Living His Story:

From the first moment I laid eyes on the countries landscape, I was captivated. There was nothing extraordinary about what I was seeing as the plane descended or even when we eventually made our way through customs and out into the open countryside that surrounded the airport. What had captivated my heart is that I knew God had personally invited me here to begin a new chapter in our story, His and mine, and I was anxious to live out whatever He had waiting. It would be here, in a foreign land among people I didn’t know and in a world that I didn’t understand where I would learn at His side and follow in His dusty footsteps.

Presently, my footsteps were entering an old bus that would eventually take us to our lodging. As the wheels moved on and the warm air blew through the open windows, miles of the simple Honduran life and culture filled my senses. 

There is a distinct aroma to this area of Honduras – kind of citrusy mingled with spice. It’s a warm and welcoming kind of scent. I wonder if anyone else notices it but no one has mentioned anything, most of them have been here before so perhaps it isn’t as surprising. I’m glad I didn’t miss it.

The land is wide, expanse and beautiful. I don’t know yet what it is about it but I like it. It’s peaceful, the pace seems slower and there is a simplicity to life. Workers labor in the sugar cane fields with a rhythmic purpose, families gather on worn, wooden porches and animals wander aimlessly among it all. All the while, a sky as blue as it is vast stretches high and clear above so many picturesque images.

I have heard about the impressiveness of the mountains but being here at the base of them, defined so clearly and standing so stately, is far better than any picture can capture or any artist can render. I’m gratefully aware that the Artist of this masterpiece is sitting beside me, quietly drawing my attention to the wonders of His world that He doesn’t want me to miss. I’m so glad that sometimes He writes with words and other times He lets a picture tell the story.

Sprinkled here and there along the miles of banana and coffee plantations are small, simple and rather shabby houses. Made of tin, wood, cardboard and whatever other material that can be found, the homes struggle to stand upright in the dirt and rock that serve as their foundation. Little gardens try their best to poke up around the houses, homemade lawn ornaments ‘decorate’ the walkway while genuine, albeit tired smiles decorate the faces of those who call these dwellings home. It is evident that even in the ram shackled state of their belongings; they strive to take care of what they have the best that they can.

A quiet strength is evident here; from families traveling miles on foot to children precariously carting massive amounts of firewood balanced on bicycles, locals who are baking in the hot sun trying to sell their goods at roadside stands or women rocking babies in their arms and hanging weathered and worn clothes on a makeshift clothesline. These are a hardworking people; easily defying the stereotype of the poverty-stricken that many have toward those less fortunate. I have to wonder what other perspectives this already inspiring chapter of our story will hold this week.

Eventually the landscape becomes dotted with simple cement homes interspersed among the squatter housing. Meager businesses appear along the roadsides while hopeful owners wile away the hours. Another mile or two and we have reached the outskirts of the city and it looks a lot like the ‘slum’ areas in America; dirty and dangerous and shamefully, the areas you try to avoid. We pass a city street where small abandoned-looking buildings are actually more businesses and where chickens are almost as plentiful as people. As we slow down for yet another rough spot in the road, my eyes are filled with the obvious want and poverty that lies right outside the window. I don’t know what to think of it; what is distressing and heart-wrenching to me is commonplace for the people who live here. How does a person living in such condition believe in their worth when everything around them is so disheartening and unfair? How does one write hope and beauty into their lives?

And then as if to put my question to the test, I see him. A middle-aged man lies crumpled on the sidewalk, he is dirty and his clothes are ragged. His head is bent awkwardly on the broken curb and his legs sprawl out in odd angles half on and off the sidewalk toward the road. A shock of unkempt hair shields the far side of his face, yet I can see that his eyes are closed; mouth agape and no visible life seems to be in him. There isn’t any way to tell if he is passed out or if his time has completely expired. I didn’t expect to see anyone in such a dire state, at least not this soon; let alone to know what I was supposed to do now that I had. As the bus slowly groans forward, I watch him as long as I can, looking for any movement or sign of life but there is nothing to indicate he is still of this world. Chickens peck around him and shadows fall over him but there is no one to care or come to his aid, only a passerby or two who avoid him entirely. I wonder if anyone else on our bus has seen him or if they do, are they as affected by his state as I am? It is one of those moments that hang expectantly in time, waiting for a response of some sort but sadly there is none. There is nothing I can do but I can’t shake the thought that I was meant to see him, to be rattled in my security and ache in my soul.

But I have learned that noticing a need and caring momentarily isn’t enough; emotions have a tendency to fade and unpleasant moments are replaced with better ones, false security returns and our worlds are upright once again. So then who remembers? Who moves into action and who is there to make sure these moments won’t occur at all? And if they do, who is there to show that they care in the midst of it? Who will be willing to be written into someone else’s need or pain?

It is so apparent to me that just as God is in the magnificent beauty of this country, He is also among the broken, the dirty and the lost. He looks intently when everyone else looks away, he cradles those in His arms that others quickly bypass and He breathes hope when everyone else has long given up. And He asks each one of us to do the same. Because we are all a part of His story, no matter where we are from, how we came into this world, what language we speak, what choices we have made or the shades of our skin; we are all God’s children created for a purpose. Far too often we mistakenly assume that the story is all about us. It isn’t. We were never meant to be the main character, instead we have been called to be the supporting cast in His life-giving story of redemption and grace so that we would draw others to the God who is.

I wonder about the supporting cast of this man’s life, did they do all they could and he rejected their prompting? Did they neglect him in search of their own path and desires? Or like most of us, did they try to do a little of each and fail at both?

I close my eyes and see the faces of those who have come alongside me offering encouragement and wisdom to point me deeper into His story; there is no doubt that I have been blessed by many.

And then I see the ones who God has placed along my path that I might support and point them toward the Author of their life. While some faces are clear and evident, other images remain at a distance, almost beckoning me to recognize them. Everyone needs to know that their worth simply lies in the heart of a Father who loved them into existence. Everyone needs hope.

In my heart I feel a stirring, is this part of why I’m here, God? Is this only the beginning of our story, will I find an answer to my place among the pages that are yet to be written?

I look around and see of all things, that we are pulling into a Wendy’s fast food for lunch. While I was lost in my thoughts, the city has transformed into a busy and lively burst of color and humanity. Manicured businesses and sidewalks, pretty park areas and well-dressed people pervade our surroundings. If not for the advertisements written in Spanish and the plethora of beautifully darkened skin tones, I could easily believe I was in Any City, America.

And then it hits me, there lies the real challenge and the opportunity if I chose to seize it; to be willing to be written into in every moment: not just the thrilling epic adventures but also the sad tales of want and loss. To admit that sometimes I’m the one in need and let others come to my aid or when it’s someone else, anyone else that I’ll obediently follow where He leads. Am I willing to be written in no matter where He takes me, who He puts in my path and in whatever condition He decides to call me into? He chooses the setting, the characters and the storyline, it isn’t for me to question but to relinquish the pen and trust the Author who lovingly wrote me there.

I know He wrote me onto the bus today so I would see and be moved by the plight of one His children even though I wasn’t able to physically do anything. Just as I know that He will write me into another moment, another experience and another opportunity asking me to follow and love others to Him. I pray that I not only recognize those opportunities but that I move to make a difference when I do. Equally as much, I pray for humbleness to be broken and taught by others as they allow me to enter a part of their story.

As we traveled deeper into Honduras via back roads and seemingly forgotten towns, I considered what might lie ahead; I had no way of knowing that His story would take me to the most wonderfully unexpected heights of humanity where my own need would be revealed.