor cat food, and I always revert to baby talk when speaking to them, even though I understand how absurd I sound. Where my other housemates have kept true to our commitment of disciplining these animals and not letting them ruin our lives, I have let them define me in ways I couldn't have possibly imagined. I am obsessed with them, and I let them walk all over me as I believe that such is just a small price to pay for making our cement and sparsely-furnished house feel more like a home. A poopy-smelling, hair-covered, and havocked home, sure; but it is a home nonetheless.

In terms of sharing about my faith and feeling more settled in that realm, I should admit first that I entered into this Christian volunteer program assuming that simply being here would clarify—and remedy, for that matter—all the uncertainties I had about religion. I was a person in desperate need of direction (aren't we all?), and I figured that at the least, two years of service under the auspices of the Catholic Jesuits would buy me a good seat come judgment time. With the added components of community celebrated "Spirituality Nights" and working for a parish, I was sure—very sure—that I would leave Belize nothing short of an active theologian and steadfast Catholic. God, I thought, would come to me in Belize.

That, actually, was not—and is not—entirely the case. In all of that Christian thinking, can you believe what I forgot? Jesus! Geez (not to be redundant), it still astounds me; talk about seeing the trees but missing the woods, or however that saying goes. Anyways, I won't bore you with a testimony here—I will just say that I think God has come to me here in Belize, but only after I have realized that His revelation is not a catering service; I speak now from a place of comfort in beginning to see the ways to get off my sorry butt and seek Him. "God!" I remember saying over the summer, "Where are you!?!?" A housemate (and beloved) of mine rolled his eyes and tossed his Bible at me. And it's been all downhill—scenic, but still a little scary—from there. Yes, I can say, I was saved while doing mission work. Is that ironic?

So … to my last seven months in Belize: Bring on the metaphysical contemplation! Bring on the regret of scrutinizing opportunities foregone! Bring on the frustrations of a lifestyle that holds no measurable or external gauges of success! Bring on boredom! Bring on precious relationships from home maintained only by echo-filled phone conversations and hasty emails and four-week old letters! Bring on the temptation to give up! Bring on mosquitoes and sweat stains! Bring on anxiety about the future and what in the heck someone like me should do with her life! … Seriously, bring it on. I double-dog dare you!

I'll just cuddle up with one of my smelly cats, pick up a Sudoku, and pray in thanksgiving. After all, God's got plans for me—"for good," He promises—and I have to believe that Belize was, and continues to be, a part of them.

Cheers to Barack Obama even though my absentee ballot arrived on November 3^rd (postmarked through Belarus—can you BELIEVE it?!),

Molly

Herbert (left) and Zeus (right)

Juanda, Kristen, and I with FRANK BIDEN

Mrs. Bee, Flange, and I try on donated dresses

JVI BELIZE

There is nothing quite like watching a six year old boy read himself a story.

I don't have much time -- or mental energy -- to write much of anything about my recent adventures as the St. Martin de Porres Primary School Librarian (official title), but in reeling back the last six weeks of school, three distinct moments come to mind. First: the afternoon that the back zipper of my ugly-teacher-uniform skirt was unzipped ... All the way. It just so happened that the one boy who decided to point out my ridiculous blunder is a clown and I wrote off his "but Miss, I can see your underwear!" as an attempt at a crass joke to get his buddies' attention. Not until I went home to change out of said ugly-teacher-uniform skirt that evening did I discover the truth and feel horribly embarrassed.

Second: the afternoon that a 13 year old girl -- a notorious trouble maker -- sat at the table with me in the library and finished all of her homework. Not only did she prove absolutely competent and capable in the three subject areas completed, but she guarded her studies with a wave -- or a swift side punch-- to any nosy youngins lingering over her shoulder trying to get a glimpse of this big-time bully adding and subtracting fractions, whizzing through the dictionary, and looking up "Columbus, Christopher" in the index of the "C" World Book Encyclopedia. It was marvelous; she is hilarious, and smart, and absolutely feisty. I have reason to believe that despite the whole irrational temper thing, she's really going places.

Third: The day I met Rydell, a six year old, cross-eyed, and simply adorable young boy who can't read a word or even recognize a letter of the alphabet. He doesn't know his teacher's name, or how to spell "Rydell," (I'm guessing phonetically on that one, as well as with "Jaslynica," "Franzita," "Nutricia/Julicia," and "Ionie." Oh, and there is a little girl named "Cheney" -- I thought that was HI-larious) but he sure tells a good story, usually better than the corn-crap these people are passing off as children's books these days. Rydell comes to the library every day, without fail, to peruse the four shelves of story books and pick out the perfect one to "read" at our kitchen-table-turned-library-desk in the center of the room amidst the chaos of, what I like to call, "the St. Martin's after-school indoor playground." Due to such circumstances, and my own selfishness to hear his small voice animate the pages before him, I have recently been offering the corner of my check-out desk for him to use as he "reads." The best narrations Rydell has given so far, I must say, are for the "I Spy" books. "But Mr. Yellow Ducky couldn't open the boat, because his gold key was lost in the bucket." There are no words.

“ . . . I’ve got the drums of my Father beating in my bones . . .”

It’s the moment in which we know we’ve fallen in love. It’s the moment we know we’ve let go, we’ve transcended the limits of our very humanity; it’s the moment we know we’ve lost control.

I am, and have been, so deeply moved by Belize. This country has brought me to my knees more times than I care to count, in reverence, in shame, in despair, and in love. I’m embarrassed, feeling like an emotional train wreck all the time: in front of my co-workers during a hard day at work, in the face of community mates who love my prickly self, and by my lonesome, swinging in a hammock and letting my soul moan and pray with God the things that my mind will just never understand. Belize, the country herself, is challenging my very essence. She is testing my limits, she is pushing me to a dangerous edge, she is whacking me behind the knees; she is luring from me questions of what constitutes a “good life,” and what it means to be a Christian, really and truly, deep in my bones.

At any one moment, I could cry, I could laugh, I could scream—at the top of my lungs—things that would make the Devil blush. I could run, but not very far; or I could stay. I could complain, or I could man-up. I could question, or I could accept. I could seek, or put off the search until later.

I’ve let my hand be held here—there’s been little choice—by small children who just want to be accompanied to their classroom on the first day of school, by community mates while blessing our blessings, by the unity and the cadence of the Our Father—twice—every Sunday, by care packages and letters expressing longing and love and bearing trail mix and silly pictures.

And I’ve learned that things don’t add up. Linear reasoning is a myth; things are not meant to make sense, but to coexist irreconcilably. Even reality and un-reality, they are meant to ride piggyback on one another; when one starts to weaken, to become parched, the other backs the tired weight. When my faith in this world, and in myself, begins to dissipate, my imagination picks up the slack. And when my imagination runs dry and shrivels, Belize carries me forward.

Someone once described to me the beauty of dance, and why it holds a key (on a large ring of jingling keys) to happiness: dance is good. Dancing precludes logic. It is meant for pleasure. It is meant for liberation, for a surrender of consciousness, and for the soul to beat according its own rhythm without interference. Dance is a living artifact, a four-dimensional approach to crossing cultures of past, present, and future. We don’t know why we do it, but we, God’s people, dance.

When everything else has gone wrong here, in Belize, in life, and I feel worthless and hopeless and I convince myself that I am utterly unhappy, I know that she, Mrs. Bee, will be dancing around the office: “Ms. Molly Dee!!!!!!!!!! Come dance with me!”

I will wallow; I will begin succumbing to the temptation to fill the pot of my spirit with misery and disappointment, and to stew. She will stop, stomp her feet and shuffle to my chair. “We don’t need music,” she will say to my protest. Her smile will melt my heart.

That’s the moment in which I know I’ve already fallen in love. That’s the moment I know I’ve got to let go, that I can transcend the limits of our very humanity; that’s the moment I know I’ve lost control.

“Come on and get up,” she will say. “I’ve got the drums of my Father beating in my bones.”

You know you've been waiting for it ...

Hi, all!

Welp, the time has come for another dazzling update. I have officially passed the one-year marker in Belize -- a leap year, no less -- and have congratulated myself with a Hershey's dark chocolate bar, a beer, and a long weekend at Francis Ford Coppola's Belizean Resort (kidding about the last one!). Instead of boring your pants off with my long-winded descriptions of the last few months, however, I have decided to ask my sister, Martha, to write a reflection from her recent and oh-so-fun trip to Belize. Her visit with my mom and surprise guest Heather Ferron (best birthday present ever!!) was virtually indescribable (I have attached a few representative pictures), and I am so blessed to have been able to host them here, at my home, in Belize. The comfort of familiar faces, familiar laughs, and familiar hugs was invaluable and has filled my soul to the brim with love and joy -- the currency that will be needed to invest myself in my second year. I think that Martha's words do my current state justice; Belize has been a place of difficulty for me: brokenness, struggle, injustice, homesickness, and exhaustion. But it has also brought me redemption: I have never felt as proud as I did in the moment of embrace between Mrs. Bee, my most beloved co-worker, and my mother, my most beloved role model. A close second was the morning that Melisha and Monique, my favorite Belizean 6 and 8 year olds, showed up in their Red Sox shirts.

I hope that all is well with everyone! Peace be with you all.

Keep on rockin' in the free world,
Molly

As many of you know my mom, Heather Ferron, and I traveled to see Molly in Belize earlier this summer. Although I knew this would be an experience I would treasure my whole life, I did not anticipate how much I would learn about myself, my sister, and the world outside of our suburb home in Acton, MA. Although Molly has definitely dealt with ups and downs throughout her journey in Belize, she has accomplished so much and her hard work and dedication should be recognized. Knowing Molly, like you all do, she would be too humble to talk about her own success so I'm using this opportunity to show how proud I am of my big sister!

On July 15^th, 2008 our plane landed in the Belize International Airport. At the sound of a "ding" I jumped up from my seat, nearly hitting my head against the short ceiling of the airplane. My mom, Heather, and I were ready to run to the door but were forced to abide by the rules of society; waiting for each person to slowly unbuckle their seat belt, reach in the overhead bin for their luggage, and slowly walk towards the exit of the plane. After what seemed like ages, we made it into the airport where we faced more lines and more waiting. The anticipation of seeing Molly, the sister I had missed and needed so much during the past year, tingled through my whole body as we waited in line for our passports to be checked and continued to wait for our luggage.

As we finally entered the customs line, the last obstacle to tackle before seeing my sister, I was overwhelmed by emotion. Yes, I was excited to see my sister and relived that we had made it to Belize without any major setbacks or complications. However the nervousness I felt forced me to remain quiet and uncertain as we walked toward the customs officers. The feeling was similar to the one I felt when I entered high school as a freshman and was faced by experienced sophomores, juniors and seniors. It was the feeling of intimidation found when entering a community that has its own people, rules and customs - the feeling of being an outsider.

By the warm welcome of hugs and kisses we all received from my sister I knew that my mom, Heather, and I were all wanted in Belize and I was happy to be there. This calmed my nerves slightly but as we began our trip back to Molly's home in Belize City, I could not shake the feeling that I was different from her and did not belong. I felt like an outsider to Belizean culture, especially as (dread!) a tourist.

This feeling only worsened as we entered Molly's neighborhood and drove up to her house. This was the place that Molly lived, the place that she called home and yet I had never even been there. Later, as we walked to her office at St. Martin's church we passed unfamiliar houses, roads and buildings. To me these were just sights to see, an interesting picture to capture with my digital camera. It was hard to grasp that for Molly, these were the roads she used everyday to walk to work or to the market. These broken down houses were not just decaying buildings but the homes of her neighbors and friends; they were of the members of her community. Although Molly showed us around with love, excitement and a true desire for us to experience what she experiences every day, I still felt insignificant to the bigger picture of Belize City that I could not yet understand.

And then somewhere between Molly's home and the church it hit me. Just one year earlier Molly had flown to Belize City feeling the same nerves and excitement I had felt. She drove to an unfamiliar house that she was forced to call home and was thrown into a strange and different culture and told that she was supposed to live there for two years. She had walked this same road for the first time to a strange church and building that she was going to work at for two years. Although she chose this journey, when she walked into the community of Belize and a house of second year veteran volunteers she must have felt like me an outsider, a visitor to a unfamiliar place- insignificant to a world that was already functioning without her.

After experiencing the culture in Belize I know that it must take patience and commitment to truly absorb it and become a member of the communities there. It has proven to be a great temptation, even for Molly, to give up and return to the comfort found in our familiar culture. After seeing where she is and what she is doing I can understand the struggle she has felt to stay safe and happy in such a foreign country, but she has not let her fear or sadness end her journey in Belize.

The experiences and happiness we shared during our trip as well as Molly's smile, laugh and love remind me that she is the same big sister I have always had, but she is also changed. Through her hard work and dedication she has grown into a recognized member of her Belizean community. She lives humbly with her peers in Belize City, aware of their community's condition and feeling the restrictions of a small salary, a tight budget and simple means. She is not on some overly righteous personal mission to save Belize or lead the community to some revival with her own knowledge and skill; instead she is working hand in hand with the community of St. Martin's and other JVI's on a smaller scale to give the community the support it needs, putting her pride aside and completing jobs and tasks that even many members of Belize society would not be willing to do. The love the Belizean community has shown toward Molly and her fellow volunteers shows that simply their presence as individuals in the community is as treasured and valued as the effort they put into the actual jobs they do every day.

Molly has accomplished something very hard and I am proud that she has stuck with such a tiring and intense journey. I am thankful that I got a chance to share Molly's experience in Belize and now I am even more aware and proud of what she has accomplished knowing where and how she has done it. It is unbelievable that she has overcome the differences in culture that she has faced, and that she has been able to cope with the many personal struggles she has encountered in Belize. Molly is an amazing person and I am lucky to have her as a sister!

Love,

Martha