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Personal Narrative : My Experience In My Life

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Sitting down on the porch with my Honduran coffee in hand, waves of nostalgia washed over me. Staring into my coffee, flashbacks ran through my head. The old, yellow school bus rocked back and forth over the worn, dirt path on its way to the orphanage that would be my home for the next week. The scolding Central American sun beat down on the bus as I began to question why I chose to spend my service requirement here. I tried to imagine the following week which would be internet-less, family-less, and aircondition-less. After a two-hour bus ride, my team of 20 people and I arrived at Orphanage Emmanuel. Orientation and assignments filled the following hours until we all climbed onto our plastic mattresses and attempted to get some sleep. Beep, beep, beep. The alarm clock rang in the background as I groggily woke up. It was one of many mornings that I would be getting up at 4:30 am. After getting dressed and brushing my teeth, with coffee in hand, I made my way to the Power Toddler area, the sector where the three to six-year-old boys lived. Having my feet in their play area for no more than a few seconds, I was greeted with over a dozen small hands grabbing onto me and hugging me. Feelings of confusion and happiness overwhelmed me as I tried to take in the situation. Over the next few hours, I helped the house parents clothe, feed, prepare for school, and play with the boys. With each morning, I began to grow close to them. Instead of dreading the 4:30 alarm, I started to

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