The trip is over. I haven't journaled as much as I expected. We're on the flight back to Charlotte, then have an hour layover in which to grab our bags, rush through customs, recheck our bags, and board another plane to SeaTac.

After our adventure on the way here, US Airways is giving us a $400 voucher, so I might be making another trip here soon, possibly to visit Denna again. We'll see. She's supposed to come visit me here soon, too. I haven't looked at the details of the voucher, but if they're smart, it'll have no restrictions.

We were at the orphanage from Sunday (which I've already posted about) until Friday morning. We split into five groups: painting, groundskeeping, construction, pulling nails, and a miscellaneous group that taught, made trinkets for kids and other things. Most of the groups changed jobs from day to day except for the construction group, because they were building cabinets, and it was beneficial to work the project through to completion. I was on pulling nails the first day and painting the second day.

Kaleo is a great guy. He's the biggest morale booster I've met. He can be a bit obnoxious and sometimes says things that seem to have no connection at all (though after a lengthy discussion, he usually brings it back home), but you can't be mad at him. It's impossible. He was able to just mumble his way through conversations in Spanish, knowing very little himself. Anyway, during the first day, we were pulling nails, and as if I were pumping metal, he'd start shouting for that extra little adrenaline boost. During one of these chants, he decided to call me JJ, despite my name having a single J in it, and it stuck. It actually helped a bit because it disambiguated the other Jordan on the trip.

There was another guy, Derek, that was with us the first day. He's fluent in Spanish and was our main translator throughout the trip. He didn't actually fly down with us because he'd been in Honduras for a year or two, and this trip was his last hurrah before returning to Whatcom County.

The last member of our group was Bill's girlfriend, Jane. She and I have always gotten along really well. She just has one of those personalities. We got a bit closer this trip, because she was the other person in my orphanage house.

Before lunch, while we were unnailing hardwood floor boards, the businessman turned missionary who started the chicken farm (he did not start the orphanage) came and took me to attempt to fix their wifi repeater. I did my best, but I wasn't really happy with the way it turned out. I know there's a way to do it where you can name the repeater's network the same as the router's and then laptops will switch between the two seamlessly, but at least I got it working with [mynetwork] and [mynetwork2]. The signal was still a little weak in the house we all slept in, but it was usable, though, we couldn't get Jeremiah's laptop to connect. I'm not sure if it was just an old machine or what.

The second day Jane was transferred to the miscellaneous group, and I don't know where Derek went. Kaleo and I switched to painting. That was pretty unremarkable except that I don't particularly like painting. I talked to Kaleo a little bit, and asked if he thought it meant something if a girl asked if you were seeing someone.

In the evening, we visited the homes again. Our mom was keen to my tastes that night and gave us the best chicken I've ever had, and a good portion of salad. It was the first time in a long time that I ate too much. That night or the next, I think the next, we had a translator who, for Jane and me, was one of the staff members. We played a "game" called Get to Know You or something. Basically, it was just some open ended questions on 3x5 cards and each of us in the house answered two. At team time, it sounded like every house had a different experience with that game. Some had kids bouncing off the walls that didn't take it very seriously, and some wanted to each answer "Who's your best friend?" with their personal reasons for why God was.

That night, the businessman gave his testimony during our team time. It was a lot more powerful, I felt, than most testimonies, at least resonating with me because it wasn't this huge turn around in his life, and mission work was a struggle for him. He wouldn't trade it, but he would in a heart beat if God told him too. It makes me feel a little better about working at Microsoft rather than out on the field, because I really do think God got me that job, and I can't imagine he would have if he didn't want me there.

The next morning we visited a slum called Los Quitos.

It's crazy how like-minded our group is. At team time each night, we went through our thoughts of the day and our struggles. Several struggles per night which hadn't been priorly voiced received head nods all around. Every struggle I've had has been had by most if not all the rest of the group.

Wednesday night, we all felt bad that when we visited the slums, we were thinking, "This isn't that bad." It was that bad. It just wasn't what we expected, which was African poverty. Los Quitos is a thirty thousand person shanty-town run by two organized gangs with drug rings and prostitution. The streets were so unsafe that the staff that were with us told us to remain on the bus.

Here's where my experience diverges a bit. Tuesday night I was not at all looking forward to the visit. I have a hard time going to a place on a mission trip with no real objective to make lives there better. The way I saw it, we were going to observe poverty and to break our own hearts. From my point of view, this feels wrong. Wednesday morning the exact same sentiment (minus the wrongness) was expressed, along with a strong argument as to why this is important. I agreed, but I still was resisting going. I hate to say it, but part of it was my shoes. I bought shoes on the way to visit Denna last December. I don't mind spending too much money on shoes because I wear them virtually every day for a year and a half until the insides are full of holes and causing blisters. Then I spend too much on another pair to abuse. The businessman had said that we shouldn't wear our nicest shoes because we might end up stepping in something icky. Well, I only have my shoes and my flip flops, and I'd rather lose a pair of shoes than have to wash icky off my feet. We'd been expecting to walk around the town. Then the staff member told us that there was a miscommunication and that it wasn't safe. I was relieved (for more than just my shoes). Everyone else was severely disappointed.

During the discussion that night, we talked about it. We felt awful because we were touring a shanty town in a tourist bus, as if they were animals on safari. But it really wouldn't be too much different if we were walking around, twenty-two obvious Americans with cameras taking pictures and walking into shops, talking to people in English. Something struck me about the place, though. People compared the slums to other slums: Derek to Honduras, Kaleo to the Philippines, several to Africa. I compared it to pictures from Hoovervilles during the Great Depression. The difference I noticed was that these people had some hope in them. They weren't broken, despite their poverty. They're there because they think (probably mistakenly) that they have a higher chance at a better life there than where they came from. (A lot of the people are illegal immigrants from Nicaragua.)

My favorite part of the trip was visiting the site of the new building the orphanage's organization has been promised by the government. They were given it five years ago, but have been struggling to get the money. It's a four million dollar building, and they're halfway there. For an organization this large in the US, two million dollars would take very little time or effort to raise. As soon as she told us what that fenced area with trees was for, it suddenly struck me how much healing will happen to that community when this building is built. I seriously can't describe it better than to say the areas where this organization has buildings are like lights in an otherwise dark place. When I get back, I will do my best to get Microsoft to recognize the organization for the GIVE program (though I heard it already does), and then get people to donate to it. Two million dollars. Seriously, it's not that much, and the results far outvalue the costs.

After Los Quitos, we visited one of the organization's day care centers. I was feeling a bit depressed after the slums. I didn't have any real "this is awful" thoughts while there, but just being in the area was disheartening, I think. Among the last things I wanted to do was to be in a noisy cafeteria surrounded by kids who don't speak English. I sat back as much as I could while the soon-to-be teachers of the group hand fed toddlers. Eventually I moved to putting cups on tables. I didn't eat lunch that day. First, the meal was nowhere near my limited palette, and second, I wasn't hungry even had they been serving sloppy joes and banana cream pie. (That was a total exaggeration -- I would have been all over sloppy joes and/or banana cream pie. They might have lifted my mood a bit.)

The night before, I had asked the businessman why there were only 20% new kids each year if kids only stayed one to three years, when 20% would require a five year rotation, on average. Evidently this stuck out to Jeremiah and Bill, and on Wednesday I was switched over to the construction team because the second cabinet would have tricky angles. However, there was some sort of assembly that day in the building with the cabinets, and we switched to other jobs. I took up the brush again.

Wednesday night was our last night in the houses. Saying goodbye to our mom was difficult. She's such a great woman with a larger capacity to love than I've seen in anyone. She's a single mother, the only one in the orphanage, with a thirty-year-old son we didn't meet, and a teenage son, who's an inspiration, of her own, and then five foster boys and five foster girls. I have no idea how she does it.

Thursday we did work. We built an entire shelving unit save the doors, and finished up the one from Monday and Tuesday. I loved working with my group. Monday or Tuesday night I had a lengthy talk with Jane's sister, and Thursday she and I ended up doing most of the cutting for the cabinets. Joe did most of the measurements and design, and the other two members worked primarily on the doors from the first set. The wood we were given was ridiculous. The 2x2's (or that's what we called them; they were 4cm by 4cm) were almost all either bowed or twisted length-wise. With nails, we got them as close to straight as possible, but the next morning, the whole cabinet and twisted a bit. The wall wasn't flat, and half of it had another concrete part sticking out of it, and of course it wasn't parallel with the rest of the wall, nor was the wall parallel with its opposite in the room. Considering all that, I feel we did a pretty good job. Channeling Kaleo, while Jane's sister was doing some hammering, I said "Do it KK!" realizing a moment too late that her name starts with C. (I'm rather slow, so she had to point out the discrepancy.)

Thursday night was our best team time. The two staff members I keep talking about gave their testimonies, and then a couple of us did. Testimony in Costa Rica is quite a bit different from what it is in the US. I like their version better. In Christianese, your testimony is just the story of pre-Christ, how you came to Christ, and what differences he's made since then, and it's usually a little prepackaged. People who've been Christians all their lives don't typically have "an amazing testimony," as say my dad did until six years ago. (Wow, has it really been six years?) In Costa Rica, it's an abridged (or less abridged) version of their life's story, where Christianity is a part of that, but also how they met their spouse, how they came to work at the orphanage and whatever else seems important at the time. I spoke that night as well, one because I kind of wanted to, and two because no one else seemed to. It surprised me though, what I said. I talked about how I became a Christian at three, and never really had a defining moment. I talked about my tick disorder and bipolar disorder, and how I've been suicidal from time to time. And I talked about new life, and how that's a new concept I've been throwing around in my head. I wasn't sure how they're all related, but I knew they were. What surprised me is that I didn't mention my parents' divorce at all. Bill's sister talked as well. She told roughly the same story that Bill told two years ago in Jamaica. Back then, I was having trouble keeping all 30 people straight, and I remember wanting to check in again with him about it, but until she started sharing, I'd completely forgotten about it. I felt retrospectively awful about that.

One of the things I liked about Jamaica was that after team time, we could stay up a little late and get to know people better. Between being exhausted and needing to get up at times I wasn't even aware existed, we didn't get to stay up very late. The other thing I liked in Jamaica, and I know this is rare, was that we were almost always one big group working on a single project. In Costa Rica and in Detroit, we split up into smaller groups to tackle lots of projects. I don't feel we got to know each other as well as we did in Jamaica as a result.

On Friday morning, the two staff members debriefed us and then prayed over us in Spanish. They are great women, especially the older one. And the younger one. After that, the cabinet crew finished four of the six doors remaining (also discovering the overnight skew), while other people did work on other projects, worked on making bracelets for the kids, and packed and cleaned. It was kind of inspiring to me to see everyone working on a day with no planned work.

Between work and dinner each of the nights, we played a different sport: first baseball, then soccer, then basketball, then soccer again. While warming up for the baseball game, one of the kids was purposely throwing the ball hard and uncatchable to someone as basebally challenged as I, and one throw hit my wrist and unclasped both sides of my watch. I was ok with this; I'd just go to Fred Meyer's and get the jewelers to fix it for me or something. Usually they do that kind of thing free of charge. Then one of the kids noticed it was broken and tried to fix it. He put the clasp on backwards (not the end of the world), and as soon as I put it on, it broke again. During his second attempt, he dropped one of the pieces in the clasping mechanism, and that was the ball game, so to speak. I might get it fixed, or I might go get myself a nice watch. I liked the watch my mom gave me, but it wasn't as water resistant as it claimed, and eventually I had it replaced with the one that just broke. I didn't like that one as much. I, of course, don't mean to say I was irritated with the boy. I was appreciative that he wanted to try to fix it and nearly succeeded. I'm just telling the story. For the rest of the trip, I've been using it as a pocket watch.

We just boarded our second plane. It was mercifully delayed eighty-three minutes, so getting through customs and grabbing a quick dinner was easy. We ended up sitting next to a (strange) girl at the gate who was from Bothel and actually was going to high school with Joe's cousin. It's a small world after all.

Friday afternoon, we, all the kids, and a bunch of other our-aged volunteers got on two large busses and headed to Bible Camp. They were both overly full and the counselors (called captains at this World Cup themed camp) had to stand, but some of the rows with only two kids invited us to squeeze. One of the kids from my house fell asleep on my lap. He was my favorite kid I think, though he reminded me of my cat in that he's always vying for attention. That can be draining. Our bus got lost on the 40 minute trip, and ended up sitting in traffic for another half hour.

There's too much to write about when it comes to camp. I wasn't one of the captains very often. I was on staff, and mostly worked in the kitchen. The way they had presented it was "creative team" and that we'd be setting up activities. That wasn't quite the case, but it was still fun. Meals were the best times for me. I loved all the dashing around trying to fill 130 plates in a matter of minutes with seven people all occupying the same space, then moving plates that were in reserves up to the front so they didn't get too cold. After the first meal or two, we added another parameter, meal size. Small kids got very small portions, bigger kids got medium, and captains got huge ones. I think the best part of being on staff for me (semi-jokingly) was that after everyone had eaten, we got to fill our own plates, so I didn't have to get stuff that I wasn't going to eat anyway.

We were so drained at the end of each day that team time was severely diminished. People were burnt out on the first day of camp. I burned out on the second day. Mission trips are sprints to missions' marathons. Sprints for more than a week are difficult. It was kind of interesting to see how different people reacted to burning out. Some got emotional. Some slept a lot. Some cut themselves out of activities and such. I forsook God. On my average day, I think I think about God fairly frequently. On mission trips, it's a whole lot more frequently since I'm around people who like to talk about him and who pray. When I burned out, I completely tried to rely on myself. It didn't go too well.

On the first evening of camp, one of our group's favorite kids, whom we would see just wandering around from time to time, found a very large frog (they were common), picked it up by its arms, and flung it Mario-Bowser style yelling, "¡Viva feliz!" The captains couldn't keep a straight face long enough to scold him.

It was a very structured camp with close to no free time. I think the only free time was immediately after meals, which was also medication time. Gringo (green-go) (us, as opposed to tico) captains really just followed the kids around since we didn't really know what was going on. There really wasn't much disciplining either, and the kids seemed to know where the line was. Every now and then, one would act out and a tico would step in. The rest of the time, we were huggers and jungle gyms.

The activity yesterday was sort of a multi-station obstacle course, but the main event was the mud pit. Almost everyone, everyone who wasn't running one of the other stations, was forced in, and covered head to toe. In the first station, spinning in a circle around a pipe and then trying to shoot a goal, I fell after shooting, and skinned my knees. I hope the mud didn't have anything in it my immune system can't fend against. When the pictures get posted to facebook, perhaps I'll link a few. Scott, by the way, is an amazing photographer. He, his girlfriend Justine, KK, and I were the main gringo staff members. The tico staff members were mostly much older than us.

At the end of each night, we all went to the stadium. There they recapped the day with pictures, and sang some songs. One night they played a Moses movie or something. I was feeling crowded and need to be alone for a bit, so I'd left before that started. Last night, though, they all said goodbye to us. The presentation and subsequent hugs must have gone on for thirty or forty minutes. A lot of the kids, and most of the gringo counselors were crying. To my surprise, I was swarmed. I didn't realize I had even been noticed by some of the kids that latched onto me. After all the hugging, one of the girls from my house came up to me and I carried her a bit. Then she told me that since her mom wasn't there to say goodbye, I should call her. That wasn't really feasible, and Jane and I had said our goodbyes to her already, more than once. We'd also written letters to her, though they hadn't been translated yet when we'd left. I hope the letters bless her. I told the girl to tell her my goodbye for me.

I didn't get emotional during the event. I don't know if I kept my distance or what. Not to be morbid, but it felt a lot like Justine's funeral (actual Justine, not aliased Justine). There was a lot of weeping there, too, but I felt surreal and almost happy. I have about eighty more people to get to know in heaven someday. Justine (aliased) was the other gringo that I noticed wasn't in tears. I can't speak for her, and maybe she felt as the others did, but she's the other one that is more business-minded, and less teacher-minded.

Today was pretty uneventful. I count that a plus. I had been looking forward to dropping by Swood's place between the airport and home, but because of the flight delay, I think it'll be too late. Plus I stink like nothing before smelt. I feel bad for the dude next to me. So now I'm looking forward to a nice long bath, some reading, and tomorrow, a clean shirt followed by my mom's place and kitties.

I've decided I really hate being infatuated. I can't think straight, can't act myself, seem unable to break out of my need for approval. It gets in the way of real relationship with the girl, and it gets in the way of my relationship with God. On top of that, I can't really evaluate the merit of a potential relationship with the girl objectively. I find her attractive because I'm attracted to her.

That need for approval, though, I feel is the most disturbing. I fear I'm projecting my lack of a father onto this helpless (in this area) girl. That's not fair, nor healthy. When that approval is granted, as in the case of Denna or Fey, well, I don't know. It actually seemed to go pretty well. But in both those cases, it had nothing to do with me earning the approval. They just liked me before I could attempt to impress them. My mating feathers are ugly and dim-witted. I'm only attractive when I'm confident and not trying to impress, or at least, not trying to leave that kind of impression. Even when I'm confident, I like to be funny, and that's a sort of attempt to impress. I just care less about the results, and thus am more confident. Rinse and repeat.

I need to shave.

Fifteen minutes to journal? Bahahaha.

It's the end of day one: our free day. Typically we'd like to have these at the end of the trip, after all the team bonding, but this was the only way the schedule worked out, and we all are pretty bonded anyway.

Last night we got in around 9:00pm, and it took about an hour to get through immigration, customs, and onto the bus. Customs was far more lax than I've seen in any other country or Hawaii. The customs officer just took each of our forms, briefly glanced at each, and had us throw our stuff through the x-ray scanner. I don't think there was even anyone on the other end in case something was caught.

From there we took a trip with this guy who helps sustain the orphanage. The story goes that he's a brilliant businessman who did quite well in the US, then spent time in Central America, and decided to either start or significantly help this orphanage and a couple others in other countries. Rather than do the administrative stuff, though, he started a business whose profits go to the orphanage, and it's now one of the largest chicken farms in the country.

We got to the orphanage, which is a collection of houses, and got a few instructions. Mostly we just unpacked, found beds, ate pizza, and took in our surroundings. Then we sang a single song as chosen by Joe, and went to bed. (Also I had Jeremiah, who was excited about his alias, read Finally Done Right. He approved of my sharing his stories.) I realized when I took off my shoes before bed, that I'd been wearing them for thirty hours straight. That's a smell I'd like not to repeat.

I've yet to shower since Friday morning, but I plan to after these fifteen minutes are up.

Today we went to the beach. There was an adventure on the way there. We lost a human. There was a tourist pit stop on one side of a bridge. The river beneath the bridge homed several very large crocodiles, and the crocks hang out there because people "fish" for them with whole chickens. Seeing them in the zoo is one thing. Seeing them uncaged, if a good 30 to 40 feet below us, is something else.

From there we went to a ritzy, almost American, grocery store to get drinks and fruit and whatever else. Then we started heading to the beach. Almost there, someone asks, "Where's Leigh?" We do a quick count and realize there are only twenty-one of us. Questions abound. Did anyone see her at the grocery store? I have a vague memory seeing her there next to the cakes, vaguely remember her smiling at me. Someone else remembered talking to her there. So we did a quick u-turn and headed back. Someone asked another relevant question: "Who sat next to Leigh between the bridge and the grocery store." No one raised their hands. I then lacked confidence in my memory. Five guys jumped out and raced into the store. They were long in returning, and without success. Then we stopped and prayed.

Poor Jeremiah was frantic. I've seen him stressed a couple times when things like broken planes came up, but this was an entirely different level. If we hadn't all been feeling worried about Leigh, Jeremiah's flailing would have been funny. (Some of us thought it was funny despite. There was a mix of panic and humor to avoid panic.)

We got back to the crocodile pit and one of the merchants waved us in. Out comes a laughing Leigh. She said that she was uncharacteristically calm about the whole thing, not worried at all. Phillipians comes to mind. Prayer in thankful supplication leads to peace that passes all understanding.

The beach was great. I don't think I'd ever successfully caught a wave while bodysurfing before. A board is still easier and less saltwater-up-the-nose inducing. (This is as far as I got in the allotted 20 minutes.)

After an hour or so in the water, we went looking for food. We ended up at a bar on the beach. It's pretty common in the US for friends to just join a table before ordering, and for people to be indecisive, and then if the table gets too big, to split into two. It doesn't happen all the time, but waiters wouldn't think it too horrendous, would they? Anyway, this is not the case here. Here, you sit down, you order, you eat, you pay, you leave. (I'm exaggerating.) To cut a boring story short, the waiter was not happy with us, and was doing everything he could to hide his vexation. It occurred to me that "funny in that awkward not quite used to our culture sense" was us this time. Also, I still feel like the normal one.

Joe, Derek, Fifa, and Bill were just freestyle rapping in one of the guys' bedrooms. They're amazing. I lack the sense of beat, the ability to talk, and the rhyming to be even close to starting. Other than that, though, give me a few days and I'd catch up. They each took a turn on the way home from the beach too. Crazy folks.

On the way home, we stopped by a fruit stand. I sampled a couple things I didn't recognize, but didn't buy anything. Lots of people bought mangos. I don't know if I'm missing out or not by not getting any. I just didn't want any. Do you force a "cultural experience" for the sake of the experience? Will I be any better or worse off for doing it? I've had other mango before. It's alright, but among my least favorite fruits. It's not sweet enough.

Something I realized about myself on the drive back was two more situations where I don't act myself. I don't actually maintain a list, but if I did, bipolar episode would be on it. These additions are one, when in groups larger than five or six, and two, when I'm around someone with whom I'm infatuated. The first case, I think, is what made youth group and bible studies always so awkward for me. It has its exceptions, like at the end of mission trips and conferences when I'm really close to everyone, or at Fir Creek when I'm most myself around a few counselors regardless of the twenty kids around us. I think maybe I don't try to impress kids, so they don't count toward the quota. The second case is probably why I've only ever found a girlfriend when I wasn't really looking for one, or was looking at the wrong girl. It's quite irksome, because around someone with whom I'm infatuated is the time I most want to act myself.

We got back, and even as we drove up, droves of kids ran out to the bus. I'd kind of hoped for a shower before dinner, but that was pretty out of the question, especially if everyone had similar hopes. It's fairly common knowledge that mothers in Central America will be offended if you don't eat what's on your plate, and before Wednesday, that was my greatest concern about the trip. I don't do well with rice or beans or potatoes. That's a lot of what they eat here, especially the first two. I was told to tell the mom "un pico," "a little." I'd planned on just swallowing it with a gulp of water.

So we got our three person group house assignments, only Jane and I were the only ones with only two people. (I believe Leigh's boyfriend, the guy who had his mind changed, was originally in our group.) That also left us without a translator, but it worked out perfectly because our house is the only one with a longer term volunteer from Connecticut who's been here a couple months. She's now 85% fluent, and helped us get through dinner. I told the mom that I really only eat a very little amount, especially of rice and beans. She gave me the same portion as everyone else, with a slightly diminished portion of salad. Also, instead of water we got something I don't recognize. It looked like apple juice from concentrate but poorly stirred, and it tasted a little like barley tea, which to me tastes like watered down ash, thus eliminating my swallow-it-like-a-pill method. The salad was fantastic, though different from any I've had before. The only beans I tasted, and I almost couldn't keep them down, were what had been stuck on the apple slices in the salad. The rice must have rated an 8 where 1 is already amazing, because I really enjoyed the taste, overpowering the texture that usually gets me. Still, it's a starch, and like the starches I normally enjoy, it filled me up quick, and an hour later I was starving. This is why I brought a years's worth of granola bars, energy bars, and dried fruit.

Anyway, she didn't seem offended at all that I couldn't finish. In fact, when I mentioned that I don't even like rice, but enjoyed hers, we began the ever-entertaining conversation about how picky I am. She told me on Tuesday I would have toast and jam and fruit. Bless her. Tomorrow night the moms of the orphanage are meeting, so there will be subs, which causes chaos enough. Adding us to the mix would be problematic. So! our group is having a barbecue.

My house has five boys, five girls, and two older children-by-birth. The kids kept trying Spanish on me. I'm impervious. Two of the boys have the same name. During dinner, they kept trying to ask me questions, but I was at a loss, and Jane and our translator were at the girls' table. Every now and then the girls' table would quiet and I'd have a turn being able to understand a question. Eventually they gave up and the kid closest to me just imitated my eating and drinking, which was rather entertaining. After dinner, we got a tour of the house. I was freaking out a little internally because I had no idea what to do next. Normally they have devotional after dinner, but because it's Sunday, they had church already. What am I supposed to do with ten excited kids that I don't understand? Then one of the boys pulled out a chess board. Awesome.

They seemed like normal kids to me. I hadn't really thought about, in regards to everyday-living, how a sexually abused kid would act, but I think if I had, I would imagine them reliving the trauma continuously. Thank God this is not the case.

At eight o'clock, we left and gathered for team time, which ended with fifteen minutes for journaling.

This hat has history. I couldn't find my hat today, while I was packing. It's my hat because it's the only one that has ever fit me well, so well, in fact, that when my dad, with a similar problem, offered me $50 for it, I refused. But the hat I have on me has history. I got it at my first Mariner's game, with Luigi and his family, back when the King Dome was still standing. We won that game 17-4, and were leaving right as a grand slam was hit. I got to see it, but everyone else with us left prematurely and missed the indoor fireworks. I remember before the game, Luigi's dad insisted that we get candy at the store. I tried to refuse, but he almost seemed angry. I later learned that's just how he acts.

We're on the plane to Charlotte right now. Why we have to go all the way across the country when Costa Rica is only halfway across, I'm not sure. Houston or Dallas would make a lot more sense to me.

It still has yet to really hit me that we're actually on our way there. That's just how I am, but it's certainly a lot closer on this trip, than it was at the airport (or on the plane) on the way to Jamaica. I think it mostly was the last meeting we had, last Wednesday. We got a secondary education professor from Western, who was also a trauma specialist, to talk to our group. He was really down to earth, and you'd probably think he talked weird if you didn't realize the gravity of the whole situation. I walked in ten or fifteen minutes late. Traffic on the way up from Redmond was a bit worse than the last two times. So, it took me a few minutes to fully grasp what was being talked about.

What I say next is ... hard. I can't remember if I blogged about it or not a year ago, and I know that if I did, it wouldn't have been the full thing. A year ago, though, a couple women from LatR and I went to see a "Rockumentary" about human trafficking. I guess I'll just out and say it. I wanted to kill the slavers and the people who used their slaves. How can man have sunk so low? Sunk, past tense, is probably the wrong word. It seems like this has been an issue since the beginning. But how in this day and age, with all our talks of equality and freedom and liberty, how can we allow this to go on?

In the fifth season of the West Wing (skip this paragraph if you plan to watch it and haven't gotten there yet), Donna is on a trip to Gaza, and on her last day there, her car gets hit by a road-side bomb. She almost dies, but makes it to the hospital in time. Meanwhile, Josh is distraught, and while senior staff and national security are talking outside the oval, they're all talking about possible retaliation. Josh says, "We need to kill them. We need to kill the people who made the bomb. We need to kill the people who planted the bomb. And then we need to kill everyone who was happy about it."

I hadn't realized at the time that human trafficking was just another humanitarian fad. It makes me sick. How can we sit idly by? I know it's easier. I'm guilty of it. But why is this not a high priority in Washington, where we hire people to do hard things with our hard-earned money? The thing is, it's not even just an issue abroad in "remote countries" in Africa. It happens here. It happens in the liberal, well-adjusted city of Seattle, and in Tacoma. I'm sure it happens in every port, which I guess means it happens in Bellingham, and possibly Port Orchard. You can't hit more home to me than those four cities.

Anyway, human trafficking was not intended to be the focus of this post, not that my posts ever really have a focus. Except the last one.

Since that night and until Thursday, I'd never felt that urge to kill again. Then one of the guys, we'll call Jeremiah, who went to Costa Rica this past summer, told a couple stories about the kids we're going to "help." The first was a kid who was reading a book while sitting on his lap. Then one of the adults came in and said something in a raised voice (in Spanish), and the kid scampered off to his room. Evidently that kid wasn't ready for physical touch yet, after his abuse. He couldn't yet associate any touch at all as non-sexual. In the next, a girl of five, her first night at the orphanage, woke up in the middle of the night, stripped, and walked into her foster parents' room. She got up on the bed, and woke the man, and said, "I'm ready." At the age of five. Trauma, by definition, cannot be put into words, and clearly mine have failed. How can we, mere privileged kids in and just out of college, help these kids? There's some small, though it ought to be large, comfort that it is God who is helping, and we are merely his vessels, or vassals.

It didn't really hit me until the next day, but on the way to my mom's to drop off my cats, I began to think a bit more about these stories. I thought about what kind of people could do this to these defenseless children. And I decided they should die. This is a disturbing thought coming from someone who professes himself a Christian. If this isn't the first post you've read of mine, you know that I've had some pretty dark thoughts. This was not these. This was not tainted the same way bipolar thoughts are. I was listening to Brave Saint Saturn, and especially during the Anti-Meridian songs (Starling, These Frail Hands, Invictus), I just burst into tears on the freeway. These are just two stories from one guy, while still in Washington. How much harder will this be among the actual victims?

Raise your souls up to the sky
Why must helpless creatures die?

I've never agreed with people who value children over adults. A life is a life. There's the notion that children are innocent, but none are innocent; all have fallen short of the glory of God. I would say, however, that sexual abuse, or really any abuse, against children is worse than it is against adults, because adults have at least some capacity to know they don't actually deserve this, to know that this is not what love is. Kids say, "I'm ready."

I don't know, don't think, that even with the opportunity, I would or even could actually kill someone. I think it would be easier to light them on fire with my mind, but 22 years trying (to light inanimate objects) with no success is a discouraging precedent.

There is no good segue to nicer things.

After the meeting, I ended up eating at Courtney's and her roommates' place for Saint Patrick's Day. I used to hate corned beef. This was rather good. I still abstained from the cabbage though. Bill and Scott ate quickly and then went off to their Bible study. After that began talking, card games, and drinking. It was just a genuinely good time. We listened to some good music, and a lot of bad music. (Such were the opinions of the other males in the room. I didn't really care one way or another, though if I were alone, I'd probably not listen to any of what was played early on. I did try to analyze some of the music theory -- common beats, sequences of notes, et cetera. If only I knew any music theory.)

There was a girl there, I gathered a foreign exchange student, who was quite funny in that awkward not quite used to our culture sense. There was nothing wrong with her sense of humor, but she had that and then the other thing as well. There was one point during the evening though, that we were talking about drugs (not the helpful kind), and she said that back in her home country, she did some. It's not like she went on and on about it or anything, but I could tell she was trying to explain it all because she was feeling judged, and in fact, at the end, apologized for it because she "didn't want [us] to judge [her]." At that point, every Christian in the room erupted, broken from our trances, with "we're not judging you." Yeah, we were. It wasn't deliberate but, well, let's face it, we've never been in that situation (at least I haven't), and it wasn't a healthy situation, and I have some amount of pride that, by choice, I've never been in that situation. I don't think any of us straight out thought, "you bad person you," and truthfully the reason we were in the trance was because we couldn't relate. For me, though, it was something else entirely. It was like we responsible Americans were her parents or moral superiors somehow. Like, we knew drugs were bad and we wanted to teach this poor person from another country how to live. That's something I have to continually work at. People who aren't as fluent in the language as I am aren't stupid, but subconsciously, I somehow see them as slower. Sometimes it makes working at Microsoft hard.

I got one of the guys there hooked on Seabird. Their second disk is as good as their first, if you've not bought your copy yet. Before we listened to them, we were listening to a group called the Black Keys, I think. What little I heard of them, I enjoyed, so I might have to test an album of theirs when I get back.

We're now at Charlotte Airport. Some of us are trying to sleep. I tried for a while and gave up. A bunch of us got Jamba Juice for like three times the normal price, but alas, I set mine on a chair, and it fell somehow. Then the bottom got punctured, and I ended up being able to drink about half of it. I suppose there are worse fates in life.

My knees are killing me. They just do that sometimes, but it's unpleasant. When this happened when I was younger, my mom said I was growing. I don't think I'm growing anymore, at least not top to bottom. A few hours later now, Leigh, after reading what was written before this point, gave me Tylenol and I feel much better.

It's completely irrational, but over the past couple weeks, I've had this sinking feeling that I won't be returning from Costa Rica. Again, just a feeling. The odds that it comes true are close to nil, and probably independent from the feeling entirely, like rolling two dice and ending up with the same number.

Another many hours later now. Maybe my irrational fear (though to be quite honest, I was never afraid; indeed I was quite at peace) had some merit. Shortly after the paragraph before this one, they announced that the plane (757) that had just arrived was undergoing some between-flight tests and had some mechanical difficulties. This meant they had to find a new plane and a new crew for us. The one they found, for two hours later, was an A320 which is a good fifteen seats fewer in capacity. They basically held a raffle, and those who couldn't fit would have to fly tomorrow. I believe six of us did not keep our seats, including our fearless logistical leader, Jeremiah. Meanwhile, they allowed the ability to volunteer one's seat for a night in a hotel, meals, and $550 in US Airways credit toward one's next flight. Some of these volunteers got on the next plane that day that had a stop in Florida. The rest had to wait until tomorrow. Twelve total volunteers came up, and all six of our people were lucky enough to receive the newly opened seats.

Of course, the new plane didn't quite leave on its newly scheduled time, maybe 45 minutes late. We got into the air, and then about 45 minutes into the flight, at 17,000 feet, the plane started a sharp turn. The turn continued 180 degrees, my stomach hating every bit of it. Then the pilot spoke over the intercom that there was a minor hydraulics failure, that it wasn't a big deal, but because the runways in Costa Rica aren't as good as the ones in Charlotte, we were turning around.

People were pretty upset at this point, as you might imagine. Surprisingly to me, I kept my cool. I guess I kind of figure that I donated this time, these eleven days, completely to God, and if God wants us to spend it in airports, that's up to him. Our group, mostly, was just tired, rather than angry. Some passengers, though, had booked non-refundable $3000 cruises.

The next, hopefully final, plane got in on time, but we started boarding when we were supposed to be taking off. I don't remember much after boarding, because mercifully, I found sleep. I do remember the pilot (a new pilot) saying over the intercom that we had roughly a 45 minute delay while still on the tarmac because two people hadn't reboarded. On international flights, by US law, if people don't board, but do have checked bags, they have to locate the bags and remove them from the plane. I agree that it's both safe and practical to do that, but today just wasn't our day for traveling. It turns out the people who got to Costa Rica quickest were the first ones to volunteer with the stop down in Miami. That last plane is where we are now, with about 90 minutes remaining.

One of the guys who was supposed to come on the trip felt very strongly, suddenly, a few weeks ago that he should not, and instead should spend spring break recording with his dad (he's a music artist). Before boarding the circular flight, Leigh talked to him on the phone, and his grandfather, long in coming, could possibly die today, so we prayed for that situation, and also thanked God that he did not come on this trip. From what little I heard, it sounded like the guy was fairly ready for this, but his dad was a wreck. A psalm came to mind, but I don't think it's very fitting for the situation. Joe disagreed though, when I told him about it.

The Lord reigns
Let the earth be glad
Let the distant shores rejoice
Clouds and thick darkness surround him
Righteousness and justice are the foundation of his thrown
A fire goes before him and consumes his foes on every side
His lightning lights up the world
The earth sees and trembles
The mountains melt like wax before the Lord
Before the Lord of all the earth,
the heavens proclaim his righteousness
and all peoples will see his glory!

Going back to before the trip, on Thursday I had to drop off my cats at my mom's place. Thursday night was lonely, and Friday morning, I kept thinking that my cats were the cause of noises, or that it was odd that they hadn't run across my keyboard that morning and woken my computer up from hibernate mode, or that their food dish was empty so I had better feed them. I hadn't realized how much I like having my cats. Sometimes I wish I had only gotten one of them, because they are a handful and a half, but to pick now would be incredibly difficult.

I told my mom about the murderous (or castraterous) thoughts. I guess I hadn't told her that the orphanage we're helping is for sexually abused kids. She kind of calmed my nerves a bit. I knew I wasn't psychotic--I didn't revel in the execution of their deaths--but the thoughts still worried me. The people whom I've had read this so far seem to have similar thoughts. They never outright said thoughts of execution, so maybe that's just me, but certainly of anger and grief. Thursday night, my mom told Jack what the orphanage was geared towards, and he pretty immediately said that the abusers should be castrated. He's a pretty dang liberal guy, too. That helped a bit.

On the way home, I stopped at Swood's to watch our weekly TV. At four o'clock on Friday, I was several hours done packing, just watching Law & Order repeats, and txted him, inviting myself over. We watched Dulalalala (a confusing, yet entertaining anime) and played some Smash Bros, before I headed to Minnie's to pick up another guy on our trip, onto my grandpa's, and finally to the airport.

I think that is probably enough for one post. We should be landing here soon. If I have internet access tonight, I'll post this after having Jeremiah read it. I haven't asked permission to retell his stories.

I really feel like writing (hence the post), but I seriously have nothing to write about. This has happened before, and I usually end up writing quite a lot, and it's usually fairly good, yet I'm apprehensive about this. So I guess I'll see if this gets posted, and if you're reading it, then I guess it did. Unless, I decide to have someone else read it before I post and you're that person, and then they say, "This is crap," and you never get to read it. I'd say "But I digress," but I'm seriously considering making this the primary focus of this post.

I've been having really vivid dreams lately, though I don't remember much of them in the mornings. The vivid dreams part has happened before, but the not remembering at least most of one is new. If there's a purpose to the dreams, not being able to remember them kind of defeats it. The latest one of which I still remember bits and pieces included Hime and a high school rival of hers fighting over something, but then joining forces when a pig on a motorcycle showed up singing a show tune about being the real measure of a man -- a Persian man -- riding straight up a large totem pole and breaking off all the decorative limbs. That would actually seem pretty normal to me except that the vivid portion was the entire song he sang, and how it was actually as decent as any other garden variety show tune, and yet has never been written. Something similar (in my mind) happened when I dreamt that my pastor was talking about his sermon series and how a lot of what he was talking about was covered in such-and-such books (including Mere Christianity which I'm currently reading) but the "such-and-such" were actual titles and authors that sounded right. Of course now I can't remember the titles to find out if they existed and thus I divined them. I doubt it. I don't know which would be crazier -- that they actually exist, or that I pulled book titles out of thin air while dreaming. I don't think I could even do that while awake.

Is it still epiphany if someone teaches you the thought that came? Is epiphany the part where everything clicks together, hits home, or is it the spontaneous, "So that's why cats sniff fingers!"? Anyhow, every week at church something new makes sense. Romans 8:1 stuck out to me tonight. "Therefore there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ." For whatever reason I always took this to mean when we died, or from God's perspective while we're still on earth. That's not what it says though. It says there is no condemnation period. Not from other people, and not from ourselves. All we need do is confess our sins. I think a lot of people don't confess, or put off confessing, for fear of condemnation, but if there is none, what is there to stop us? And if there is nothing stopping us, then "He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness." What's great about that verse (1 John 1:9) is the word cleanse. It's not just forgiveness, not just -- there really is no other word as deep as forgive -- but to clean, purify, makes us new. Anyway, I found tonight's sermon practical and eye-opening. One thing he mentioned is that people in Christ are quick to confess and slow to justify. I frequently find myself imagining being pulled over because I'm speeding or whatever, and rather than just telling the officer, "Yeah, I was wrong," I end up on this logical tirade about the spirit of the law and how it was actually better that I was doing whatever it was that I was doing.

The last few nights I've been pinging random friends on facebook that I haven't talked to in a while if ever. It's got me thinking about all the friends I don't still talk to, and even the ones I now only talk to over the internet. It got me kind of depressed, because I have a lot of friends that I care dearly about, but will probably never see again. That's a sobering thought. And then it suddenly struck me that I'll see them in heaven. I don't know in what capacity, but sometimes it doesn't even matter if I'm talking to them, and just being around them would be nice. Proximity is an interesting thing.

I'm leaving for Costa Rica on Friday. It's so weird to me that it's happening this week, and is no longer a while into the future. I think the oddest part is that it actually happened. This wasn't organized by an organization that does these regularly or anything. This was a couple guys being asked by another guy to organize a trip of twenty or so people to come do some work for an orphanage, and five months later, here we are. The whole work situation around the trip (mostly just taking vacation) has got me thinking about last summer with the summer camp, and whether or not I want to do it again this summer. The few I've talked to are strongly in favor of it. First I'm not sure I have enough vacation. I probably do. I should have had about four and a half weeks by then had I not gone on the mission trip, and the mission trip is only 9 days, so I should still have three weeks left. Yeah, there's nothing stopping me there. I guess I'm just feeling non-committal right now. Also Hime has a job at a bank now, so she won't be there, not that she's the sole reason for me to go. I wonder how she'd react if I did go again, while she couldn't.

I've been thinking lately about my future children, sometimes a son, sometimes a daughter, depending on the instance. Wondering what it would be like if my son ever asked how many girlfriends I had before "Mommy." Would I go into all the details of each relationship, Ted Mosby style? I can't imagine answering a flat seven or whatever the number would be by then. I suddenly feel weird. I'm going to stop writing now.