The last day we were in Chamelco, we took a truckload of stuff to the dump. (We had borrowed the MCC truck for the purpose of moving.) Along with the pure trash, we had a bunch of worn-out clothing, as well as clothing that was still nice but didn’t fit (or nobody ever wore). We had thought about just dropping off the bags at a used clothing store, but decided on the dump. A little gift for the people there, maybe?

This is the same dump I talked about back in the beginning. The one that’s a little beyond Bezaleel. Despite always wanting to go get close-up photos of the place, I had never taken the time (or found the opportunity) to do so.

This time, my husband pulled into the driveway and drove up into the dump (despite my concern that the trash would puncture the truck’s tires). Some teenage boys were playing soccer with a deflated ball, but as soon as it was clear we were there to make a drop off, they crowded around and started grabbing. My husband yelled at them to wait—we weren’t getting rid of everything back there!—and they did.

Once parked, my husband hopped out and unloaded the bags. A man picked one up and started walking away, but one of the teens ran up behind him, grabbed the side of the bag and, laughing, ripped it wide open. The clothes bulged out like the innards of a wounded animal.

As my husband backed the MCC truck down the driveway, we watched through the dark tinted windows in stunned sadness while the boys tore open the other bags, spilling our clothes across the garbage. One boy scrutinized our shredded hammock. They lifted high a sheet to examine it. Another boy tried on my son’s sneakers.

It’s no joke—people really do live in the dump.

This morning I woke up at four o’clock, tingling with excitement because it was not yesterday anymore.

Bad analogy: yesterday was a beater semi truck and today is a dancing fairy in blue ballet slippers.

Translation: yesterday was rough and tough and today is not.

I hate packing. And being weak and woozy from four days in bed didn’t help matters. Normally, we are helter-skelter and frantic when packing (is anyone not this way? never mind. don’t answer that), but yesterday was off-the-charts bad. We did everything backwards. Like getting rid of the furniture before we packed up the clothes.

My husband had a bizarre method for coping with our crazy. He swept the mess from room to room and then from side to side. For hours. I alternated between 1) pacing, wringing my hands, and whimpering and 2) blaming him for not getting everything done sooner (you know, while I was busy being sick and he was just whiling away the time taking care of the house, four kids, errands, etc.) And then—miraculously—everything was packed!

We’re such a team.

But then came the loading-the-truck part. There was no way, absolutely no way, it would all fit.

I watched my husband jiggle and juggle, push and shove, and then I offered an astute observation.

“Honey, you know that feeling you get when you’re watching a sport team that you really, really love and you can see that there’s no way they can possibly win? That’s how I feel about you packing this truck. I’d rather not watch.”

He got everything in, though (humph), and soon after the sun set, we squished into the truck and bounced down the driveway.

The nighttime ride to the city was mostly uneventful…except for our older daughter getting carsick and puking out the window. Upon finishing retching, she sat back and declared, “Wow! I’ve never thrown up from a moving car before! That was awesome!”

And then, “Um, it’s all over the side of the truck…”

Her sister: “Well, it’s good you didn’t throw up facing forward because it would’ve hit you in the face. I tried to spit forward once and it got all over me.”

Also, at one particularly desolate stretch of road, I inconveniently recalled that sometimes whole buses got pulled over by gangs and we were just a little truck barreling down the road all by our lonesomes. I kept my useless thoughts to myself and no one stuck a gun in our window.

Now we are at the guesthouse in the city, resting, shaking off the dregs of the illness, letting the dust settle, and trying to get our bearings.

Illness struck and all my carefully laid plans flew out the window.

The goal was to close out our time intentionally, carefully. Instead, we’re cramming. There is no method to the madness. It’s simply pack-up-and-get-out mode.

Everyone says it is important to be thorough with goodbyes. They’re awkward and rough, but skipping out on them only makes things worse. But here we are, brushing over them. I’m sick enough that there’s no other option, but not sick enough not to care. This is not how I wanted our term to end.

The Bezaleel teachers planned a going-away lunch for us yesterday afternoon. I thought for sure I’d be better after a weekend of illness. But I wasn’t; I was worse. So my husband and I took a taxi to the school and I walked around saying goodbye while the taxi waited to take me home. I felt awful, turning away from the teary-eyed women and their kettles brimming with food made just for us. They were so disappointed and sad. I wanted to stay, but even more, I wanted to climb into bed and shut my eyes.

Earlier that morning my husband carted several trays of cinnamon rolls to the children’s school. I had made them the day before—Day Two of the illness. (Day Three was the worst.) He took the camera and photographed the children with their friends and teachers. Scrolling through the pictures, I cried. I wanted to be there, too.

We were planning to take this coming weekend to do something special, but now I don’t know. My younger daughter is burning up with fever, and my husband and older son have yet to get it (my, aren’t I optimistic). There are meetings and paperwork and errands and sorting to be done. We haven’t bought a lick of stuff on our Guatemala-stuff-to-take-home list. There’s way too much food in the kitchen that we now have to figure out what to do with. (I was going to cook through a bunch of it over the weekend.) And I need to write a letter to the school and can’t find any unlined paper.

Living in Central America has taught me a lot about flexibility. Perhaps this is just one final lesson?