hardships and foundations

My family will tell you this: it takes an extraordinarily long chunk of time for me to compose a post. There is much hemming and hawing on my part before I push the post button. There is no such luxury for this team in Spain, so hence very few posts.
BUT
I had my notebook handy during some down-time, and I was able to cobble some thoughts together. I hope they are indicative that my brain has been engaged amidst our Spanish schedule of outreaches and such.

There are varying types of hardship, and a wise man learns to compare them not.
We are in the infant stages of gaining a heart for a country that has known hardship. Seven centuries of Islamic rule, the Spanish Inquisition, and constant political unrest coupled with a bloody civil war have fashioned a proud people who scoff at the constraints of morality. The once-powerful Catholic Church minds its children like an abuela sitting roadside weaving thatch or a retired fisherman ever mending his salt-eroded nets: their children and grandchildren frolic unrestrained while attention is given to the corruptible stuff of life. All around us we see signs that a foundation has crumbled. In the untended yard behind our apartments, feral cats stretch in the morning sun and slink in and out of discarded boxes. After midnight along the boardwalk, young teens rove in groups, scantily clad, searching for the things that young people all over the world do. Their parents would help them find it if they weren´t so broken and disillusioned themselves. Gaudy posters blaze from every light pole enticing the populace to this week´s
religious festival. (This one involves all-night revelry and fires on the beach.) Images of a suffering Jesus hover over every grocery counter as storekeepers peddle their wares under His tortured gaze.
We eat fresh fruit every morning on the balcony which overlooks the bay. From this vista, our eyes sweep past the feral cat colony and onto the beach and fishing port. As the boats come into dock, the workers band together to survey the morning´s catch. A few older men in white shirts stand apart, hands behind their backs, and speak among themselves of better times and bigger fish. This is not the only early morning activity in the port of Estapona. Pastor Dick and I leaned over the metal balcony, coffee in hand, and watched the construction of a large pier. The monstrous metallic wham of dump trucks have been our morning alarm clock.
"This project has been going on for a long time," Dick comments as we scan the piles of dirt and gravel.
"Not much to see for all that effort,"I admit.
This pastor with a big heart rubs his chin thoughtfully. "It takes a long time to build a proper foundation." I assent, because Hubby is a builder and I know this to be true.
"One day, we will gaze from our window and the work will be done," he announces confidently. "Just like the building of the Church in Spain."
The hardship of being awakened by heavy-duty construction equipment has proven to be a reminder of the way God is working in this troubled land. We are privileged to come alongside to throw a few shovelfuls into the mix, and I do not count it a small thing.