I find it interesting that every culture gathers “on the porch” in someway or another. You may not have an official porch in the sense of it being an extension of permanent housing, but you often find yourself congregating together with other people witnessing the intersection of meaning about the world as experienced by other human beings. Maybe it is a meaningless venture that I am putting high on a pedestal, or maybe it is sacred and blessed. I feel it is the latter, and my reflections on my trip to Honduras lead me to that conclusion.
Our trip began early Friday, June 3rd. It was way too early in the morning for most. We boarded our flight only to find out that we were going to be held up for a while waiting for the mechanic, one hour away, to inspect our damaged static dissipater. The relief of knowing that our plane was being carefully monitored and inspected for safety soon gave away to the reality that we would miss our connecting flight in Miami to Tegucigalpa. With much hard work and more waiting behind us, we were able to catch another flight and arrive at our destination at the farm in Telanga in time for dinner.
The farm was such an incredible place, and one of the defining characteristics for me were the covered porches on almost every building, minus the barns, storage units, and livestock structures of course. The porch attached to the volunteer house was even screened! These porches served as sacred space for everyone on the farm. This is the location where we offered devotion, watched the sunrise, watched the sunset, shared stories, built relationships, shared talents, played games, waited to eat, and watched the rain. When you were not working, eating, sleeping, or studying at the farm, you could usually be found on one of the many porches. In short, to build a porch is to build a community.
During the day we would all toil over our farm chores. Many of these tasks would seem monotonous to American standards of work, but each carried with it an accountability of action towards the larger community on the farm. Helping with the chickens; be it rearing chicks, cleaning coups, repairing coups, gathering eggs, or slaughtering the mature; assisted in either securing funds for the farm or providing food for meals. Cleaning sties helped prepare for future hogs which would serve a purpose similar to the chicken operation. Scraping tiles would mean repaired housing structures and fewer roof leaks.
At some point in my journey during one of my many chores I encountered an old adage someone verbalized which states to never do a bad job good. I know what this alludes to, but at the very moment it was spoken I was reflecting on the complete obverse. I had been pondering MLK’s teachings about doing your job good, no matter what you do. The quote is actually, “Whatever your life’s work is, do it well. A man should do his job so well that the living, the dead, and the unborn could do it no better.”
Through it all, no matter what transpired during the day, you always made your way back to the porch. You didn’t plop down in front of the television and let your need for human interaction become drowned out by the endless hum of noise. Instead, you shared space and time with others in the true presence of the Holy Spirit.
When it came time to leave, the tension of the moment was palpable. We were all facing the unavoidable reality that we were leaving what was just becoming routine. We had finally brokered trust and better communication with many on the farm, and even amongst ourselves, only to pack our things and head back to the world of fluttering around aimlessly like headless chickens spilling our souls onto a slaughterhouse floor. Tomorrow would find us roaming 459 or 280 wishing to be closer to what we experienced in Honduras. Culture shock.
I keep living my life waiting for that moment when everything makes sense. Looking for that moment when my work feels like something truly meaningful. Maybe it is all a pipe dream I am sold manipulating me to keep working my butt off to get to this mythical place, or maybe I should keep my mouth shut and be content with what I have. Either way, I know that for a week in Honduras on a farm that my work had meaning and my hands built community. At the end of the day, spending time on the porch brought me a bit closer to salvation. Building a porch is building a community.
