PB&J's in Nicaragua by Dan Kiessling

This is another guest post by Chelsea's dad, Dan Kiessling:


Being a parent certainly has its moments.The moment a small hand wraps itself around the hand holding a bottle, band aides, first days of school, first loves, sharing sports, laughter and love.  You seldom get to know where it will all lead.  You can try to provide for your child’s physical needs, their education, and help them develop the tools that you know they will require in life.  A good father will be there day or night whenever called.  In some ways it’s a great unknown as to how the child will “turn out” will she bring joy or sorrow.  Will she throw you aside for some hooligan or will she bring you immeasurable joy by placing that first grandchild in your arms.  It is a prolonged gamble, a wager that you may never know whether you win or lose.

A series of “God Gotchas” events lead me to Nicaragua to assist in providing drinking water to remote villages in the Chinandega area of that country with the Amigos for Christ agency.  They provide and assist in numerous areas of relief and development including water, health, education, food, housing, and medical needs of the residents in that area.  My focus was primarily water distribution and water resource development.  The God Gotchas started several years ago at a conference on water with Holly, leading to a chance encounter with Nance Burrell, leading to several other encounters and an alignment of conditions which pushed and shoved me to making the decision on going down there.  After a couple of trips I realized that God’s purpose was for me to apply my minor skills and talents in this endeavor and I assumed my reward was seeing the smiling faces on the residents faces in that part of the world when they finally received clean water to their homes.  Oh how wrong that turned out to be.

Chelsea lived with her mother in Savannah during much of her high school years a time of growth, development, socialization, and maturing in her life.  I was not able to see a lot of her during this time.  Not that she would have wanted me to be around too much anyway.  There is a period where fathers are not the most favorite person to be seen with in public, unless she was shopping for that special prom dress, a car, or she wanted a boat party.  We would talk, but not for long because she always had something else going on in her life.

She did eventually agree to a trip down to Nicaragua one summer.  She bitched from the time we left the house until somewhere flying down over the Yucatan that her I-pod only had 5 gigs or some such.  It was not nearly enough to hold all the songs she “needed”.   She also felt compelled to inform me that last year’s bathing suit was no going to fit her anymore and she would send me a link to the one she absolutely needed.

We arrived on a Sunday, settled in and she was oriented as to the routine at the Amigos for Christ hacienda and what the goals were that week.  It was all new to her and she quickly adapted.  Monday and Tuesday were filled with extreme physical labor, digging (by hand) water line ditches, housing footings, and hauling materials in a small village.  I would occasionally catch a glimpse of her digging, sweating, and loading buckets of gravel, usually with a crowd of children gathered around.  She would take the infrequent break and teach her crowd of followers the hokee-pokee dance or overcome the language barrier with laughter and song.  At lunch she was hungry enough to put aside her aversion of peanut butter sandwiches and eat at least one of the pre-packed meals. 

She had been encouraged to drink a lot of water and to check for hydration.  She must have listened to that advice because she found me late in the day and we discussed toilet options.  She absolutely refused to enter an out-house and there was of course no indoor plumbing or electricity.  We eventually lost her children followers and walked up a ravine and she was able to cop a squat.  We returned late in the evening to the hacienda worn out and wearing a layer or two of the blackest dirt (volcanic ash) you could ever imagine. 

After dinner and a shower they hold a group “devo” which is primarily a debriefing of the day with personal experiences, motivational discussions, and insights discussed between the group members.  I am not a big participant in this function and usually sit near the back and slip out quickly to the street or the bodega  for a cold and often well-deserved cerveza.  I managed to linger long enough to hear her comment on how happy the children in the village were even without all the things we take for granted.

Typically when groups are down, Wednesdays are a work break day.  Most are aching, tired, and starting to get grumpy.  Chelsea was hanging in there and still maintained her smile.  A trip into town to help in a small orphanage (no major physical labor) was planned.  I had been there before and it had confirmed a realization that I had come to, after studying psychology in college that I was not cut out for dealing with institutional children.  The orphanage was just that, a location where severely disabled children, whether by birth defects, disease, or early trauma were maintained and care provided.  The facility was clean and exceptional care was provided by a staff that was entirely undermanned by our standards.  Amigos would be providing the manpower on that day.  Having experienced this before and knowing my shortcomings a local cantina waylaid me on the journey through town.

That night while enjoying my cerveza  on the curb, Chelsea came out of devo with tears streaming down her face.  Being the father that I am, I placed the beer on the sidewalk and followed her down the street.  Placing my arms over her shoulder she confided that she “did not know what God wanted her to do with the kids in the orphanage”.  Many could not respond, many barely spoke, most could not move.  I asked what did she do and she answered that she could only hold one and sing softly and she felt so inadequate.  I let her know that that was exactly what God had wanted her to do and that was her applying the talent that God had given her.  She seemed to accept that and recovered her composure.  I on the other hand found my reward that night.  I now realized who my daughter was, who she would be, and that she was more than anything that I could ever hope for.  The parenting bet had paid off in ways that I could never have hoped. 

I heard no more talk of needing a new I-pod or bathing suits since and she returned home with a taste for peanut butter sandwiches.