Four tables are set up in a rectangular pattern in the Common Room of the Rock Port United Methodist Church. The end of each table connects with the end of another table- all are united in a common purpose (to provide us with adequate work space, which will result in the organization of a mission trip). Each table top is an off-white and dark gray-specked plastic. The white and grey contrast drastically, yet the two colors work together. In the union, results a pattern and companionship. It is a Sunday afternoon in mid-September. The sun is not shining as brightly, yet the world still seems colorful and full of light. Warmth permeates through the big windows and my skin tingles. I am wearing a black cut-off t-shirt, which had already aroused playful teasing from my best friend’s mother, Susan. Her chiding is maternal, and I embrace it. Becky Heits, the leader of the Rock Port United Methodist Youth Group, stands up and begins to talk about our Mission Trip to Jamaica. I’m enthusiastic about the trip. I love to travel, but I’ve never ventured outside of the United States. Hearing about the Jamaican citizens and their culture intoxicates me; I crave more knowledge, personal experience. I’m sick of living vicariously through the testimonies of previous youth members that have already experienced Jamaica; I want to be there. I want to work hard and make an improvement in the world. The sign-up sheet is sent around; with no hesitation, I put my name on the line in neat, precise calligraphy: Abbey Lawrence.
The trip is the most worthwhile experience of my short, young life. My heart is full of love and compassion. I feel like my heart is overflowing with happiness. Although the Jamaican educational system is not top-notch, I learned more in Falmouth, Jamaica, than I could have learned in an American classroom. No, I was never a person that consistently worried about the material, physical objects in life, but Jamaica humbled me further. Suddenly, I was more appreciative of my family, my home, my community, etc. The people from Jamaica place value on relationships with other people, rather than on who has the most money or biggest home.
We go to the orphanage one day. I see the one of the most beautiful baby girls I have ever laid eyes on. I pick her up from the pack-and-play; I can’t resist babies. We sit in the rocking chair. She has a milky-chocolate complexion; her skin is smooth, no imperfections. Her head is a mop of curly black hair. A bead of sweat is forming on her hairline; the curls are matting together. Her eyes are endless dark brown tunnels of innocence and sweetness. My eyes sting with tears as I look down at her and see her left, pudgy arm in a home-made sling. I ask one of the intimidating nurses why she is here and what her name is. The nurse responds, “Her mudda’ was addicted to drugs. Pulled on da’ liddle’ thing’s arm. Didn’t give her no name. Da offica’ that found her named her Lisa.” The baby is only two-weeks old.
I cuddle the baby the whole day, not wanting to give away my little treasure. Lisa hiccups lightly; I laugh joyfully at her tiny noise. I sing (not well) to her, and she watches me with those big eyes. If anything has scarred her, it will be my inability to carry a tune. I delicately stroke her entire face with my right index finger. Even though others were nervous, I kissed her little forehead. Her skin was soft and sweet. For one day, little Lisa got a person’s undivided attention, and I got to love on an infant.
Every night, I count my blessings and thank God for the people I met in Jamaica. Their selflessness and inherent friendliness in the face of adversity is commendable. Not once was I homesick in Jamaica. It is my second home; my brothers and sisters live there, and one day I will see them all again.
-Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J
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