Chapter 17
On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Camila and I work in the village preschool funded by Abba Project.
With dots all over the map, the international nonprofit organization, I’ve learned quickly, owns houses like ours in thirty countries.
Short-term residents live in the homes—anywhere from a few weeks to multiple years—working in the local community.
Teachers, doctors, nurses, construction laborers, environmental workers, you name it.
And then, there are the general volunteers, like me, open to any role that needs filling. Lucky for me, I get to work with the kids. And with my precious friend for whom time is ticking.
From the moment I walk into the thatched-roof single-room hut of the preschool on Monday morning, affection washes over me.
Unlike the homes we walked by on the dirt road here—many of them cardboard, roofless—the preschool is brand-new, top-notch, built by Abba’s team.
Bright colors and gleaming finishes. It’s not an exaggeration to say it feels almost enchanting, here in the jungle, but this impression tangles with something weightier.
And when the kids arrive?
I’m a goner, and even more conflicted.
They’re a tidal wave of joy through the raw-wood barn doors, smashing into me.
“Sutton, Sutton, Sutton, Sutton, Sutton!” Tiny hands grasp for any and everything, voices rising in a concert of chatter.
It’s as if the ground beneath them pounds with promise and possibility—but still, the scene wrings my chest. We want them to have this, of course, but also: How can something so perfect stand amid such poverty?
The preschool is beautiful, yes, but can beauty bring true restoration, or does it simply distract from more serious problems?
I can’t help but wonder if we’re doing enough, or if we’re doing the right work. Could there be more?
I’m pummeled out of my thoughts and into a seat at one of two picnic tables, which we’ve already primed and readied with their morning crafts.
One girl, adorably gap-toothed, perches next to me and starts weaving my hair into two tight French braids. “?Qué guapa! ?Qué guapa!”
A boy with wide eyes and no shirt claps in front of me, singing, “Yo tengo gozo, gozo, gozo, gozo, en mi corazón!”
And the quiet girl in the tattered pink dress.
She takes my other side, snuggling into me. Ester, Camila mouths. Ester doesn’t say a word—ever, I learn. But she shadows me like a hungry toddler in need of, well, everything. Mostly, I realize, a mother.
I stroke her hair, emotion thick in my throat, missing my girls. Maybe this is enough, for today. Maybe beauty is always better than brokenness, as long as it’s offered with the genuine desire to heal and redeem. I tell her how much she is loved. I tell her that Ester means star.
Estrella. Estrella!
Pulling her onto my lap, I watch the way Camila commands the classroom and know it’s something I’ll take to every one of my graves.
There’s Camila on the dance floor, Camila around a table, all Camilas bold, forthright, and passionate—but then there is Camila the teacher.
Regret balls in my throat that I’ve never seen her in action before.
Wild hair flowing, open arms animating, angel’s voice singing.
All of it saying, You’re loved, kids. God loves you. Us too!
Son amados, ninos. Dios los ama. ?Nosotros también!
By the end of the week, I’m in a rhythm.
Daily walks. Endless talks with Camila. Beans and rice, made to order, oozing with flavor and spice—beans and rice didn’t miss her here, but I will sure miss Raquel’s cooking when I leave this place.
Camila’s too. Nacatamales, tajadas, quesillo.
She’s flourishing into her womanhood here, into her heritage—it’s a joy and privilege to watch.
I have more hammock sessions both with The Alchemist and with Charlie.
We connect, and we cuddle, as I search his eyes and his soul for something to keep me here.
Our attraction is clear; our conversations, sweet.
We share stories, observations, chips and salsa.
Gin rummy games through the long lazy afternoons.
I like Charlie—a lot, I realize—but I still can’t seem to shake my surety that our romance is temporary, and so I hold back.
It’s not just Nicaragua, or the fact that I can’t picture myself, in any life, making a permanent home here, while Charlie might want to stay forever.
It’s that Charlie, for all his quiet strength, feels like a knob that’s too hard to turn.
I can pry the door open, but it’s a job.
With Reid, everything was open, immediate.
Maybe I’m missing that ease from our earliest days. Maybe I can’t let it go.
It’s also clear to me that Charlie is not ready for another relationship, and I get it. We settle into a gentle rhythm and mutual understanding, enjoying each other’s company with respect. We’re a stop on each other’s journey. A reminder that affection is real and healing is possible.
That each of us?
We’ll be okay.
He tells me he wants to have kids like he feels he needs oxygen, that it was a contentious part of his marriage because his wife didn’t want children.
I tell him he’ll be a great father, that he’ll make another woman so unbelievably happy one day, that none of his pain will ever be wasted.
I mean every word. I hope my encouragement matters to him, that it sticks.
After Friday’s preschool story time—Joseph and the multicolored coat, delivered by Camila in Spanish, with flannelgraphs—I sit at the table, coloring rainbow coats with the kids. We’ll glue the paper garments to Joseph Popsicle sticks.
Joseph, the favorite child.
I buckle under a pang of remembrance, an allegation from Max recently.
“Maisy’s your favorite child,” he noted, when I didn’t know he’d been watching me smother her in a hug in the kitchen, asking if she wanted to watch a movie with me that night.
Startled, I looked at him. “She is not. I don’t have favorites.”
“Yes, you do. It’s so obvious.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, fist on my hip.
“She never gets in trouble.” He popped a pistachio into his mouth. “And you never say she’s mean.”
Well, she’s not.
She’s kind to me, Max.
Not so darn difficult.
“I’m . . . sorry,” I said. “I love all three of you exactly the same. I love you so much, Max.” I heaved a breath, then smiled, inspired. “Hey, do you want to watch a movie with me tonight?”
“Not a chance.” He whirled and walked away.
“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always.”
Even when you walk away from me, little punk.
Now at my side, once again, is Ester, the lovable girl with zero trace of a voice.
I’ve grown accustomed to her, my koala bear.
She never wears anything but the same torn pink dress.
She never stops clinging to me, and I welcome it, even though every embrace breaks my heart.
Who is her mother? Who is her father? What is this sweet child lacking, besides the obvious?
I give her everything I can while I’m here, praying my affection might last beyond this stop on my journey.
As we finish coloring the stripes of our coat together—looking quite fabulous, truly—I hear her whisper something.
I look up, heart rising, into her hooded eyes.
“?Dijiste algo?” I ask.
Did you say something?
Silence.
Nada.
I shrug, returning my focus to my red crayon.
Thinking of Max.
Praying he feels my love somewhere out there.
Praying he loves me, too.
Ester says it again, barely audible, but I don’t miss it this time.
“Te amo, Sutton.”
Where church was lacking in my life in LA, it flourishes here, I learn.
On Sundays we pack into the van like Fig Newtons, everyone from the house and Abba Project, to bump along the earthy road to a field.
Over the grass patch stretches a giant white tent.
Underneath, dozens of folding chairs line the space, shaded from early sun, filling up quickly with local villagers, some tourists, and nonprofit volunteers like us.
I’m wearing one of my sundresses, solid yellow, with sandals. I lean over to Camila. “It’s packed.”
Her lips curl. “Always.”
“How long has it been here? The church?”
“Only six months,” she says. “But it’s growing fast. Everyone loves the pastor. Over there. Mateo.”
She nods to a man at the front of the tent.
He’s young. Thirty-five, I’d guess, in a white collared shirt.
Handsome with a healthy mustache, tan shorts, and brilliant smile, people lined up to see him.
He’s shaking each hand with both of his, giving every person the warmth of his glow, his undivided attention.
I like him already.
Charlie leads us to the second row, which feels like our regular spot.
Taking my seat, I let my eyes travel the area. No big screens, no fog machines, no worship band, no speakers. Instead, a wooden stool and a guitar on the ground. That’s it.
I think of church back home—which I love for what it is.
But every week it delivers a Grammy-worthy worship concert performance, displayed on various extra large theater screens, projected to different parts of the sprawling campus on more screens still.
The sermon is always excellent, well researched, thought-provoking, booming with power from the microphone.
Every service engulfs the senses. You cannot help but feel the experience—mind, body, and spirit.
I realize that here, though, I feel it too.
When the congregation sits, Mateo takes a seat on the stool and grabs the guitar. He is evidently a one-man show. He starts picking the strings—humming, then singing—and I don’t recognize the songs. There are no hymns being played. But what I do recognize is the reverence, peace, and harmony.
And it’s breathtaking.
Before I know it, I’m closing my eyes, so thankful to be back in this place. So glad church has called me home again, in this world.