this. this is joy

dark and early

we shuffle from our suburban front porch

balancing instant milk tea in one hand,

suitcases in the other

i chew coconut jellies on the way to the airport

and wonder if the plane will have the

little televisions i remember

five a.m. and the charleston airport

hums with the sleepy chatter of summer travelers

the stars have already dissolved into the pre-sunrise sky

so we wait patiently

our coffee breath clouding oval airplane windows

as the pink sun punctures what was left of the night

and then we are rising with it

above the hills, above the clouds

just ocean, ocean amaranthine

and i wonder what awaits me on the other side of the sea

my eyes first remember blue

a billion shades of blue rippling and pulsing

tropical swells and turquoise bays

an infinite body of aquamarine

blemished with navy shadows of cumulus clouds

and then green, so much green

a blinding viridescence of a world

so vivid my eyes nearly forget blue altogether

banana leaves and mountainsides

an island radiating green, green

when our feet finally touch the ground

we are moving again, our little American voices muffled

by the crunch of suitcase wheels on concrete

and a hundred Honduran voices above our own

all thirteen of us pile into a grey taxi

belonging to a Czechoslovakian woman with bronze skin

and big black sunglasses, called Hannah

she knows this island like the back of her hand,

she says,

and we thank her for it

my tongue first remembers

street tacos and scarlet hibiscus tea

and later

fried plantains and strawberry jam on toast

lemon-lime fresca on the boat ride from Blue Rock

on Sunday morning on Roatan Island

we praise the God of the Bible in two languages

because He is not bound by the barriers that so clearly divide us

Díos, God of all tribes and tongues

we find this to be true also

as we walk between houses

with rice and beans in our backpacks

and prayers on our lips for the people we are to meet, the hands we are to hold

but as the burdens on our backs lighten

our hearts grow heavier with the weight

of knowing a new suffering unseen in our first-world bubble

of cradling babies with broken bones

tying beaded bracelets onto bruised arms

listening to story after story of seeking answers

in glass bottles and coming up empty

all we can do is love, and we do

a love intertwined in both laughter and tears

as we are walking, Justin

an eighteen-year-old boy of sunshine

and our translator

invites us into his home:

a little house with blue walls and a blue roof

we share banana soda and talk about our bucket list destinations

Justin’s is London, and we all agree we should go together someday

for seven days my life is building friendships,

ignoring the sweat dripping down my back

to put one more case of vitamins in the hands

of a teenage girl who is just trying to survive

in a cruel, fragmented world

for seven days i am taught that life is more than routine

i want more than some American dream

i have mistaken mere tolerance for joy;

never again.

for i have witnessed joy here in this place

in the full-face smiles of human beings who have been called Redeemed,

in testimonies of metamorphosis,

death-to-life transformations

now, how could i desire anything less?

i sit on the balcony and watch ocean waves turn white against the coastline

in three hours i will be soaring over the Atlantic again

away from beautiful Roatan

back to plastic neighborhoods and facebook friends

and i whisper, over and over,

God, don’t let me fall asleep again

until next time

adiós, Honduras