If this project excites you, here is how you can help. First, if you are on Facebook, please go like his page, “Giving A Hope” and learn more about the project there. This is where Noel will keep people posted on his project and how you can help. I will be providing updates here on the blog and on my Facebook pages. Please share his story with others who might be interested and encourage them to learn more about his project.

In Paradise in Front of Me, I did my best to share the story of life in El Paraíso and the challenges faced by the remarkable people living in a very difficult environment. Noel is an example of everything that is great about the people of Honduras. I am in awe of what he has already accomplished, and I cannot wait to see what else this amazing young man is going to do in his life. I urge you to help Noel help the people of Cuyalí. This is a cause worth supporting because Noel is an example of the amazing potential of so many young people in Honduras who, if given a chance, are going to do great things.

I'm listening to a podcast as I stroll around the kitchen, taking care of the mundane tasks that are nonetheless necessary to keep a household running. I'm listening to an interview with a gentleman, about my age, who has spent much of his life traveling. He currently lives in Mexico with his wife and two children, and in this moment he has caused me to pause what I'm doing and pay closer attention. The Canadian man is talking with an American, and he is sharing his disappointment with what Americans have become. Essentially, they are agreeing that Americans are more concerned with safety and fairness than anything else.  "Americans in general are fearful of everything," the Canadian states. We are not, in his words, the home of the brave. Ouch. I keep listening because, well, I'm not totally disagreeing with him. 

The man continues by saying that the world is full of opportunity, and that in many countries people are embracing this fact. As he travels the world he sees people celebrating freedom, challenging standards, and taking risks in order to improve their lives. He does not, sadly, see this same energy in America where he believes we've become complacent. We're so concerned with safety because the media and others have convinced us that the world is a scary place and danger lurks around every corner. As a result, he says, we spend our energy seeking security even if it means leading a life we don't find the least bit fulfilling. He is, to say the least, entirely unimpressed with Americans.

that were built to send Americans to the moon. It is hanging from the ceiling on its side, all 363 feet of it from end to end. The rocket weighs 6.2 million pounds, a number I cannot even fathom. Addie and I walk underneath it, staring up at the massive rocket without speaking a word. It is awesome.

My family and I spend the next 5 hours reading captions and watching videos of the men and women who worked together, defied odds, and took unbelievable risks to put a man on the moon and further explore the unknown reaches of our universe. I don't think it's possible to leave the Kennedy Space Center without being proud to be an American and in awe of the men and women who were at the forefront of space exploration.They were the ultimate risk takers.

Which leads us back to the podcast. We can't all be astronauts, but I wonder if Americans are slowly losing their willingness to take risks. We stay in jobs that we hate because they are "secure," we set aside dreams because the "timing" isn't right, and we use age, children, finances as reasons to not pursue something that is nagging at us. And, thanks to 24 hour media coverage, many of us live in fear of terrorists, diseases, sink holes, zombies and anything else headline news can convince us are just outside our door. So, thinking about my own life, my own decisions, I'm afraid the two individuals speaking in my ears are onto something.

It feels like it's a difficult time in history to be an American. We haven't had a lot to cheer about lately. And maybe many of us are surrounded by people who are unwilling to take even the slightest risk, to step even a little out of the "secure" world they're trying to create. Without heros or risk takers to observe, maybe we're all getting complacent and convinced that we don't have much control over our own lives. 

After successfully loading five pumpkins into the back of the car, Addie, my 7 year-old daughter, announces it's time for the corn maze. Cristina, my younger daughter Bridgette, and my father-in-law enter first. We wander, weave, backtrack, and turn around in what is increasingly becoming a difficult endeavor. It's getting so bad that I'm starting to wonder if any of the black corn on the dead cornstalks is still good for eating in a survival situation. "Dad!" Addie says, grabbing my arm. "Let's turn here." I look in the direction she is pointing. "That's a dead end, Addie," I say. I can see it from here." She shakes her head. "It might not be." At this point, the rest of our group is out of sight, so I tell Addie to move along. She's not happy about that, and her face let's me know I've let her down.

After several more turns, certain that we must be close to the exit, we encounter another dead end. This is getting ridiculous. We turn around and an approaching family notices we are coming their way. They laugh and turn around as well, leading us back the way we all came. Two groups in front of us continue straight, followed by Cristina, Bridgette, and my father-in-law. 

It's a cool, cloudy morning, and I am about 2 miles into what will be an 8 mile hike on the Apple Orchard Falls and North Creek River trails in the Jefferson National Forest of Virginia. The forest and hiking are therapeutic for me, and I am excited to be alone in the woods without a soul in sight. Maybe this form of quiet and isolation will allow me to relax, focus and connect with nature. 

“Connected.” There’s a word that’s become quite convoluted. One is supposed to be connected in so many aspects of life. There are articles every day about how we’re too connected to some things and not connected to others. I’m supposed to be connected professionally (but only to the right people), socially (but not too much digitally and definitely more personally), to nature, to my inner thoughts and feelings, to my community, and on and on. Just thinking about it is a little stressful.

Just as I begin the first chapter, which I'm already thoroughly enjoying, my phone bings twice. Somehow an errant signal must have found my phone here in the dense forest, and I have received a text. It's quite comical, sitting on a bench alone in the woods, reading Thoreau and then hearing the sound of an iPhone. Of course, I'm now distracted. I'm holding the book and staring at the big Apple logo on the back of my phone while listening to the water rush down, ironically, Apple Orchards Falls.

I turn over the phone, wondering if Thoreau is groaning at me, to check my message. I’ve received a text from my mom. Attached are three photos from the prairies of Missouri. She and my dad are driving across The Great Plains on their way back home to Virginia, and my mom is in awe of the vastness of the land. I smile at the phenomenon that is life. I’m sitting in the middle of the forest. I’m reading a book published in 1854 while holding one of the world’s most extraordinary pieces of technology. My mom and I, over 500 miles apart, are connected. We are both sharing an experience with nature, marveling at its beauty and the sense of awe it can instill. Maybe Thoreau would have owned an iPhone.

On the other hand, there is no doubt that modern devices are dominating our attention and, as a result, we are losing our vital connection to the natural world. Articles and studies have been written and conducted pointing out the dangers of the increasing amount of time we spend indoors and away from the mountains, forests, and bodies of water that surround us. As a country, our physical and mental health are deteriorating and our disconnect with nature is likely playing a major role. These devices distract us from the things that are truly important. After all, in this moment, I have shifted my attention from the quiet and solitude of the trail to my phone. Maybe Thoreau would have chucked the iPhone in the trash.

I’m not sure what Thoreau would have thought of this technology or what he would have said to Jobs. It’s fun to think about because in some ways they were very much alike. I know that I’m grateful to both men. On this day, in the middle of the beautiful Jefferson National Forest, I am connected to both nature and my mother. The latter just happens to be gazing out across the vast prairies of Missouri and decided she wanted to share that moment with her son. That is truly amazing; a tribute to the things that make life in our time such a gift.

It was 1986, and I sat in a darkened theater and watched a movie that to this day remains my all-time favorite. I explain to people that “Hoosiers," starring Gene Hackman, is about so much more than basketball. It is a film with one scene after another that elevates “Hoosiers” to much more than a simple story about redemption and overcoming the odds. Filled with numerous memorable scenes, a favorite of mine isn’t one that immediately comes to mind for fans of the movie. 

Norman Dale (Gene Hackman) is the new coach at Hickory High, a school with a small enrollment and a gargantuan love of basketball. Coaching under the watchful eye of a never ending parade of skeptics, Dale is charged with the task of leading the undersized Huskers to a successful season. However, he is at a significant disadvantage as the school’s superstar player and local hero, Jimmy Chitwood, has decided to sit out a season since he was extremely close to the former coach who passed away. In this scene, Dale is introducing the team at a school pep rally. Things get uncomfortable when the crowd starts chanting for Chitwood. Dale approaches the mic, quiets the crowd and makes this impassioned speech:

“I was hoping you would support who we are, not who we are not. These six individuals have made the choice to work, to sacrifice, to put themselves on the line 23 times in the next four months to represent you, this high school. That kind of commitment and effort deserves and demands your respect. This is your team.”

I love this scene. “I was hoping you would support who we are, not who we are not.” What if we applied these words to just about any person or situation in our lives? I know I’ve talked about this before, but I see this scene as representative of an American society that finds happiness so elusive. We are constantly disappointed because someone or something did not live up to our expectations. Our house is too small, our car is too old, our job is boring, our friend isn’t punctual, our neighbors aren’t tidy, our coworkers are too loud, our family is too nosy, our kid isn’t good at math, and the list goes on and on. We trudge through life wishing this person or that thing was different in some way that would benefit us. We can’t see the good because we’re too focused on the blemishes.

I never write about something I’m not guilty of myself. That’s one motivation for writing this blog. It forces me to analyze my own life, to identify weaknesses and try, albeit sometimes unwillingly, to change my mindset. This week, I’m taking Coach Dale’s words to heart. I would hope that the people closest to me would love and support me for the person I am and am striving to be, rather than only criticize me for the areas I need to improve. As I take inventory of my life, I’m trying harder to complain less and celebrate the people and events in my life more; to see the paradise in front of me every day. After all, there is good in nearly every person and situation, and what a shame it is to miss that truth. 

Happy Friday everyone, and, as always, thanks for reading. 

This is the second part of a two-part story that began last Friday. Thanks for reading.

As the ball continued its descent, it became increasingly obvious that it was destined for me. My dad, recognizing the situation, leaned away, giving me a clear path to catch the ball. My eyes widened and my knees bent as I prepared to make the catch. The ball struck my outstretched hands just as I expected. Now, all I had to do was cradle it into my chest and proudly display my souvenir. However, something went wrong. 

The ball did not strike both hands simultaneously as I had planned. Instead it hit my left hand, bounced off my right hand, hit my chest and then shot into the row in front of me. I reached down frantically, looking for the ball. Suddenly, a gentleman two rows in front displayed the ball high above his head as the crowd acknowledged his accomplishment with a few cheers. A young boy, about 12 years old, turned around and looked at me. He looked genuinely confused. “How did you drop that?” he asked me. I have no idea. I just shook my head, still looking at the hands that had failed me. If there was one thing I could usually count on in life, it was that if someone threw me something, I would catch it. I stood silent, in disbelief. My dad, recognizing my disappointment, put his hand on my shoulder and did what good dads do: He took the blame. “That was my fault, Kev. I was in your way. I should have gotten out of your way.” I forced a smile. “It wasn’t your fault, Dad. I just dropped it.”

Sitting in those green bleachers, the bright sun bearing down on me, I never felt lower. Nothing in my life made sense. Even the things I could always count on, simple things like catching a baseball, were no longer a given. The kid’s words lingered. “How did you drop that?” It was like he was asking me the question I kept asking myself, “What’s wrong with you?” How on earth did I get to this point? More importantly, how was I ever going to get out of this rut? Maybe, this was my new reality. Maybe, I needed to accept the fact that things weren’t going to change, that I no longer had the ability to impact the direction my life was headed. Maybe, the rut was just beginning with no end in sight.

After the game, we returned to the car. My father and his friends sat in the first two rows, and I climbed into the third row where I sat by myself. I was relieved to be alone. The guys began talking and laughing, and I sat quietly in the back. I pulled out my iPod and stared at it. Maybe some music would relax me. Then, I noticed the small icon that said “Notes.” I opened up the application and stared at the blank screen. I sat up straight. Yes, my life was a mess, but that blank screen represented an opportunity. I could hear my old friends speaking the words that always brought me comfort: “This is just a rut. They don’t last forever.” I began to type.

For two hours, I pecked away at the tiny screen. At one point, I heard my father say, “What is Kevin doing back there?” One of the guys replied, “He’s playing on that gadget.” That made me laugh. I was sitting up straight now as my thoughts turned into words on the page. The first line that I wrote read, “I’m in a rut. A big, long rut.” From there I began to dream. I wrote down what my life would look like one year from now. I was specific. In order to right the ship I needed two things to happen. 

First, my girls had to be out of daycare and home. Second, for the sake of my kids and my marriage, I needed a new job, one that would allow me to stay home during the day and make enough money in the evenings. I wrote, “My girls will be taken out of daycare. I will start a tutoring business. I will teach struggling readers in the evenings, and my business will be successful. In one year, my business will have grown and will provide the income we need. I will dedicate my free time to finishing Paradise in Front of Me. I will give it the time and energy it deserves.” From there, I continued laying out the life I wanted for my family and me. Somehow, as I wrote, I began to feel in control again. My confidence seemed to be returning slowly as the words poured out onto the page. 

About two months after dropping that foul ball, I resigned my job as a teacher. A month after that, I opened Finch Tutoring in the upstairs office of our home. I had one student. 

. . . It’s a spectacular May evening at the baseball stadium in Salem, Virginia. The year is 2014, and I am taking in a Salem Red Sox game with my best friend of 35 years, Pete. We are seated down the third base line, about 20 rows up. We are relaxing, drinking a beer, looking at the mountains, and enjoying a lazy spring day. Suddenly, there is the familiar sound of a ball striking a wooden bat. Immediately I turn and yell, “Pete!” I can tell the ball is heading our direction. Pete, relaxing two seats down from me, is looking at the ground. He looks over at me. “What?” I’m standing now. “Pete!” As the ball arcs upward, I’m sure it’s heading right at him. “Oh!” he says, recognizing the situation.

 As the ball begins descending, it starts drifting left. It is coming fast, right at me, and I’m in trouble. My full cup of beer is still in my right hand. I should have set it down. There’s no time to think. I reach out my left hand as the ball comes whistling at me. I feel the impact as it hits. My beer splashes and I close my eyes. There’s a brief moment of silence and then a roar from the crowd. I stare in amazement at my left hand which is now holding a baseball. I raise it above my head as the crowd cheers. A man looks up from his seat. “How did you catch that!” I have no idea.

I stand a few seconds after the crowd has returned to watching the game, my two minutes of fame now over. I stand on the warm spring night and smile. I can’t stop looking at the ball. Four years ago, I wrote down a plan. Four years later, I operate a successful tutoring business where I have the privilege of working with about 20 students a week. My book is done and published. My girls never returned to daycare. My life, while neither perfect nor free from challenges, is something for which I am grateful for every day. 

Four years ago, I dropped a baseball, and it changed my life. Ruts will continue to come and go, but I have learned that in the lowest times it is important to keep looking ahead. Ruts don’t last forever, and your life is never totally out of your control. If you don’t believe me, there’s a baseball placed in front of me at my desk. It’s staring at me right now. It’s a reminder that in order to achieve your dreams, you need to first believe in them. So, if you’re in a rut, grab your notebook, your phone, your tablet, your laptop, and get to work. Put those goals in writing. Own them. There’s a baseball headed your way, and this time you’re going to catch it. 

I grew up playing a variety of sports. There were lessons, expressions, life analogies and more learned on the playing surface that continue to influence my life today. Throughout the course of a playing season, there are ups and downs. Whether the sport be individual or team, there are times when things click and periods when nothing seems to go your way. When an individual was experiencing a rough patch, my friends and I would remind the suffering player that they were simply in a rut. The struggles would not last the duration of the season, and we would remind him that soon he would be flourishing once again, the rut a distant memory. 

I always found this philosophy liberating. Ruts are something we all experience in life, whether it’s in our careers, relationships, or other life endeavors. Sometimes, we don’t want to admit we are struggling. We put on a happy face, tell friends and foes that all is well, and refuse to face our challenges. This was the case for me, four years ago, when an act of fate changed my life.

It was a beautiful, sun-filled afternoon in Charlottesville, Virginia, and the Virginia Cavaliers were battling the North Carolina Tar Heels in an exciting baseball game. I was in the stands with my father, having joined him and several of his friends on the short drive from Roanoke. I was glad to be away from home, even for one afternoon. For the first time in my life, I was feeling lost, like events were spinning out of control, and I had no way to stop them. 

 Up to this point, my life had followed a clear path. Cristina and I had moved to Roanoke, purchased a home and started a family. I was teaching at a local middle school and Cristina had just landed a new job in her field. From the outside, things probably looked great. On the inside, of my soul and my home, things were not well. Each morning, I would drive ten minutes to a day care facility that rested across the street from my school. I would drop off Bridgette first. My one-year old daughter was under the care of two kind, caring souls in a room full of screaming babies. From the moment she was born, Bridgette detested loud noises. She, to this day, dreads entering rooms with large crowds where noise abounds. As I placed her car seat down among the other young children, my heart would sink. It would be at least nine hours before I saw her again, and the thought of her in that loud room all day made me feel sick. 
 
After dropping off Bridgette, I would walk down stairs with Addie, who was nearly three. Addie is and has always been what many would call a “daddy’s girl.” She would cling to my leg as we made our way to her classroom where her kind teacher would pull a screaming Addie from my outstretched leg. I could hear her crying as I exited the building and crossed the street to work. My classroom was on the second floor, and from the window I could see the small church where my two girls were staying. It was heartbreaking because I missed my children and was unhappy with my career as a teacher. 

I worked in a middle school as a special education teacher where I felt I was largely ineffective. For a variety of reasons, it seemed to me and many others that teaching had become an impossible endeavor. Paperwork, federal guidelines, state mandates, and more left me feeling powerless to provide students with the skills necessary to flourish in life. Despite working 50-60 hours a week, pouring all of my energy into my work, I knew I was failing. I was tired, frustrated, angry and lost. At home, I was miserable to be around. My kids weren’t getting the dad they deserved, and my wife was wondering where the man she had married had gone. I put on a happy face for friends and family, but on the inside I was drowning. Life was spiraling downhill, and I needed to make a change. Cristina insisted I leave the teaching field, and I wanted to desperately. But how? I had a family to support. We could make it temporarily on one salary but not for very long. At night, I lay wide awake, wondering if there were any way out.

So, sitting in the stands along the first base line with my dad, I was relieved to let my mind escape the worries and stresses of the life that existed outside the stadium. For three hours, I could just enjoy the game of baseball. I focused my attention on the field where a batter for Virginia swung at an outside pitch. The result was a towering pop fly that began drifting innocently into foul territory. The ball kept drifting, and the realization hit that it was going to land near my dad and me. We both stood up along with a crowd of fans arounds us. It rose against the clear blue sky and began descending, gaining speed as it fell towards the ground. I reached out as my dad looked on. Then, it happened. 

I had never heard of David Foster Wallace until a week a ago. That's sad. Maybe you've heard of him or read one of his many essays or books. Listening to this commencement speech, I realized that there are so many amazing individuals out there whose work  I've never had the pleasure to read about or hear. It saddens and disgusts me that the likes of Justin Bieber and Kim Kardashian are covered incessantly by the media, while those with so much to offer this world are known to so few in comparison.

In 2008, at the age of 46, Wallace committed suicide, presumably as a result of depression. I now realize the extent of this tragic loss. I encourage you to set aside 22 minutes to listen to his words. I think you will be happy you did. I will not attempt to give my own summary as Wallace's speech should stand alone. If you are well removed from college, I wonder if you will share my reaction to the moments that the college students find amusing. As they were laughing, I was nodding my head in agreement with Wallace. It's clear to me that the college students couldn't fully comprehend his message as I would have expected given the topic. Today, I imagine they do. 

To me, the commencement address beautifully touches on a theme of Paradise in Front of Me. I hope you will take 22 minutes out of your day and spend some time with Wallace. The last three minutes are worth the investment alone in my humble opinion. I've included a few of my favorite quotes below. Thanks for stopping by and have a great Friday!

"The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able to truly care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in a myriad little petty unsexy ways every day."

"It isn't really about the capacity to think, but rather about the choice of what to think about."


"We also never end up talking about where these individual beliefs and templates come from, meaning where they come from inside the two guys, as if a person's most basic orientation towards the world and the meaning of his experience were somehow just hard-wired like height or shoe size."


". . . to be just a little less arrogant, to have just a little critical awareness about myself and my certainties."


"Learning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think."


"The point is that petty, frustrating crap like this is exactly where the work of choosing is gonna come in."


"And it's going to seem like, for all the world, that everyone else is just in my way."


". . . everyone in this checkout line is as bored and frustrated as I am and probably have much harder more tedious or painful lives than I do."


"The only thing that is capital-T True is that you get to decide how you're gonna try to see it."

I will never know what motivated Bridgette to create this picture and write those words. The simple phrase did get me thinking. I’m certain most of us have heard the statement that we take things out on those we love. Frustrations mount over the course of a day, a week, a month until they build up and come pouring out when we’ve reached our tipping point. All too often, the negativity, anger, and feelings of hurt are dumped onto the people we cherish most. As a result, intimate moments or large gatherings with those we love are marred by our need to unload pent-up emotions. Events that should be joyous can quickly turn into stressful, awkward, and even unhappy occasions when we direct our frustrations at the ones we hold most dear.

As usual, I speak from experience. When disappointment strikes in my life, I have the power to bring down everyone with me. Too frequently, I do just that to my family. My attitude and how I choose to deal with life’s challenges will dictate my happiness and impact the emotions of those around me. I view Bridgette’s simple phrase as a message. It’s a call to give those we love the best we have to offer every day. To love and be loved are the two greatest gifts I’ve received in this life. So, go find that someone or those someones you love. Give them a big hug, wrap them up, and hold on tight. Give them a big, wide, goofy smile. Do it because they are a gift, and it will make you both happy. “Love Is Fun,” and those are words to live by.

Honduran child migrants leave home because of poverty and violence - The Washington Post
U.S. sends first planeload of moms, children back to Honduras - The Los Angeles Times
In morgue, clues to why people leave violence-plagued Honduras - CNN
The awful reason tens of thousands of children are seeking refuge in the U.S. - Vox Media

I’ve had several people ask me what I think about the recent immigration crisis in the United States.  Since so many of the children fleeing are Hondurans, some believe I have insight into the issue. If you’ve read Paradise in Front of Me or any of the many articles in the media, you have some understanding of what impoverished Hondurans face. Imagine this . . . 

It’s the middle of the night, and we should all be sleeping. Addie, my now 10 year-old daughter, stands facing me. She is holding her 8 year-old sister’s hand, and they are both scared. Cristina, my wife, is seated in a chair behind me, facing the kitchen. She is crying quietly, trying to hide her tears. “They could die,” she whispers. I turn my head away from my daughters, glancing at the back of Cristina’s head. “If they stay here, they will die.” I know the risks. As I look into the eyes of my beautiful children, I understand exactly what they face. My daughters could be robbed, beaten, raped, or killed. I know this, and it tears my soul to shreds at the thought. However, in a land where work is impossible to find and violence reigns, yes, I'm desperate.

I stand up and look at Addie. She’s staring up at me, an orange pack strapped to her back. She’s always been a quick thinker and good athlete. We’ve played soccer, baseball, and tag together since she could walk. She's strong-willed, and I’m confident she can lead her sister. “Stay away from the main roads and follow the river. Remain quiet at all times and listen to your guide,” I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking. Addie nods. Bridgette looks up at her older sister and then turns to me. My youngest daughter is my thoughtful, analytical one. While Addie moved quickly around the house, Bridgette sat quietly with puzzles or drew horses on clear white paper. On walks, Bridgette found the beautiful flower among a patch of weeds or heard the sound of a bird above the other noises. She will compliment Addie well on their journey, and I am thankful they have each other. To be thankful for anything in this moment seems absurd. 

“They’re not even wanted there,” Cristina whispers. “I don’t care,” I say a little too loud. “I’m not going to let the fact that they were born here stop us from saving our children.” I’m growing angry at the unfairness of it all. One person is born on a plot of soil and destined for an early death. Another person is born on a different patch of land and has an opportunity at life. I grab Cristina’s hand and squeeze it. “This is their only chance at a life.” She nods, knowing the truth but not wanting to accept it. 

A tapping on the door breaks the silence. No, not yet. Cristina gasps. She stands and approaches her daughters. She puts her hands to their cheeks. “You’re going to be fine.” she assures them before wrapping her arms around her two young children. “It’s time to go,” I say. A young man is standing at the door. Every penny I ever earned now belongs to this man. The fate of my children is in his hands. I'm praying he can deliver them safely to a cousin who will care for them. I embrace my daughters for what could be the last time. Will I ever see them again? I push these thoughts aside because they do me no good. A parent does whatever he can for his children and hopes everything works out. Cristina and I are no different. 

The guide is growing impatient. “We must go now.” I walk Addie and Bridgette outside as tears stream down their cheeks. They turn to face us, raise their tiny hands, and wave goodbye. I watch them as they walk away, my two daughters, hand in hand. Memories race through my mind. I’ve watched them walk like that so many times before. Only this time, it is likely the last.

Americans love to have an opinion, all too often on issues they know very little about. I don’t pretend to have an answer to the immigration problem. All I know is this: The story I wrote above is fiction. It’s fiction because I live in the United States. The story was hard enough to write, and I cannot fathom actually living it. Honduras is a land filled with beautiful people who want what every human being on this earth wants. They want a chance, an opportunity at life. For many parents, the story above is reality, and that is the tragedy.