A Mountain Walk

Below is an article for Friday, June 17th's Northeast GA newspaper. It describes an event during our Nicaragua Mission Trip last week. I've added a few pictures for the blog post.

I stood by the bus stop filled with curious people watching me trying to decide. Large trucks carrying coffee supplies and cattle over the mountains blew past me making it hard to concentrate. “Should I go,” I pondered? “Yes,” I determined, “don’t turn down an experience.”

I turned away from the small, Nicaraguan mountain village divided by a new government road and began walking. I caught up with the rest of our small group of adults and teenagers from

America and Nicaragua as they turned off the road and up the mountain. Like walking up a muddy, steep, river bed, we climbed the rocky path straight up. We passed Nica cowboys on horseback and curious, young boys coming down the mountain path as we carefully placed each foot above the next.

The home reminded me of the homesteads I’ve seen in Cades Cove: A short wall made of small rocks beside the path; chickens pecking around the swept yard of hard mud outside; a stack of fat lighter beside the door; a parrot sitting in the tree over the house; a dog and her litter hiding beside the door. The house consisted of harden mud for cement and sticks for rebar. Old, corrugated tin covered the roof while medal gutters captured rain water in buckets for daily use.

The matron of the house greeted us with a warm smile at the door, welcoming us inside. We had come to visit her two, disabled adult children. Leaning on a wooden table for support, her son stood beside the door just inside the darkened house. He could not speak, but smiled broadly at us as we hugged and mugged for pictures. Our host directed us to visit with her 37-year-old crippled daughter who sat in the sleeping area separated by a cloth partition from the rest of the small house. Completely dependent on her mother, the woman lifted her frail hand with grace, blessing us in silence.

After a time of visiting, I asked our Nicaraguan friend who had invited us on this visit to lead us in prayer. We gathered in a circle on the hard, swept mud floor, held hands across cultures and began to pray. As she began, “Padre Nuestro …” my eyes came up for a moment. Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of God. Through the tiny pin holes of the tin roof and the holes in the rafters, rays of sunlight poured into this dark, smoky house. Like beams of God’s love the sun rays filled the space and those gathered in prayer. A simple house on a mountainside became holy ground. As I bowed my head again, I understood the urging of Moses to remove his shoes as he approached the burning bush.

Our team traveled to the mountains of Nicaragua to give and serve. Often during the week, I found myself as our bus passed the small villages with their muddy streets and shoeless children feeling sorry for their poverty and guilty for my abundant wealth. In that small, cramped, mud and stick home God opened my eyes. We each had something to give each other. I didn’t bring God or “my” gospel here. Instead, the presence of God waited on me to arrive and showed me the strength and the gifts of the people in this community. To bless and be blessed are simply two sides of the same coin. Thanks be to God!