Excerpt from
Monica Rudawski's latest letter
from Nicaragua

“There is something about working with the poor that awakens my own wounds. We had been walking from home to home most of the morning in the dust and the heat. At 11:00am it was nearing 105 degrees. We came upon a plastic shack that measured about 10 x 13. "How many families live here?", we asked. "Four," they responded. "How many persons in total live here?", we asked. "Fourteen," they responded. I looked around the house, seeing the light beams shining through their plastic roof and I wondered what would happen to them when the rains come. My vision rested on a rustic table nearby their open fire where six large tortillas were stacked. A woman removed the seventh and final tortilla from the fire, put it on a plate and gave it to me. As I ate the tortilla, it took all I had to not burst into tears. How could a family of 14, with only seven tortillas to share among them as their entire days food, gift me in this manner? I was consuming Eucharist as I realized all that had been broken and poured out on my undeserving part – a foreigner invading their home, asking questions, with no promises of making a difference. Yet they generously and freely gave to me out of their harsh poverty.”

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