Good ole days Jake Galante

"I think I'm ready to go home now," I inform my roommate Patrick, yet again, as we mix cement and shovel rocks for hours upon hours under the beating Mexican sun. It is Tuesday of our week-long mission trip to Nuevo Durango, and I already feel tired of moving rocks, eating dry tortillas, and having restless nights of sleep due to my creaky hammock and the unbearable humidity inside the small, windowless den where we stayed. With sweat dripping down my face and stinging my eyes, I continue to contemplate why I decided to come down here to this place. The more I think about it, the more I hate being here. I would much rather be back in Southern Chester County, Pennsylvania watching "The Office" reruns on my iPad. Nevertheless, I clench my shovel harder and continue to mix the cement until it's just right.

"You want to do what?" my father exclaimed, as I sat at my dinner table, unsurprised by his reaction to my proposition. I could tell he liked the idea of me going on the mission trip, but he wasn't too fond of the idea of the thousands of miles I had to travel to get there. I knew it would take months and months of pleading, but I was so determined to go that I never stopped bugging him about it. Finally, in mid-January, right...