Being

Sister Ana was an American nurse who lived in a small farming community in the mountains of central Honduras. She traveled the countryside, mainly on foot or by bus to treat medical issues, and she was also one of three holy people I have had the humble experience of knowing.

Ana was fifty, wise, and helped others at all hours. I was twenty-nine, idealistic, and hellbent on changing the world. I was also a teacher with no medical training in a place where people died from an infected tooth and untreated diabetes. We were on our way to visit a woman who just lost her nineteen-year-old son. “What should I do?” I asked. “I need a job. I don’t feel like I’m doing anything to help people.”

“Sometimes just being is enough, Beth.”

“I don’t know how to just be,” I said. “How do you do it?”

She smiled. “Sometimes to be is to do. Maybe my story will help you.”

As we walked a worn path through the jungle, Ana told me of her first experience as a missionary.

She worked as a nurse for several years in the States and was finally granted permission by her superiors to do missionary work overseas. Sister Louise, who lived in Nairobi, was returning soon to the States. Ana would be her replacement.

Ana carefully planned her trip around the idea of her role in the community she would soon live in. She purchased medical supplies and had them sent to Sister Louise. She secretly prayed that her efforts would lead to building a clinic one day.

Ana was shocked by the pain and suffering when she first arrived in Nairobi. Leaving the airport revealed such suffering. Driving through crowded streets she took note of men and women with skin conditions, missing limbs, and rotten teeth. She ached to scoop up malnourished children and the mangy dogs that lay listless in doorways. Ana knew that the village where she was headed would be different. After all, Sister Louise was a nurse.

The drive was long, hot, and dusty. Mud houses with thatched roofs clustered together often appeared on the horizon like a mirage. Ana pointed out unique plants and animals to her driver who knew his way even when the roads disappeared. Ana arrived at her new home just before sunset. Sister Louise welcomed her and helped with Ana’s luggage. After sharing a small meal, the two women retired early. It had been a long day.

The following morning, Ana was ready to get to work, but Sister Louise avoided questions about her job. Instead, she made coffee and toasted some bread on a camp stove. “Let’s take our breakfast outside and sit,” Sister Louise said.

Ana wanted to unpack and organize the boxes of medicine that had arrived the week before, but for now, she was a guest and joined Sister Louise on the front porch where there were two wicker chairs with a small wooden table between them. Ana looked out past the porch. The house seemed to be at the end of the world and beyond it a bustling community where men, women, and children wearing colorful clothing walked a dirt road lined with small homes like the ones she had seen the day before.

An hour passed and Ana became restless. “I would like to get to work,” she said.

Sister Louise smiled. “You’re work has begun, Ana. Just be.”

Ana was impatient and furious. She had seen so much poverty the day before and here was this woman sitting on her porch enjoying breakfast when people around her needed help. She went into the house and unpacked her belongings. Later that afternoon, a young mother came to the house. Supplies had arrived to build a latrine in her yard. Would the sisters like to help?

Build a latrine? Ana was there as a nurse. She didn’t know a thing about building a toilet. Sister Louise appeared from the back of the house carrying two shovels and handed one to Ana. “Let’s get to work,” she said.

Ana lived in the house at the end of the world for three years. She built latrines, watched children while their parents were away, and prayed with people after losing their loved ones. In return, the people in her new community learned to trust Ana. So, when she was asked to help someone sick or injured, she left the porch with her medical bag, assuring a worried mother or a little girl that things would be okay.

Ana and I reached the home of the young man who had died. “You are not going to change Honduras, Beth. Instead, it will change you. If you want to help people, listen to their needs. Respect their dignity and their privacy. Respect their caution. After all, you are new here. No one knows you, yet. People will help you find your way. In the meantime, it’s okay to simply be.”

I often think of my walk through the jungle with Ana and even more so today in an upended world where I am once again an outsider struggling with being. But I will try to…

be grateful: It is a beautiful Sunday morning. Birds perch patiently on the ivy along our back fence waiting for my husband to fill the feeders. I will read a bit of scripture and reflect on the gifts in my life before the day gets busy.

be present: Muggsy, our little puggle, is wedged between my back and the office chair I sit in, both of us competing for slivers of sunshine. Our ancient pug Bella and border collie, Patches, sleep butt to butt on a doggie bed at my feet. Several of our kitties have staked their claim in the window hammocks and on a towering cat tree. My husband is making me a cup of tea, giving me space to write. I will seek contentment.

be kind: Ron and I are meeting with family and friends later today. I will make it a point to check in with folks and listen.

be respectful: Last night a friend told me she had attended her class reunion where she learned that she shared a passion for gardening with a woman who had been popular and a cheerleader in school. I will find common ground.

be courageous: The poet Maya Angelo adhered to a strict rule at her table. Everyone is welcome but those who mock, insult, or hurt an individual or a collective group will be asked to leave. I will call out injustice and hypocrisy at my table and in my community.