I spend a lot of time there, mostly playing sand volleyball. You may ask why I don’t go there to swim. Nobody does, the water isn’t safe because of the amount of local pollution and runoff from the close proximity to the city. But that’s beside the point; I go there to play volleyball in my bare feet.

Onlookers marvel at the two pristine courts complete with poles, nets, and lined boundaries. Dominicans comment that in a city that struggles with immense traffic jams when there is even the slightest bit of rain, two uncompleted unsightly apartment/shopping towers nearby, and plenty of old buildings that should be but can’t afford to be razed, at least we have excellent sand volleyball courts.

Normally I just kick off my flip flops and get in line. Yes, you usually have to wait in line because someone is always on the court. I have a ball, which is an advantage for me, because it usually means I get to play, and even though I’m a bit taller than 6’3″ I still can’t spike the ball well. A local young women’s volleyball team has taken it up themselves to teach me how to “Matala, no son de tu familia!” (Kill it “the ball” they aren’t your family).

Most of those waiting in line are eligible volleyball players. They’re loud, aggressive, and fit the height requirements, but there are always those, usually small kids that are relegated to the sidelines to chase the balls. I’d be cast off as well if I didn’t have my height or my ball and a little bit of athleticism.

This past Tuesday night we had a group in town visiting the schools we work with. Even though it was late in the evening, we all went down to my second home, Playa Guibia, to play some volleyball.

Good thing I had my ball, because after a local crew bowed out for the evening, we were able to continue playing.

I noticed that our ball boy for the evening spent his time alternating between making sand angels and swimming in the sand, but when the ball rocketed past the boundaries from a spike or an errant hit (much more likely) – our friend immediately stood up and went on running for it. He sped off in its direction and returned with ball and looked like, well, you know, an 8 year old boy who’s overjoyed to have a chance to participate. I mean, each time he brought back the ball, it was like he was being given an opportunity to be involved in the game of adults. He had a job. He had a purpose.

I spotted him all over the courts. If he wasn’t making sand angels, he was building castles or subdivisions to those castles. (It was pretty clear he was astute in both ancient and modern residential architecture). He seemed very busy, but nevertheless he was happy to be interrupted, always happy to play with us.

As the night went on, I thought to myself that his parents must wonder where he is, and would frown at him dirtying up his pants with his chorus of angels across the sand, but then it dawned on me, that he didn’t have parents, or at least, ones that cared where he was at 11 at night. He asked me for 5 pesos (about 15 cents) and I told him he deserved more for being a good player and fetching us the ball.

So when the Americans finally got tired and started getting ready to leave, he came to collect his fee. But he wasn’t begging, no, he just wanted to be involved in the game, to be able to play like any 8 year old should. In total, he got 20 pesos, and turned down an offer for a bottle of water. He slinked away and headed back out to his vast playground.

I took a look at the ball I held. It showed signs of serious wear, in fact, the stitching started to bulge where the inexpensive ball took too many hits from my training session with the young women’s volleyball team, which for the record, are still trying to get me to spike it correctly.

I looked at the ball, and then my friend making the rounds in his subdivisions, fleet of angels, and castles in the sand. I called him over.

Holding out the ball, I asked, “Mira ‘manito, tu la quieres?” (Hey little brother, do you want this?)

“Que?” (What?)

“La pelota, tu la quieres? Te la regalo.” (The ball, do you want it? I’ll give it to you.)

Two dirty hands reached out and took hold of something so prized, so valuable, so unattainable for an 8 year old of his stature:

free admission to every future volleyball game.

. . .

A friend and I got a coca-cola and sat down before heading home.

I looked over to the court where we played and I saw a young man finally playing with the big boys. Half their size, he was dwarfed by giants around him, and even though he couldn’t get that ball over the net, it didn’t matter, he didn’t get booted off.

This was his game now, because it was his ball, and you know what? He looked like what an 8 year-old should look like: happy and playing with the big boys.

Aaron Roth – HOPE International – “Let it Shine ” – April 2012

Hi everyone, just a quick note: I’m 70% of the way through my fundraising for the next four months that I’ll be serving with HOPE International until the end of August ’12. If you’d like to be a part of the mission that I’m doing here in the Dominican Republic, you can easily donate online with a credit card, or send a check with information listed here: www.AaronRoth.net/support/

• Download this email as a pdf: Aaron Roth – April 2012 Update.pdf
• Blog and Support Page: www.AaronRoth.net
• HOPE International Worldwide – www.HOPEinternational.org 
• Newsletter Archive: AaronRoth.net – Monthly Newsletters

Have you ever met someone that within the first 30 seconds, you knew you were going to like them? Last week, I met a nine year old girl on a visit to one of the schools in our micro-lending program in San Pedro de Macoris. Within our program, we make loans to private schools to build classrooms or computer labs. By being a part of the Esperanza-Edify program, schools also have the opportunity to take part in business training focused on managing a school, and teacher training (www.AMOprogram) geared toward integrating Christian lessons into daily curriculum.

While sitting in the office with the director, I noticed a young girl peeking her head around the corner, smiling and going back to her work. I’m not sure if she was in trouble and she was being disciplined by having to sit so close to the office, but I thought I would go and investigate. As part of my responsibilities with the program, I go and work with the school administration to develop a “school profile” which entails basic school information like classrooms and number of teachers, to more in-depth information like financial situation, Christian education, and future expansion plans.

Adriana was more than happy to be my tour guide.

The first thing you need to know about Adriana, is that you better have a strong defense for making a statement, because she doesn’t believe everything she hears. The second thing you need to know about Adriana is that her smile is contagious, and if we found some way to package it up and the gleeful chuckle that follows, we could sell it to everyone who needed sunshine on a cloudy day, and surely we’d be zillionaires.

Within a few minutes of small talk, it’s clear that Adriana doesn’t believe my name’s lineage can be traced to the brother of Moses, so Jose, part of our team, goes and fetches a Bible. He flips to Numbers, and in chapter 20, we find my name displayed in the title of verse 22. “But Aaron is dead!!!” she exclaims. I am quick to point out, that “this” Aaron is still alive. She laughs, I laugh, Jose laughs. Jose adds that his name is also found in the New Testament, and just like I told you earlier, she doesn’t believe him either. But as they study the genealogy of Jesus, she yells her new discovery, “But you’re the father of Jesus!!!”

Adriana isn’t afraid of asking questions, nor of challenging people to explain their position to fill in the gaping holes in their logic. She wants to know if I’m a Christian, and I say “yes,” she says “How?” (Haha!) and when I asked her if she was a Christian, she assuredly replies that “Two years ago, when I was seven, I was baptized in the water at the beach.” I have no doubt that there may have been a theological tussle with her pastor as he led her out to the water.

With such abundant joy and vitality found in a young lady like Adriana, my mind quickly turns to a few likely outcomes for someone like her in the community where she lives. I noticed on the way in that her neighborhood doesn’t have paved streets, there are no visible places of work aside from the tiny corner stores selling basic food items, many men young and old are sitting around without jobs, much of the houses have walls and roofs of sheet metal, and in fact, this particular community is called “Death Beach.”

I know, not just from the statistics, but from people I’ve met how easy it is not to succeed in a place like this. It’s not just because of laziness or lack of opportunity. There are real and evident forms of destruction in the community. It’s almost as if the environment is actively working against those doing good. If you’re not involved in black market activities, drug sales, or prostitution, then you’re going against the grain.

These are not simple temptations. They are better expressed as “pressures.” Compare, for example, you’re on a diet and the ice cream aisle is tempting, or you’re at a friend’s birthday party where someone hands you a plate full of cake and ice cream. You can glide on by that freezer door, but a plate in your hand is much more difficult to toss away. Or compare this, seeing the new clothing your neighbors are wearing purchased with money that comes from illegal activities, to the situation where someone in your family asking you to deliver a package and accept the money when a buyer comes to the door.

This is the reality for someone like Adriana. The above mentioned activities are not mere temptations, but rather, here in this community, people actively solicit the youth to participate. One example of this comes from talking to a pastor a few months ago, when he explained to me that he has seen many teen pregnancies in the community as a result of economic pressure. When I asked him to elaborate he says, “When a young girl doesn’t have money to pay the bus driver to go into town for work or school, he simply tells her, ‘You can pay me in different ways . . .’”

Can you imagine this being a reality for the children in your family or your neighborhood?

I find myself thinking again and again to how we can fight the rising tide of violence, drugs, and prostitution at ‘Death Beach’. How can we provide safe places for these children to grow up and live? How can we partner with schools to bring them quality education, give them access to create a world different from the one they are living? How can we continue making micro-loans and providing business training to relieve economic pressures for moms and dads? How can we continue to let the light of bright students like Adriana shine?

As we’re preparing to leave, Adriana wants to know when we’ll come back to visit.

We assure her that as part of the program, we check in with the schools regularly. Her school is deep into the series on the wisdom of Proverbs, and we’ll be back to see how the lessons are progressing. They’ll be using this curriculum for the next year and her teachers will attend our teacher training workshop in the summer. We’ll also be notifying the director and administrator of our business training coming up soon, and we’ll include them in other activities to connect them with other Christian schools in the area.

She and 20 other children wave goodbye as we drive away. To be honest with you, those hard questions are ones we wrestle with everyday, and we do have the opportunity to answer them with HOPE International and their on-the-ground partner Esperanza and Edify, and we are making real and tangible efforts in communities like this one.

Thinking about children like Adriana, I do feel at peace knowing that the Spirit of the Lord is upon her, protecting her and guiding her. She wears her joy ostensibly and she shares of it freely. Her charisma makes me think of this passage:

“No one lights a lamp and hides it in a clay jar or puts it under a bed. Instead, they put it on a stand, so that those who come in can see the light.” (Luke 8:16)

and this song we sang as kids:

“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. Let it shine, Let it shine, Let it shine.”

I pray that we continue to help these lights shine brightly in the communities where we work. Please pray for that too.

Blessings to you and your family,
-Aaron

aroth@hopeinternational.org
(540) 421-8683
Skype: aprothwm05
Web: www.AaronRoth.net

Politics, to me, has always seemed like a sport where there’s really only two rivalries. Fans wear the colors, check the stats on the internet, attend the events, and like to bring it up in conversation and put down the other team. Even though I consider myself willing and able to talk about anything, I’ve always tried to stay out of that world. Maybe it’s because I don’t like the banter, or that I’m slightly pessimistic that anything will really change for the average citizen apart from real and dedicated involvement in community and local government. Still, my apathy hasn’t precluded me from taking up an opportunity when it arises.

“Llego Papa!” is the slogan of the PLD political party. It means “Papa has arrived!” and it’s a reference to former president Hipólito Mejía who was president from 2000 to 2004, a man regarded by many as having a father-like style to leadership. During that time, the Dominican economy experienced one of it’s worst economic downturns in recent history with inflation going from 1 Dollar to 16 Pesos, to 1 Dollar to 60 pesos. The reality was that millions of Dominicans took substantial hits to their savings and investments. Depending on which side you’re on, this was either the result of the crash of global economy after Sept. 11 or the government’s mismanagement. Currently, the exchange rate and is 1 Dollar to 39 pesos, and Dominicans will say that the government is still corrupt.

On our way up to Santiago for a meeting on the morning of April 13th, the microfinance director, Pedro Lacen, and I made a stop at a popular rest area on the highway going North. I had just returned from the restroom and Pedro mentioned, “Llego Papa!” I chuckled and asked for clarification: “Really? Papa himself? Or just his campaign of people?”

“No, really, he’s here!”

. . .

“I want to go see him!” I said with excitement.

See,  given the opportunity to meet any US president or world leader I would do it, but in this case, we were running late, and all I wanted was to check to see if Papa was in the building.

Hipólito (Papa), in fact was sitting in a private room doing an interview with a TV station. I stood there and marveled at this celebrity, a glimpse of a fame, and quietly walked out, content with a smile on my face.

Pedro, turns out, was talking to the head of Hipólito’s security, ex-General Carlos Díaz Morfa, and said, “This American really really wants to meet Hipólito.” (I dunno if I’d say “really” I mean, we were running late, and I was already nervous because I snuck up to the window to take a look. Morfa spoke to me in English and asked me what I do in the country. I explained to him that I was a volunteer with a Christian microfinance organization focused on alleviating poverty throughout the country.

“Oh! Wow! Well, Hipólito definitely wants to meet you! Give me a second.”

I’m standing there waiting, wondering what’s going to happen next. Meanwhile, Pedro accepts a phone call and walks away. Morfa returns and says to me, “Come in and sit down, we’re about to leave but Hipolito would like to meet you.”

I turn around and motion to Pedro, I’m about to head into the private meeting room. I walk past a lot of security: guys with firearms at their side or their belt, walkie talkies and security headsets with the cables in their ear.

Morfa pulls up a chair and sets it about three feet from Hipólito. The man sitting next to Hipólito stares at me without any emotion and waits for me to break my gaze; I’m pretty sure this is a security check. I set down my backpack.

Hipolito had just finished his breakfast, so he sets down his napkin turns to me and says in English, “So where are you from?” offering a smile.

I answer him that I’m from Richmond, VA which is pretty close to Washington D.C.

He remarks that “Oh, I spent two years studying in Raleigh, NC and I’ve been to Richmond, it’s a great city. A lot of history!” Hipolito makes an interesting turn of conversation, and compliments our country’s openness to diversity in electing an African-American president. (I’m really unaware of what this significance means, finding out later that he’s trying to make up for a public misstep where a previous quote about the president had been construed the other way.)

At this point, I’m not sure what I should say, but I’m never one who lacks words or ready small talk fodder, so I feel like I should follow-up with a bit of local trivia about Richmond, namely that Steven Speilberg just finished filming a movie about Abraham Lincoln there. I’m impressed that even in my nervous chatter, I manage to accurately speak of Richmond’s recent and ongoing fame, all the while in Spanish.

I’m not sure if they are equally moved by RVA’s current limelight, but Hipólito acknowledges this fun fact and continues “What is it that you do here?”

I answer him in Spanish explaining that I volunteer for a Christian organization called Esperanza and we help people in poverty by making small loans enabling them to start small business. Both he and his right hand man are impressed this time, and he makes the comment in Spanish “Well, he talks with a Dominican accent, not so much of a gringo accent does he?

I just got complimented by a former Dominican president on my Spanish. I think to myself that I have finally arrived . . .

Pedro, outside of the breakfast room, has finished his phone call and made his way past security. He comes up taps me up on the shoulder and reminds me, “We need to get a picture.” That’s right! I remember. I’m so nervous and jittery, at this point, I could probably be convinced of anything.

I introduce Pedro, the Microfinance Director, to the former president, and they shake hands. The obvious contrast of a volunteer introducing the director to a former president makes me laugh.

I ask Hipólito if we can take a picture and he agrees. I reach for my backpack next to me and think that all of his security are probably drawing their weapons and aiming at me. I smile and just proceed slowly. I certainly don’t want a scuffle this early in the day.

Out emerges my camera and I set it on automatic. I want to ensure that this picture comes out well. Pedro starts looking confused with the camera. The thing about a DSLR is that the LCD screen usually isn’t illuminated in live view mode. So you have to look through the viewfinder to see. Now he’s fumbling with the camera looking for the button. I’m sitting there next to the former president of the country and his right hand man, and thinking, “Oh goodness, I can’t believe this is going South. . . I just hope he doesn’t get impatient and leave!”

Finally, the pictures snaps, and it’s clear that Hipolito and Co. have to go. I shake his hand, and he adds that it was a pleasure to meet us and that we should keep on doing good work here in the country.

I tell him good luck and God Bless!

We walk past the security again as Hipólito does a few more meet and greets. Morfa is waiting for us outside.

“How’d it go?” he asks.

Obviously, I’m elated. Meeting a former president was a surreal experience, and even though I was incredibly nervous, I know it was success. Morfa starts joking with me about being star-struck, and I continue on that streak just thanking Morfa for the opportunity to meet Hipolito. I get introduced to a few more people of the campaign, and then Pedro and I make our way back to the car.

At that moment, I’m not really sure what just happened. I’m smiling though. Still pretty excited from the encounter. Pedro punches me in the arm and says, “Look at this Gringo, ready to join Papa’s campaign!”

Well, I dunno about that.

Me, I’m just staring out the window as we drive away looking at the campaign signs for “Llego Papa!” and I think to myself, “I just had breakfast with that guy . . . ”

   Aaron Roth – HOPE International – “What I Gave Up” – March 2012

• Download this email as a pdf: Aaron Roth – March 2012 Update.pdf
• Blog and Support Page: www.AaronRoth.net
• HOPE International Worldwide – www.HOPEinternational.org 
• Newsletter Archive: AaronRoth.net – Monthly Newsletters

I do miss home from time to time. I think about the friends I used to hang out with, the foods I used to eat, driving my car around with the windows down and the AC on, and mainly just being comfortable having a full-time paying job. I suppose I could make that list go on and on, and like any volunteer overseas, I sometimes marvel at the smallness of my room, the few possessions I have, and say to myself, “Wow I’ve given up a lot to be here.”

I met an Angel when I was working in Los Alcarrizos, Santo Domingo a week and a half ago. Yes, it’s capitalized and it’s a proper name because he’s pictured here, standing on the left. I could have easily started a paragraph with “I’ve talked with Jesus just about everywhere in this country,” and that’s also true on a few levels. Anyway, Angel is a pastor, a father of three, and a mainstay  at the school “Colegio Lubrera de Caballona” for the past three years with his team of dedicated teachers and administrators.

Angel has over 25 years of experience running logistics and managing operations for other not-for-profit organizations in this country, but he’s here at this school working with about 50 students that didn’t fit in at other schools. For reasons like lack of discipline or learning disabilities their parents have sent their children here. Angel tells me, “When you see the necessity of the community, how can you not be involved?”

Standing next to Angel is Lucila, she’s the director of the school, and she’s got an equally impressive professional track record. In some ways, she doesn’t “need to be here” either and certainly she could make a lot more money working at another school. Surely, there’d be better benefits, insurance, and opportunities for an annual salary raise. But “It’s worth it,” she tells me “because we have the ability to transform these children by helping them to learn, to grow, and to prepare them for the future.”

I look over and Chanel is playing basketball with the boys. He’s 19, well-spoken, full of energy, and is currently disciplining a young man who is not playing fairly. “We enforce the discipline here because we love them, and I know that to them, that’s a strange concept, but without rules they don’t grow, they’ll never make the right decisions.” I wonder why Chanel (yes, it’s the same name of the perfume) is spending his time here. He’s got just about every option available to him right now in his life. But he’s here, present with the children, teaching them about life when it seems it’s just about basketball.

I’ve met a few of our Esperanza loan officers over the past year that have told me they’ve turned down better paying jobs because they feel called to be here, working in these communities, being a part of someone’s life, sharing from the Bible, assisting with someone’s transformation from economic poverty to self-sustainability and onto profitability. They ask me, “Where else would I have this opportunity?”

It’s like they’re standing in front of two doors with glass panes. Inside one they see there’s an air conditioner perched above just one large desk, in the corner sits a water cooler with ready plastic cups, a comfortable chair that adjusts, a nice laptop that was manufactured within the past two years, a bowl of fruit and plenty of natural light streaming in. Looking through the other glass pane, they see the opposite on every level, and it contains three more desks in the same space. Strangely, they choose the latter. Why?

They have all given up a lot to be here. In strictly utilitarian terms, they’ve given up a tremendous amount, and certainly, five or ten times more than I have, and this is the thing that hits me: they’ve given up more than I will ever have to give up.

To pick just one tiny example, the small bathroom that I share with another roommate has hot water. The people I just mentioned, always take cold showers. Always. There is no hot water. They probably will not have hot water anytime soon, or maybe even ever. The building where I live, strangely, has internet. The only way to check email is to walk to a local internet center for most of these people.

I’d like to think I’m getting more mature, and to that end I’d like to be very clear right now: this is not an opportunity for me nor for you to feel guilty. This is not a game of us and them tallying up our spiritual disciplines or accomplishments, nor of erasing our board completely. I simply want to say that we should all be inspired again by these verses:

What I have seen in each one of these people is: they have simply given up a few things to make room for others. I see joy, and patience, and willingness to open their hearts and to really be present with someone and really take the risks to love. I’m a firm believer that we can only carry so much with the two hands we’ve been given.

We must always give up to receive. When I take a step back and look at the tremendous amount of blessings, relationships, and joys I have received since I’ve left it’s actually quite clear to me now: I’ve been thinking that this was an unbalanced equation. It is, but I was looking at it from the wrong side. I haven’t given up much at all. No, I’ve been given so much. So much more than I could have ever imagined. As I step back and look at my experience here, I’m speechless.

I pray that God would give us eyes to see what we can give up, and that we would give without expectation, and take joy in what we receive.

Bendiciones,
-Aaron

aroth@hopeinternational.org
(540) 421-8683
Skype: aprothwm05
Web: www.AaronRoth.net

In my life here, I’m trying to completely sidestep this prerequisite for social acceptance by pulling the “gringo card” and using Dominican slang to show that not only am I a foreigner, but I’ve made significant efforts to be a part of the culture. So far it’s worked pretty well.

Any dates I’ve been on have been walkable, or taxiable. It does change the conversation when you can’t say, “I’ll pick you up around 7:00,” but you can say “My driver will pick you up at 7:00.” (Just don’t tell her that it’s Apolo Taxi, and make sure the driver takes away his taxi placard.)

So I’m sitting in this taxi last week talking to the driver about a wide range of topics. It’s true that Dominicans are usually very sociable and could talk about anything for an hour. I feel at home in that respect by the way, but one must note that Dominican taxi drivers take that skill to a whole new level. This guy was hitting just about every cultural topic between here and a kilometer, and deftly maneuvering his tiny Japanese made car through bad roads and aggressive drivers who cut us off.

Both of us see a luxury car fly past us, one that doesn’t belong on this kind of road, and he makes the comment that so many people waste their money into cars like that. He does a few calculations for gas, insurance, and repairs, and “Before you know it,” hey says, “You’re driving around in a mortgage.”

I tell him though, that I don’t think that stuff is really important. Sure, I love cars; in fact, I’d willingly accept a donation of the Audi A7 featured left, but deep down I miss driving my ’98 Honda Accord.

He goes on to say that he’s quite comfortable in his tiny Japanese car and he doesn’t care what people think. He goes through the repair record, or rather, lack of one, saying that this current car has given him less problems in 3 years than that of a troublesome vehicle he had for about 6 months.

He comments about how when he and his girlfriend go out, he can park the car, “On just about every street, or corner. I see a space, and then I’m like ‘whoop . . done’ and we’re parked. Then holding hands going to get some food.”

“But you know what?” he adds, “A car doesn’t fill me. No, a car doesn’t do that for me. It’s more important the people I have in my life and the kind of life I live. This car doesn’t break the bank, it allows me to save, takes me everywhere I need to go, and my beautiful girlfriend, well, she just likes to be with me. And she doesn’t like driving around looking for parking either.”

Again, I’m struck by the purity of life down here. The clarity that comes with not just having less, but having more foresight into what’s really important.

Like everything though, it’s a process, and it’s not like any of us don’t have desires for things like cool cars.

You just have to know what fills you, and keep choosing that.

In this country, being a tall gringo (here it’s an endearing term) it’s easy to play the game “One of These Things is Not Like the Others” and it usually means I’ve got money in my pocket just waiting to exchanged for some good or service in the local informal economy – at least that’s how I’m seen.

A mainstay of the informal economy are the shoe shiners. Kids carry large emptied tin cans, or small wooden toolboxes around with them hawking their services to anyone who’ll listen. I usually wear sandals outside of work, so I’m immune to the marketing, but in this case, my brown shoes, not all that scuffed in my opinion, have caught the attention of a young man.

“Can I shine your shoes? 10 pesos.”

He’s willing to clean and shine my shoes for 30 cents. He looks like a decent young man. School backpack on his back. Clean clothing. A smile showing all his teeth. But what I notice is that he speaks with dignity and peace. There’s no quick sell, no hurry, no emotional guilt.  After over a year here in the DR of dodging shoe shiners, I finally comply.

“What’s your name young man?”

“Ariberto. What’s yours?”

“Aaron. So tell me, why aren’t you in school?”

“I go to school after lunch. I work in the mornings to help my mother, and then I go home to have lunch, and then I go to school.”

“Oh ok. So how big is your family?”

“I’m the oldest. I have two brothers, one sister. But my dad is sick. He used to be a watchman for a bank, but he got diabetes and his foot swelled up really big, so he can’t work, he can’t even walk that well. So to help mom, I have to work.”

“Do you want some of this?” (I offer him so food.)

“No that’s ok. I ate. I buy breakfast in the morning when I’m out in the streets.”

He spoke slowly, honestly, and with intention. Quite eloquent I must say, with a gentle cadence to his delivery. I pay him 20 pesos, because I believe him, and I don’t want him to have to make change.

I doubt 30 more cents would help me more than that family he comes from, and certainly in light of the fact that he refused food because he already bought breakfast. A small part of my cracks inside when I think about him having to buy his own breakfast. For whatever reason he does it, or has to do it, it just makes me sad.

. . .

I’m still waiting there in the park. Not much to do, but just taking it all in. About 10-15 minutes later, Ariberto comes back and asks if he can sit down next to me. I say sure. I can tell he just wants to feel some peace in the morning amidst the noise on the streets of commerce. Maybe I’m one of the few gringos who actually talks to him. People have told me I’m approachable . . . haha.

We start talking about life. He asks me what I do. He says that’s a good thing to help people who need it. I ask Ariberto what he’d like to do in the future. He’s not sure. He doesn’t really think about it. He mostly thinks about each day ahead of him. But someday he’d like to own his own business. I’m convinced that for a 10 year old, he is very mature.

I ask him if he goes to a church. He says, yes of course and he likes it too. I asked him if he believes in God, “yes.” And Jesus? “yes.”

“And the Holy Spirit too. It’s a Trinity you know.” – Ariberto responds.

I like this kid. He’s smart and clever to boot.

“Well you know Ariberto, God has a lot planned for you.” I say. He smiles. I continue,

“I know that he’s got a great future planned for you. You know he’s got big plans for all of us, it’s like Jeremiah 29:11 says “He knows the plans he has for us.” In fact, that’s the verse we use for Esperanza.”

For a second, I think Ariberto enjoys sitting there, not having to be the big brother, not having so much responsibility, not having to work in the morning to help his family, to buy his own breakfast, to carry the world on his shoulders.

We sit there in silence. Make some jokes. More silence. Ariberto politely excuses himself. He’s got to get back to work.

I believe God has good things planned for him. I pray that he stays on that path.

I should get my shoes shined a lot more often, not because they need it, but because there are more Aribertos out there to meet.

Aaron Roth – HOPE International – “Love Big Enough” – February 2012

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His eyes say it all. He’s full of joy and he’s curious about the world. I’m standing in his classroom waiting to talk to his teacher, Ruth, which turns out to be his mother. By this point all the kids want me to take a photo of them and they are surrounding me asking to see the photos I’ve taken. Justin is very polite, trying not to push people around and finds my left arm holding the camera. He reaches out for my arm and grabs it to pull himself front and center. When I show him his photo, he looks up and smiles with a look that says, “That’s me!”

At three years old, Justin, is what he should be at that age: kind, curious, and with a heart that opens both ways, to give and receive love. Ruth, his mom, swings around and picks him up, “Oh, mi corazon, tienes hambre? Vamos para la casa de una vez y cocino para nosotros, tu y yo.” (My heart, are you hungry? Let’s go home now and I’ll cook for you and I.) So that’s where he gets it from.

I spend a lot of time around children down here in the Dominican Republic because this year I’m focused on working in our microlending program to small, Christian schools. Public education is so bad in the DR that even though parents can barely afford food and clothing, they will still pay to send their children to private schools with tuition around USD $7-$9 a month. Our microloans are to schools are to build more classrooms and computer labs. Through a partnership with the organization www.Edify.org we are able to provide this necessary capital for schools to grow and receive the resources they need to improve the education that they give to the students. By improving the education for the children, we are able to help put them on a path of opportunity and success for their whole life.

I love it. Working with these schools and their owners to help improve their businesses and their role in the community always brings joy to me. I guess it helps that kids here are like kids everywhere. Full of joy and endless wonder, ready to talk to anybody who walks through the door. At this age, they are full of innocence and possibility.

Justin is a bit shy, and when I try to talk to him, he hides behind his mothers face. So I ask her, “What kind of things does Justin say? What does he do.” She urges him, “Show mommy what you do when I ask you how much you love me.” Justin smiles and stretches his arms out wide.

Ruth tells me, “He loves me this big!”

What Happens to All Those Boys When They Grow Up?

It’s Carnaval time in the Dominican Republic. It started from a tradition held prior to Lent, and you can find these parades on every Sunday afternoon in the big cities  throughout the island. I had the opportunity to view a parade with some friends and it was quite intriguing.

Enormous, meticulously decorated costumes are donned by young men and teenagers who march through the streets carrying stuffed pig bladders on small ropes. WHACK! They swing these pig bladders striking unsuspecting bystanders. It’s not so much the impact that hurts, but the surprise by the sudden smack on the back of the leg. Their large masks hide any indication of their next strike, and BOOM! another victim.

For spectators and most costumed young men, it’s all for fun, a cultural celebration that they’ve been doing for years and years. Standing there watching the powerful swings of the rope by young, skilled, baseball-obsessed young men, I hear the squeals of girls jumping out of the way, and I’m taken back by one thing: the faces of some of these young men. They aren’t smiling. They aren’t really having a good time, are they? Their eyes don’t show celebration, nor revelry in being part of a parade, but simple determination to strike someone else, someone who may or may not deserve it.

Later, a fight breaks out with some of the non-costumed bystanders brought on by limited standing space in a battle of turf and lack of respect. Eyes of hate, seething with revenge. Eyes ready to strike at someone who may or may not deserve it. What’s happened to all those boys?

A Wall Around the Heart

What I saw in the eyes of some of those costumed young men and in the youth who were ready to fight, is what I’ve seen at home in Richmond, VA, or many places in the States, and quite often here in the rough neighborhoods. It’s the response of a boy fighting back.  Taking revenge and doling out some of the hurt he’s received. Lashing back at anyone who crosses the line, and indeed so many have crossed that line over the years since he was a kid. It’s a heart that opens for no one. No love comes in, no love goes out.

I think about all the young people that I’ve met working in the schools. Hundreds and hundreds of young boys and girls, too young to care about anything else but simply that they just want to know somebody at home loves them and that there will be food on the table when they get there, and they won’t get yelled at for something they didn’t do. But unfortunately, that’s not a reality for most of them. There’s not a safe home to come back to.

They start learning that the world is hard, and it doesn’t care if you haven’t eaten, or that someone hurt your feelings. The best solution then, is to close your heart to the world, because if you do, nothing else can come in to steal and destroy, and consequently nothing comes out to heal and repair. Poverty too, makes that poison of hate even more deadly. It can steal and destroy the innocence of possibility of these young boys and girls even before they have a chance to bloom.

Life Lessons that Stay

So when I think about Justin, Ruth’s son, at the age of three years old, I know he still believes that the world is good, that he doesn’t need to fight back; he just needs to stand up for himself because he deserves to be treated well. That’s what his mom taught him. In fact, that’s what she shows to all her students.

I asked her why she became a teacher here and she responded that 15 years ago she was one of the first students in a class of 50 that the director, Aleyda Torres, taught. What she received as a young girl was a good education, daily encouragement, and above all else, that she was valued and loved. Now, the school cares for over 440 students in the same way in one of the roughest areas of La Romana. Ruth continues:

She goes on to add that a lot of times the students that come to her class don’t have three meals a day, or have holes in their shoes, or they are angry, because their parents are fighting, or their father left, and it’s hard for their mom to raise four kids on her own. Ruth wants to show them a love that covers over these daily hurts and deep pains. She wants to provide them a home, even if it’s just a classroom, where people are respectful and people listen, and everyone is treated as though they matter.

What a child learns everyday they take with them their whole life. Poverty isn’t just about lack of resources, it’s about the loss of hope. That’s what happened to all those young men with no love in their hearts, they stopped believing that people cared. But I want to ask, what does it look like if we start to change the story for those who are still young? And show them that someone cares about them? That it matters what they do and what they believe? What will that mean for them when they grow older?

I pray today that you would see the opportunity to reach out to someone that needs to know that there is still kindness and love in this world.

Bendiciones,
-Aaron Roth

aroth@hopeinternational.org
(540) 421-8683
Skype: aprothwm05
Web: www.AaronRoth.net

Well, this time, 1,200 copies took about 15 min at six times less the cost.

Take a look at my man Martin. With his left hand he’s holding two sets of two sheets of paper together and with his right hand he’s delivering what can only be described as a stapling beat down. The rhythm of his attack is calculated, precise, and deadly; it’s a battle march that carries over the fields and mountains of stationery. The hills and valleys echo his triumphant firing and reloading, and stacks of fresh, 24lb, A4 paper sit in silence contemplating their imminent fate.

He’s a veteran and an active duty juggernaut, so when we proposed the idea of 300 double-sided stapled surveys, he smirked — along with mangu and eggs, he eats projects like this for breakfast. It’s a mere afterthought as he plows through the mess and makes order with four neatly stacked piles to carry out of his shop. He is a machine. In fact, he’s faster than the machine spitting out the copies. He’s outsmarted it and outfoxed it, and chuckles when I consider his work magic.

Like many things in life, and certainly relating to my experience here, I look to the heavens and ponder “Why all this pain, all this run-around, all this difficulty, when 3 minutes from my apartment, stands the solution, the “Martin,” the chief and ruler of the place called ‘Copy Master’ annihilating beasts of  tasks that plagued me.”

The question we may come to when we come out of a struggle could be a bittered, heavy-hearted lament:

“If only I had known, oh what pain I could have saved myself.”

I’m still trying to get rid of that, and indeed, I try  to consider most of my episodes like the copying fiasco as simply elements that help me arrive to the destination. I remember when I used to take two public cars back from Parque Enriquillo, now I take just one guagua. I remember when I paid transaction fees to withdraw money, then I got a Bank of America card and pay nothing to withdraw money from a ScotiaBank (bank friends). I remember being confused in Spanish in relation to what I asked, and then I paraphrased what I heard and asked for affirmation, a simple yes or a no. That changed my world.

We live and we learn, don’t we?

My goal is to make hindsight less bittersweet. And for that, I need to just take the bitter out of the ingredients, so that when I arrive at “Copy Master,” meet the valiant Martin, I can simply snap a picture, get my copies, and rejoice that I’ve finally found the solution.

Oh, how sweet it is.

Sierra does not enjoy the cold or the snow.

As I kid, my friends told me you couldn’t see the air. They lied. One day when the weather turned cold, a strange thing happened. I could see the air that I breathed. I was fascinated to realize that a thing not seen suddenly took form and became real.

Especially after living in a very hot and humid country, seeing your breath is a bit of a wonder, so stepping off the airplane onto the jet way in Milwaukee last week I was again surprised by seeing my own breath.

It’s a blatant reminder of the change in temperature, and for me, the cold snap of the reality of the passing of a loved one. First, it’s the shock of the chilly air, and the realization that I’m in Milwaukee because of the passing of my grandmother, and second, it again was that recognition of a breath of air manifested into a physical form that took me by surprise as a kid.

I was always confused by the idea of a soul as a child. How exactly could a thing exist that we can’t see, that I couldn’t touch with my hands, that I couldn’t stuff in my Dukes of Hazard lunchbox, or cram under my bunk bed? And if it did exist, was it in the heart, or was it in the mind?

I did know one thing though as kid. When our dog was killed running across the street in Iowa and my dad took my brother and I to a barn to see where he was laid to rest, something hurt deep inside. It wasn’t just my heart, it wasn’t just my mind, something ached for something lost.

I came across a poem by Robert Frost last week when I was home. It’s the same poem I read six years ago, and committed the last stanza to memory.

Robert Frost “Reluctance” written in 1915 (4^th Stanza)

“Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?”

I encourage you to read “Reluctance” in its entirety.

To me, the biting cold of winter is like the pain of loss, a reminder of a warmth that has left us. But do we only ever see our breath when the temperature drops below 32 degrees? Is a thing unseen only manifested in the absence of warmth, only in pain or loss?

It is true, the soul is a mysterious thing, as is the nature of life, as is the reality of death, as is every element of the design of the Creator. There are two things that bring me closer to understanding the things of life and death and breath -  first, this video below:

And second, that the dead leaves scraping across the ground of winter came from the trees that proudly displayed their brilliant colors in the fall, leaves that matured during the summer from the heat and rains of summer, a delivery from the bloom and growth of spring.

If winter is the death of warmth, then why does spring come?

If a breath is only visible in the exhale, from where do we draw it in?

If a soul is extinguished in death, then where did it begin?

. . .

I believe less in beginnings and ends, and more in the simple movement of things. Maybe the soul in its journey of life and death is just a change in address.

Last week we passed by 415 Staver Street, but I don’t believe grandma and grandpa live there anymore.

Six years ago after his funeral we spent some time cleaning out his old home office. To me, it was fascinating to see how he arranged his work, and his specific manner of workflow. There were folders for business, for school, for family, for woodworking projects, and for church. Everything had its proper place and purpose, and he had a daily routine that he kept to. I even remember the date had been updated in the morning on the last day he was alive.

Even until his last days he stuck to the discipline with all the matters and materials of daily life. One thing that sticks with me is that he never took anything with him when he passed on, all his possessions stayed there at the house. Keeping track of my own possessions the past two years has been mediated by baggage requirements: one carry one, and one checked baggage, and yet, I still realize, you can’t take anything with you traveling heavenwards.

I took a handkerchief from Grandpa’s desk six years ago, and I put it on my desk at home. Two years ago when I left the States, I put it in my backpack. It was a simple reminder of the practicality of my grandpa, and of my grandmother, both lived through the days of rationing during the Second World War. It was hot and humid in every single country I’ve visited, perfect for wiping the brow just like grandpa did in construction, but I know the reason I kept that handkerchief with me is that it reminded me of home, of a solid family, of grandparents that cared about me and loved to hear from me.

Next to grandpa’s desk were a few shoes neatly arranged and recently polished. Mom said, “You know when we were growing up, Albert used to have holes in his shoes because he spent the money on us. Over time, he could afford to have nicer shoes, leather, with sturdy soles that could be easily repaired and last a long time.” I tried on a pair to see if they fit. They did.

My parents packed the dress shoes I asked them to bring along for the funeral. I had kept the sturdy ones that fit well, and used them from time to time in the past six years. I had kept Grandpa’s handkerchief with me in my backpack and then at my desk in Santo Domingo. I stuck it back in the pocket of my backpack on the trip home. Arriving to the funeral, I had Albert’s shoes and handkerchief.

. . .

I remember carrying my grandfather as he carried me. I carried his handkerchief with me on all my travels, and I kept it in my pocket Monday morning.

I carried my grandmother as she carried me, one hand on the casket bar, the other holding the handkerchief grandpa gave me.

. . .

I don’t know why I do stuff like this. If you ask people that really know me, they’ll tell you that I’m a person who likes to carry out a movement or a tradition so that it in some ways connects to its origin. I’ve done it with the houses I’ve lived in, the campus of W&M, and the bridges of Richmond, VA and so on.

Helen was being laid to rest next to Albert, something she had wanted for six years, and as I stood on the edge of the grave, I realized, strangely, that it was like I was bringing Albert’s belongings back to him, as if to prove to him that I was a good and faithful servant. Thousands of miles I brought them back to the origin. Wouldn’t he be so proud?

But I know, and I know he would have told me, that he never wanted them returned, he just wanted to see how far they would travel.

I think that’s how Albert and Helen loved their grandchildren, never wanting a permanent deposit, but most certainly a visit, a meal, and stories to see how far they had traveled.

With tears stinging my face on a cold January Monday morning, I took out his handkerchief and wiped my eyes, and put it back in my pocket; I still had plenty more miles to travel . . .