If the Dominican sunrise was silver, the Nicaraguan sunrise is golden. It begins around 5 am, as the dark sky becomes inexplicably streaked by burnt orange and fuchsia, and then slowly fades into more appeasing colors of blue, pink, and purple. And then the sun breaks out from behind the hill to the east of the farm, liberating the earth from the darkness that it had been in bondage to that night. The sun, that great, consistent, miracle, brushes everything with shades of golden and red, and exclaims its freedom to all the earth. One of the fourteen farm dogs plops down next to me, appealing for affection. I pet her for a few minutes, but I eventually have to disappoint her, trying to concentrate on the task at hand.
We are living at REAP ministries, which is run out of a 75-acre farm. They grow everything from bananas and yucca, to tomatoes and corn, to tamarino and mango. But more importantly, they grow community. They employ many Nicaraguans, host micro-churches (bible study-like events), and sports teams for youth. Gap Year is living in one of their dorms, a large building with a wrap-around porch and air conditioning, which is a huge blessing during the steamy Nicaraguan nights. I had rolled out of my bunk this morning as usual at 4:50, and was met with the surprise of my life. “Ahh!” I scream sleepily as my squadmate rolls over. EmmaLea had gotten hot in the middle of the night and decided to sleep on the floor by my bed, in perfect position for me to unknowingly trample as I drowsily get out of bed. I guess the air conditioning doesn’t reach everyone. I got dressed and headed out to the basketball court where the squad meets for 5am prayer. This is why I can tell you exactly how the sun displays itself in Nicaragua, and why I had to hurt the pup’s feelings by refraining from petting her. After prayer, we have 2 hours until breakfast. Some decide to go back to sleep, some continue their quiet times, some work out before it gets too hot. This is the time I’ve chosen to sit and write this blog, trying to describe what life looks like here while the sun continues to rise, dancing off my keyboard.
Breakfast usually consists of beans and rice, eggs, and fruit. The women who cook are sweet and smiley Nicaraguans who speak only Spanish, so I have to construct phrases from the debris of my high school classes to tell them “no más comida!” The time we begin ministry depends on what we are doing that day. Ministry here looks a lot like hopping on board with whatever the local staff and volunteers are doing. If they want to do prayer walk for 3 hours, we’ll put our walking shoes on. If they are going to the hospital to pray over people, we’ll hop in the back of Alejandro’s pickup truck and ride to town. Farm work is also always available to those who enjoy sunburn and dirty fingernails. And some Spanish knowledge is almost necessary, in case there is only one or two locals who speak English. At 12, we have lunch, once again a product of rice and beans, some form of plantain, and tamarino juice (it tastes like apple juice, but is made from bean-like fruit that grows on trees around the farm).
Ministry is usually done by 3 or 4, so I’ll take a cold shower and clean off the sweat and muck from the day. Reading, watercoloring, extended quiet time, or fellowshipping with the squad usually make up those hours before dinner at 6. Again, beans and rice, chicken, and probably leftover fruit from that morning. You would think the food would be easy to get tired of, but I don’t think I ever will. After dinner, we do the dishes. This usually takes an hour or so, since the ministry serves many locals as well as the teams that live here. Nights usually end with stargazing or games of spicy uno. The stars here are spectacular, pinpricking the velvety black sky with unapologetic light.
This is my last country on the Race. I think I’m ready to go home, but I’m not going to rush it. Why would I, when paradise is before me?
