A Place of Earning, Learning, and Yearning.

      High in the mountains of Guatemala, on the road less traveled, is the village of Liquidambo.  Upon cresting the last hill, right as the sun breaks the horizon; the name finally has an image in my mind.  The village itself is hugged tightly by several small mountains, as if they were the chosen protectors.  The central location is marked by the aged schoolhouse, nothing more than a two room, concrete building, always in need of constant care.  The community is actually spread out over several mountain miles, but traveling is done by foot for all.

     My senses are stunned.  The mountains seem uncountable, rising higher as my eyes look farther into the distance.  Within my view are the mountains of Honduras, where I know with certainty someone is looking back in my direction with the same appreciation.  I try to capture all of this in a frame, while Guatemalans laugh at me, no doubt wondering what was so special about the land.  One mountain is barren of green, lacking any trees for color and instead looking like copper for all of its burned shrubbery and dirt; while another has abundant forest green from the mixture of trees growing on its slopes.  Because of so many differences, each mountain surrounding my area is unique enough to name.  This moun-tain is the Mountain of Hope, where the missionaries stay.  That mountain is the Mountain of the Three Trees, for three large trees sit upon its peak.  I want to go there, to experience that mountain, but my eyes deceive me into thinking it is close by.  Some day I will go there, but not this time. 

     More humbling for myself is the daily life of the natives I came to help.  Mothers, sometimes with children, sometimes pregnant, sometimes ill, will walk two to three miles up and down a mountain for a pot full of water.  They walk far for what I cannot even taste for fear of sickness.  One family prepares a huge dinner for me, so I could be honored and they could be blessed.  For such a meal, hours are used up in preparation and graciously giving what few chickens they have for a meal.  It is cooked in a pot over an open fire, smoke flooding out of the roof.  A hut, no larger that a standard living room, shelters seven people.  Inside, I find it hard to imagine where they would sleep.  The floor is dirt, the bed is sticks, the support beams used like closets.  It is a place where two sets of clothing is fortunate, cold nights puncture deep wounds in the soul, and prayers are for the chickens and the crops.  All of this is just the cover on the book.

     The children communicate the real story, which is never communicated by words, yet a story that changes all who hear.  When a child--dust-caked and filthy to an observer-- cries, the hopelessness and pain and suffering enter his cries from those who need to appear strong for him.  And for the first time, I feel a portion of what God feels for each one of them, the pain of seeing a child feel hopeless and distraught.  The most gut wrenching is they have very little, they are in great need, and they don't have God the way I do.

     But when a child laughs, a whole new story takes shape in my mind.  They become the sun, peeking through on a rainy day.  Their energy and enthusiasm for life makes me jealous of how much they enjoy the little they have.  For them, the silly gringos (missionaries) are great entertainment, and they would sit all day watching with great wonder what I am saying, and why I am tired from working on cement.  More importantly, hope returns when I thought it lost at chapel during the evening, when the children sing the simple songs, they laugh at the skits, and they intently listen to what the missionaries have to say.  The sorrow is overpowered by joy, the despair by the hope the messengers teach.