It's Been Three Years Since I Fell In Love

"It was a big day in our lives. And it's not only hurting for my past self, it's mourning the loss of that self. It's knowing that I can never be that person again, for good or bad. And I'm not jealous of the anxiety that I was feeling on this day years ago, but I am jealous of the adventure that person was about to go on."

-- my Honduran roommate on our Friend-aversary and moving to Honduras

It's been three years, to the day, since I have fallen in love.

Three years ago today I fell in love with a country so vastly different from the one in which I grew up. I fell in love with the dirt roads and the cows that frequently walked them. I fell in love with the fruit stands on the side of the road that allowed me to buy an entire pineapple and eat it in the back of the pick-up truck while driving down the highway. I fell in love with the mountains, and at the same time, with the beaches. I fell in love with the cars driving around town with speakers on top of them blaring music, or sermons, or the latest special at the supermarket. I fell in love with $1 taxi rides and baleadas for every meal.

I fell in love with Honduras in the same way people fall in love with each other-- savoring the good, while tolerating the bad, and knowing that all of it together creates something that you know will impact your life forever.

Three years ago today, I was a recent college graduate who was terrified to be embarking on such a huge adventure, but ecstatic to be embarking on such a huge adventure. Today I've taken the courage that I gained and moved abroad AGAIN, on another huge adventure.

Three years ago today, I was optimistic (maybe overly so) about how awesome of a teacher I was going to be. Today I'm realistic with the fact that I'm not going to be a perfect teacher and that's okay.

Three years ago today, I had never had to humble myself when communicating because I wasn't able to understand what was being said around me. Today I stumble over words and say "I'm sorry, I don't understand" every. single. day.

Three years ago today, I was unable to fathom a group of students who wouldn't listen to me. Today, I realized that last week was my first week of teaching that was completely tear-free.

In the last three years, I have laughed, I have cried. I have threatened to quit my job, I have threatened to leave the country. I HAVE left the country, I have moved to another country. I have learned, I have taught. I have made new friends, I have missed my old friends from home. I have been homesick, I have contemplated never returning to the States.

Three years ago today, I could have never imagined myself as I am now.

A Love Letter To The Country That Changed Me

Mi Querido Pais,

Is it weird to write a letter to a country? Is it weird to fall in love with a country? 

I knew that I loved you the moment that I saw you-- four years before we were actually together. Your beautiful mountains and breath-taking beaches, as well as your vibrant people, took hold of my heart and made you impossible to forget.

When I finally returned, three years ago today, I didn't know that how much I would laugh or cry or love. I didn't know the person I could become.

Thank you. Thank you for changing me. Thank you for challenging me. Thank you for making me into the person I am today.

Siempre te amo,

su catracha de corazon

August 10, 2012: Adios Ohio, Hello Honduras
August 10, 2013: It's Amazing What A Year Can Do
August 10, 2014: Two Years

Everything Is Different

As I was looking at my TimeHop today, I was met with these two images. 

In that instant, I was transported to one year ago at this time and so vividly remember the feelings that I was plagued with each day. For a brief moment, I felt like I was reliving that day all over again. The pain was so real.

I was suddenly reliving the days when tear stained cheeks and red puffy eyes were the norm. I was remembering the physical pain I felt when saying good-bye to each of my students and to the friends who had become more like my family. Each "This is the last time I am going to do/ eat/ see this." was coming flooding back to me. And I quickly became reintroduced to feeling so disoriented; as if it was someone else living my life.

Not only did I go back to the difficulties of leaving Honduras, but also the struggles that faced me upon landing in the States. There were so many tears for the life I had left behind and so many tears for not being able to embrace the blessings in front of me at home. There was the feeling that I didn't belong anywhere anymore and that I would never love any place more than I loved Honduras. That I would never love my life anymore than I did during the two years I called Siguatepeque my home.

The pain was intense and it was constant. At the beginning, I couldn't make it through a church service without crying. Naps, tears, and hours spent alone we part of my daily routine. At the beginning, I was unable to see past the pain. I was so wrapped up in it that I was unable to see all the blessings that come from loving places and people so deeply. And there was no way that I was going to find any comfort in all of the blessings that were heading my way.

Slowly, and without realizing it, the time spent alone grew shorter. The sobbing calls to my roommates from Honduras became weekly as opposed to daily, and soon monthly as opposed to weekly. 

Soon, I was able to look back on my time in Honduras without feeling pain that it had ended, but rather joy that it had happened. That's not to say that I don't miss Honduras and the relationships that were built there. I miss that country as much today as I did the day that I left it almost 365 days ago. 

When looking at the images that appeared on my TimeHop, the pain I felt wasn't for me. Not the me that I am today. The pain I felt was for the me who I was one year ago. What she was going through was hard, sometimes unbearably so. She thought that the good-byes would be the hardest part, but was unprepared for the weeks ahead of her in the States. I felt pain for her, but I didn't feel pain for me.

Over the last 365 days, each day was a battle. A battle to find the positives in the situations given to me. A battle to look back on my time in Honduras with love as opposed to the thought of it filling me with sorrow. A battle to love Honduras while also loving the States and Brazil. Some days were good, some days weren't so great. But each day brought me to here-- 365 days later when I can see all of the positives that came from living in, and leaving, Honduras.

A year ago today, I couldn't even fathom a life that didn't involve living in Honduras. But here I am, one year later, doing exactly that. Day by day, nothing seems to change. But all of a sudden, you look back and everything is different.

"We don't want to tell our dreams. We want to show them."

- Cristiano Ronaldo

"I am living a dream I never want to wake up from."

- Cristiano Ronaldo

It's All the Hardest Part.

The longer that I'm in the States, the more I find myself saying "The hardest part about being away from Honduras is ..." And you can fill in the blank. It changes every day.

It's knowing that everyone has moved back to Honduras for another school year, but I didn't.

It's realizing that there are new teachers to love my kids.

It's seeing how much STUFF I have that I don't need.

It's not being able to adequately communicate my feelings to anyone.

It's missing my friends and the life we had all created together.

It's knowing that I'm hurting my friends and family here when I only talk about how much I miss my friends from Honduras.

It's trying to realize that it's okay to love Honduras and the States at the same time.

It's not being there to walk with my kids in the parades or to play with them at recess.

It's everything.

Everything about moving back is hard.

The only people I want to talk to are the people who experienced Honduras with me. The hardest people to talk to are the people who experienced Honduras with me. The only pictures I want to look at are the ones I took in Honduras. The hardest pictures to look at are the ones I took in Honduras.

When trying to explain exactly what it is about being out of Honduras that is so difficult, I came across an article titled "The Hardest Part of Travel No One Talks About". And while I don't exactly agree with every sentence of the article, there was one part that I knew was written for me.

But the sad part is once you've done your obligatory visits for being away for a year; you're sitting in your childhood bedroom and realize nothing has changed. You're glad everyone is happy and healthy and yes, people have gotten new jobs, boyfriends, engagements, etc., but part of you is screaming don't you understand how much I have changed? And I don't mean hair, weight, dress or anything else that has to do with appearance. I mean what's going on inside your head. The way your dreams have changed, the way you perceive people differently, the habits you're happy you lost, the new things that are important to you. You want everyone to recognize this and you want to share and discuss it, but there's no way to describe the way your spirit evolves when you leave everything you know behind and force yourself to use your brain in a real capacity, not on a written test in school.

Things are, more or less, the same as when I left. The same clothes are hanging in my closet, the same blankets are on my bed, the same food is still stocking the fridge, the same television shows are playing on TV, my family's routines are pretty much the same.

BUT I'M DIFFERENT.

I'm so different than when I left.

The differences are hard to explain. They aren't visible differences (unless you count my new found affinity for wedges), but they are REAL differences. How can I expect others to understand my differences when I can't even fully understand them myself?

As we worked so hard to learn in Grade 1 and 2-- differences aren't bad, differences are just different. And sometimes they can be hard to learn to live with.

Right now they're really hard to live with.

Two Years.

Two years. 104 weeks. 730 days.

It's been two years since I first stepped on a plane to Honduras. Actually, that's not true. It's been two years since I've stepped on a plane to Honduras with the intention of moving there.

As I think back to myself at this time, two years ago, I can't even believe all of the changes that have taken places. All of the people I have met, all of the things I have experienced. All of the ways I've fallen in love.

Two years ago, I had no idea my world was about to be rocked in the most challenging, most rewarding ways possible.

Two years ago, I was scared. Scared I wasn't going to make friends. Scared I couldn't hack it as a teacher. Scared of speaking Spanish. Just plain scared.

Two years ago, I was excited. Excited to be setting out on a new journey all on my own. Excited to finally be a teacher after so many years dreaming about it. Excited to be returning to a country I had fallen in love with four years earlier.

Two years ago, I was devastated. Devastated to be leaving my family and friends. Devastated to be leaving American soil. Devastated to know I wouldn't see my cat or eat Taco Bell again until Christmas.

Two years ago, I was at peace. At peace with picking up and moving a couple thousand miles to a place where I knew no one.

There's so much that I know now that I wish I knew then. So many things I wish I could tell myself, two years ago. In honor of taking the leap two years ago-- a letter to my younger self.

Dear Caitlin circa 2012,

I know you. I know how you feel right now. I know you're staring out the airplane window mindlessly watching the clouds pass because anything else seems too overwhelming. I know you're walking through the airport desperately wanting to call your mom and hear her voice one more time from American soil. I know that at the same time you're wanting to be independent and do this without crying. I know that you're sitting at your gate silently debating whether or not you want to talk to the old lady next to you who keeps shooting you compassionate looks as tears roll down your cheeks. I know you're initially irritated with the seven year old chatterbox next to you on the plane because you just wanted one more cry in peace, but I also know that you've realized you haven't thought about how scared you are in the three hours you've been talking with him. Trust me, I know. I've been there.

What you're doing is about to change your life. It's going to be hard, it's going to be messy. And I know you don't believe me now, but you'll be crying harder than you are at this moment when you have to say goodbye to Honduras in just two short years.

Over the next two years, you will cry-- a lot. You'll miss home. You'll be ready to leave on the next plane. You'll lose friends. You'll miss events at home and hurt people who are close to you. You'll be given a class who pushes you, who defies anything you've ever learned. You'll be asked to do things that you think are completely ridiculous. You'll work hard and not be praised. Your values will be tested and you'll have to stand up for yourself. You'll be exhausted. You'll be mad at God. You'll get sick and not know why. You'll miss how convenient everything is in the States. You'll dig in your heels and resist falling in love with Honduras.

But guess what. You will anyways.

When you leave Honduras for the final time, you will be closer to God than you ever have been, you will have built deep and lasting friendships, you will be well on your way to becoming an incredible teacher, you'll have changed students' lives, and yes, you will have fallen in love with a country and a culture vastly different from the one in which you grew up.

It's not going to be easy. The most worthwhile things in life rarely are. Enjoy every day, every moment, you are given. Accept every hug that's given to you and try every food at least once. Never say no to a new opportunity. Step out of your comfort zone-- some of your best friends are waiting to meet you. Ask for help when you need it. Call home. Spend time with your students-- they're the reason you're there. Make mistakes. Understand you aren't perfect. Take a deep breath. Laugh. Watch the sunsets. Trust God. Pray.

It will all be okay.

How do I know?

I lived it.

Repatriating

As I've learned more and more about myself throughout my time in Honduras, I've found myself using words to describe me that I would have NEVER expected. Missionary. Introverted. Bilingual. Expat. While they've each had their own fair share of difficulties, I find myself focusing more and more on the "expat" part of me.

An article called "Leaving Well: 10 Tips for Repatriating with Dignity" popped up on my Facebook NewsFeed the other week and was soon followed by "Landing Well: 10 More Tips for Repatriating with Dignity" and "Staying Well: 10 Tips for Expats Who are Left Behind".

I knew that I would immediately understand the Leaving Well and Landing Well articles. And I did. So well that I cried. Both times. But I hadn't expected to understand the "Staying Well" article at all. I'm leaving Honduras, I'm NOT the one staying behind. So how did that article make me cry as well?

While the past month has been full of me trying to leave well and preparing to land well, I also had to say good-bye to Cristian. Although I'm not experiencing staying well for long, it has been a huge shock to my system. A huge change that I couldn't have prepared myself for, no matter how hard I tried.

I really loved "Tip #2: Flip the Manual Override Switch" because I watched it happen between Cristian and I. We fought more in his last week in Honduras than we ever had over the past two years. Everything caused a fight. A simple phone call to make dinner plans always ended up in one of us shouting nasty things at the other and hanging up the phone. Me getting out of the car from said dinner always included slamming of the car door and sarcastically yelling "BYE!!" We both knew it was happening, but neither one of us were capable of making it stop. So, a few days later, when I read how to Stay Well and saw this "When your departing bestie makes up a reason to be mad at you so it won't hurt so bad to say goodbye. Give her some grace.", I knew what was happening.

Saying good-bye wouldn't hurt as bad if we didn't care as much. It was easier to pick fights and be mad at each other than to acknowledge the fact that there were some big changes up ahead.

I'd expected to deal with the hardships of leaving and landing, I hadn't expected the hardships of staying. One of the biggest hardships might have been preparing to leave well without my biggest support system.

All of Leaving Well hit a little too close to home, but, as with Staying Well, there was one tip that has been the most comfort to me in these uncomfortable times.

Tip #7: Don't Fret the Tears or Lack Thereof
Know what's really common as you pack up to shift every piece of your life to a different part of the planet and say good-bye to people and places you have grown to love deeply? Emotion. Know what else is common? Lack of emotion. Strange, I know, but people are different. Crying makes sense. There is plenty to cry about. However, wanting to cry and not being able to is every bit as normal. Maybe it's because you've already cried yourself out. Maybe it's because the hard part for you was the process of deciding to leave and you spent all your emotion there. Maybe you just can't wait to get out. Whatever the reason-- don't feel guilty for weeping like a baby... or for not.

And while there have been moments/ hours/ days where I have been found weeping like a baby, there are an equal number of highly emotional moments/ hours/ days where I have not been weeping like a baby. Not because I don't feel like crying, but because I physically can't cry anymore. If I was able to, I can guarantee that I would've had tears rolling down my face 24/7 from the time school let out until now. It doesn't mean that I don't feel sadness though. Oh, I feel it. I feel it every second of every day.

Staying Well and Leaving Well have been part of my every day routine. Every day I need to remind myself to give a little more grace that I would normally show and every day I have to ask for more grace from those closest to me. All of this is preparing me for next weekend-- Landing Well.

Landing Well is something I have never done well. NEVER. I typically spend days holed up in my room alone crying about how I miss my friends and baleadas and my moped and my mosquito infected house and nights on Facebook chatting with my roommates. This continues the entire time I am home until I return to Honduras and proceed to miss everything and everyone in the States. To say that I'm dreading this process would be an understatement.

But Tip #6 of Staying Well says 'It's OK to Love Two Places'.
"Man, I don't know how you lived over there. I bet you're glad to be home." I think this (frequently shared) statement can be more internally conflicting and frankly hard to respond to than any other. I am so glad to be home, but I was so glad to be there as well. There were some hard parts about living there, but there are some parts of living here, too. There were lots of days "over there" that I missed home, but there are days here when I feel something remarkably similar. Loving where you lived as an expat doesn't mean you love your homeland even the slightest bit less. Don't feel guilty when you feel homesick at home.

And I do. I do love two places at once. From now on, for the rest of my life, I will love two places at once. And there is nothing wrong with that.

The underlying message of Staying Well, Leaving Well, and Landing Well is grace. I need to be giving more grace than I'm used to and I will require more grace than I have in the past. Transitions are HARD, leaving is HARD. But it's also hard for the family and friends who I continually leave behind and who are hurt because I miss my friends in Honduras who I saw last week, but haven't seen them in six months.

Grace.

Grace.

Grace.

Staying Well, Leaving Well, Landing Well. Here we go.

See You When I See You

Let's don't say goodbye; I hate the way it sounds. So if you don't mind, let's just say for now, "See you when I see you, another place,some other time." If I ever get down your way or you're ever up around mine, we'll laugh about the old days and catch up on the new. Yeah see you when I see you and I hope it's some day soon.

The end of the school year this year looks so very different than the end of the school year last year. Last year the end of the school year was filled with hugs and smiles, promises to "see you in six weeks!" and plans to meet each other at the beach. Cleaning my classroom meant organizing things the way I wanted to find them when I returned and writing plans meant figuring out what I wanted to teach this school year.

This year the end of the school year has been filled with tear stained faces and choked up goodbyes, hugs that say "I love you more than I know how to put into words" and whispers of "I'll never forget you." Cleaning my classroom means handing my things over to person that I've never met and writing plans means handing over my babies to a person I've never met.

Up until Friday no one at the school had seen me cry; I'd become very good at holding it in until I could sob in my own bed. But then Friday hit and I had to say goodbye to my students. All of a sudden all of my students and the entire staff at the school has seen me sob. Not just a few tears rolling down my cheeks, but full blown sobbing. 

Saying goodbye to my munchkins was hard. Harder than I could have ever expected. The day passed as it normally would with nothing out of the ordinary except hugs that lasted a little longer and a slightly higher than normal number of "I love you"s exchanged. I even made it through saying goodbye and hugging each and every one of my Grade Twos without tears or a lump in my throat. Grade One and I were another story. Our tears started almost instantly and did not stop for a loooooong time. 

Have you ever seen a puppy wandering around like it's lost with a sad, forlorn look upon it's face? That's what I looked like after school on Friday. I would walk a couple of steps, hug a child, and cry. Walk a couple of more steps, hug a different child, and cry some more. And repeat. For thirty minutes before I finally shut myself in the house and cried on the couch. 

Made it three days without tears, which, during this season of my life, is pretty impressive. But then I woke up this morning ALREADY CRYING. And the tears continued while I cleaned my classroom. While I met with parents. While I organized materials that will be used by a teacher who isn't me in a classroom that won't be mine anymore. And though they stopped for a little while, they continued again the moment that Cristian walked out of our house for the last time.

I thought that saying goodbye to my students was hard, but saying goodbye to my best friend was even harder. While I know that all the changes taking place are exciting and necessary for all of us, I still resist them with everything inside of me. I'm happy here. With my life exactly the way it is. And I don't want it to change. 

Logically, I know that it has to. Emotionally, I'm holding on to this life with two hands.

I never knew that I wanted a Honduran brother, I never knew that I needed another best friend. In Cristian I found both of these things. And saying goodbye, or, rather, see you when I see you, was a lot harder than I ever could have imagined.

So the tears continued. They continued as I wrote recuperation exams and they continued throughout our all staff luncheon. They continued until I walked into the library and was greeted by two of my student running at me for a hug and yelling "Meeees Kay-leeeen!" 

I know that I have been beyond blessed here in Honduras. I've made incredible friends, I've taught amazing students. But having all of these life-changing experiences and knowing all of these wonderful people makes goodbyes that much harder. It would be easy to say adios to a place that I don't have any connection to. Here I am, though, in a country that I have completely fallen in love with and with people who mean the world to me. Saying goodbye to them might actually kill me. 

While I'm excited for the adventures that lie ahead, I much prefer the end of last year to the end of this year. 

I'm Torn And It's Tearing Me Apart

Being a teacher is hard. Hard. Difficult. Difícil.

I'm not talking about the content. I'm really awesome at adjectives and my rendition of the alphabet is on point. I can properly punctuate a sentence with the best of them. But I am in charge of shaping young minds. Young minds that are going to grow into doctors, teachers, lawyers, professionals.

And they've been given to ME.

The content lessons are easy. Pinterest has lots of activities to make learning blends memorable or games to aide in letter sound acquisition. The character building, the tending to their precious hearts, is the hard part.

We've tackled bullying, we've fought against tattling, we've explored how to express our anger in a positive way. These past few weeks we've been working through something I had never expected-- how to express our emotions when we don't possess the language nor do we completely understand what is happening.

I leave this country in 34 short days. But our last day of school is on FRIDAY. Friday. As in, three days from now. In three days, I have to say good-bye to the 45 smiling faces who have weaseled their way into my hearts and refuse to let go.

This is challenging enough for me as a 23 year old adult who can grasp what is happening and who made this decision. It's exponentially harder for those 45 smiling faces.

They understand that something is happening. They understand that Miss Caitlin is going back to the United States.

But that's about where their understanding stops.And that's about all they can express. They don't have the language to delve deeper into their feelings nor can they really even comprehend why they're feeling the way that they do.

But they're hurting. I'm hurting. And I'm hurting even more when I watch them hurting. My heart breaks to know that they're feeling this way and that I'm the one who has caused it. We've been doing devotionals throughout the year and this time of hurting has provided us with many opportunities to talk about how sometimes God calls people to do things that they don't want to do and hurts their hearts, but God always knows what is best for them. Jonah was called to Ninevah, Miss Caitlin is called out of Honduras.

Grade Two and I have been together since day one. Together we've been to hell and back. I'm not kidding. They're tough and I'm stubborn. We've seen the worst of each other and we've seen the best of each other. There's 23 kids in that class and each one of them has an incredibly vibrant personality. Each one of them craves personal attention ALL THE TIME. The boys in Grade Two are ALL boy. 100% boy. They live and breathe sports and interact with each other using violence. It's not uncommon to have at least two boys fist fighting on the floor. And that's normal.

Out of all the things that Grade Two and I have done together, we have NEVER taken a good class picture. Someone is always moving, someone is always pouting, someone is always missing, someone is always blocking someone else's face. For whatever reason, taking pictures with Grade Two is like pulling teeth.

But today Grade Two and I took a class picture and I was almost moved to tears. Sarah came in to take a picture with the students and then Tony and I stepped in to take a class picture. In Sarah's picture the kids were in one long line with a couple jolly students sitting in front-- more like what you would expect a typical class picture to look like. The second Tony and I stepped in, they climbed on top of us. Every single kid wanted to be by Miss Caitlin and Mr. Tony. Some of them didn't surprise me. The fact that they girls wanted to hug us was no shocker. But two of my BOYS wanted to be next to me. Two of the boys who haven't shown much interest in Miss Caitlin. Ever. And then after taking our picture, they each gave me a hug. Before they realized that they were boys and hugging the teacher isn't cool and went right back to punching each other.

Their precious, tender hearts. After all this time together and I'm still surprised at the things they say and do.

Being a teacher is hard. Character building has been hard-- on all of us. But it's been worth it. Getting glimpses into their precious, tender hearts is so worth it. They've grown, I've grown, we've grown together.

In the same way we've gone through hell and back together, we'll get through this difficult season of good-byes and transitions together. We'll all come out stronger on the other side.

And just to lighten up a pretty heavy post, here are all the class pictures that Grade Two and I have taken together over the past two years. Crazy, hectic photos. Precious, wonderful memories.

While they were in Grade 1-- ice cream party

While they were in Grade 1-- with Mr. Carl

While they were in Grade 1-- the Science Fair

While they were in Grade 1-- One Day Without Shoes

Now that they're in Grade 2-- supporting La H

Now that they're in Grade 2-- Cultural Day

Now that they're in Grade 2-- Thanksgiving

Now that they're in Grade 2-- Christmas

Now that they're in Grade 2-- with Mr. Carl

Now that they're in Grade 2-- February 27th

Now that they're in Grade 2-- the 100th Day of School

Now that they're in Grade 2-- Language Coffeehouse

Now that they're in Grade 2-- Mini-Olympics

Now that they're in Grade 2-- Mini-Olympics

Now that they're in Grade 2-- One Day Without Shoes

Now that they're in Grade 2-- their official school picture

Now that they're in Grade 2-- the picture that nearly broke my heart

Being a teacher is hard. Hard. Difficult. Difícil. Being a teacher is worth it. Worth it. Vale la pena.

Whichever I Choose, There Will Be Regrets

Life is hard.

Having to be responsible for your own actions and decisions is hard.

At this moment in time, I want someone to make decisions for me. If I had someone to make decisions for me, I could blame them when things all fall apart. Or for when I doubt my decision.

But that isn't the way that life works. I have to make my own decisions. When things fall apart, I'm the one to blame. And when I doubt my decision-- that's all on me.

We're quickly approaching the time of year where I have to decide where I want to go and what I want to do with my life for the next school year. And honestly? I'm so torn. Do I stay? Do I go to the States? Do I go to an entirely different country? 

I don't have any idea. And no one is here to make the decision for me.

While browsing Twitter a few weeks ago, I saw that someone had tweeted Jason Aldean's lyrics that say "Whichever I choose, there will be regrets." Which is exactly how I feel. No matter which decision I make, I will have regrets. No matter where I end up, my heart will be longing to be somewhere else.

Upon further investigation, I found that the lyrics came from the song "Keep The Girl" which is very clearly about a boyfriend and a girlfriend. But being the self-centered individual that I am, I applied it to my own life. Let's take a gander now, shall we?

This life is full of choices. Hard to make one, all the voices in my head. I feel like this is pretty clear.
Those blue eyes I'm in love with? Substitute "brown eyes" for "blue eyes" and I picture my 48 Honduran babies who look at me every day with hunger to learn and be loved. Who would be so hard to leave behind.
Or that highway? The one that would take me somewhere else.
Which ever I pick, there'll be regrets. Are you beginning to see where I'm going with this?

I go one way, I lose everything. If I leave, I leave behind everyone I've come to know and love.
I go the other way, same thing. If I stay here, I'm taking more and more steps away from my life in the States.

I'm torn and it's tearing me apart. 
I want to go, but I don't want to break her heart. I'm the "her" in this situation. Going will actually break my heart.
Like a sword with a double edge blade, it's gonna cut deep either way.
This little town, that big old world. My little Sigua? Or new adventure in that big, old world?
Chase the dream or keep the girl? Do I chase my dream of teaching internationally? Or do I protect myself mentally and emotionally and go back to the States?

While (I feel) the song very clearly mirrors my own feelings and this stage of life that I am currently in, listening to it 500 times on repeat doesn't change my predicament. I still need to make my own decision.

I'm torn. And it's tearing me apart. Whichever I choose, I know that there will be regrets. 

"I Wish Nothing But The Best For You"

It's been almost two months since I have been home from Rio (and ironically, two months until I leave for Honduras) and not a day goes by that I don't think about my students and my experiences there.

My last day there was CRAZY! Honestly, I don't remember the morning. Not even a little bit, not even at all. In the afternoon, the kids sent me to me down to 2ndA to "read them a story and tell them hi from Ms. Shafer." I kind of had a feeling that something was up because I hadn't talked to these students or their teacher my entire time in Brazil. And Paulinha and Heitor may have dropped little hints on accident. But I went with it.

My little girls.

I went down the hall and read a book to the second graders and we chatted for a bit. Camila came to get me while I was still reading the story and I told her that I would be down when I was done with the book. Fast forward about three minutes and she's back in the classroom with Lara, Paula, and Sophia and they are doing their best to look absolutely panicked saying that I HAD to get back to our classroom. I tell them that I decided to stay in second grade, I passed first grade and am moving up to second grade. Cheers erupted from the second graders and my poor girls looked like they could have burst into tears.

While singing Adele.

I said good-bye to the second graders and went down the hall, holding hands with the girls. They were jabbering a mile a minute about how it was an emergency and how I needed to get back right away. As I walked into the classroom all of the lights were turned off and the students shouted "We will miss you, Mees Casa!" Even though I knew it was coming, I had to blink back the tears. I don't know which student started it, but they all ran up to hug me and soon I was sandwiched in a 19 student hug. We ate snacks and took pictures and just had fun enjoying our last hour together.

The boys-- what a handful.

Guilherme played his Adele CD and all of the students sang "Someone Like You". I understand that it's about a break-up, but wow, could he have played a song that made me cry more? Geeze. Around 3:15, Ms. Cruz told all the kids that it was time for the bus kids to leave. Enter-- tears. From all parties. I kneeled down to hug the kids and started SOBBING. Giant, non-stop crocodile tears. Some of the bus kids had already left the room before I started crying and I heard Ramiro yell out the door "COME LOOK! MEES IS CRYING!" Which made me laugh because they are all just so precious.

My precious little girls.

I hugged each student and told them how much I would miss them. Camila pretty much just brushed my arm and then walked out the door. I was pretty bummed because she'd been hanging on me all day and I was really going to miss her, so our good-bye was pretty lame. Ms. Cruz peeked out in the hallway and told me that Camila was out in the hallway sobbing. Which is why she couldn't stay to say good-bye to me. Because it was too hard for her. It broke my heart.

The best teachers ever and I-- couldn't have done this without them.

The good-byes were tough. Each student was different in how they dealt with good-byes and I knew that I was going to miss each and every one of them. I missed them as soon as we said good-bye, I miss them two months later. They were crazy and rambunctious and loud and overwhelming. But, over the course of twelve weeks, those 19 students in 1st Grade A stole my heart and made it almost impossible to leave Rio.

I Think I'll Stay.

Why didn't anyone warn me that saying good-bye was going to be this hard?

Don't Say Good-bye.

"Don't say goodbye.  Cause I don't wanna hear those words tonight."

I am not ready to say goodbye to my students. I am not ready to say good-bye to Brazil. Not. Ready.

The leprechaun left us a paper chain on St. Patrick's Day and we have been using it to create a countdown of how many days I have left in Brazil. It causes quite a stir with my students, but God forbid, I try to skip it. I try to include the fact that the paper chain just isn't for how many days I have left, but also for how many days until they leave for NR. But they're smarter than that. They know.

There are so many things that I am going to miss about each and every one of them. I've gotten to know their personalities and little idiosyncrasies that make them all individuals. They're wild and crazy and rambunctious, but they are sweet and funny and I am not ready to say good-bye. I miss them when we are apart for a weekend, let alone saying good-bye forever.

I will miss the way Lara, who was most skeptical of me at the beginning, tells me that I'm not allowed to leave, that I may stay at her house if that means not leaving. I will miss Bia starting off everything with "Miss, let me tell something to you." I will miss Guilherme and the way he looks at me and says "WHAAAT?" every time I talk to him. I will definitely miss being called Mees/ Mees Cass/ Mees Cassa. I will miss their little Portuguese accents. I will miss their hugs and they way they pray for me during Religion and then turn around to see how I've reacted. There are so many things that I am going to miss, this only scrapes the top of the iceberg.

How can I leave in a week? How can I go home knowing that I may never see these children who have had such a huge impact on my life ever again? It's hard, it's really, really hard. And I'm not ready to do it. I don't WANT to do it.

The Lasts.

Well, this week begins it. The first of the last. Our last full Sunday. Our last Monday. I don't know if I can do it. I don't know if I can say good-bye to this country and to these people.

I'm living in a state of pertpetual saddness and constantly living on the verge of tears. Couple that with the fact that it's supposed to rain every week and you're in a for a real treat. (I like to think that Rio is crying because we are leaving-- hence the forecast.) There's some excitement mixed in there, don't get me wrong. I am so estatic to see everyone again. But right now, I can only think about how sad I am to be leaving here.

It's funny. I was so sad to be leaving Ohio and going away from all my friends to spend time here. And here I am, three short months later, not ready to leave here. Like I said in one of my first posts, how lucky am I to know a place that it so hard to say good-bye to?

I don't know how I will make it through this week.