Jeff Adams

Have you noticed how good we are at totally blowing by the meaning of holidays? We just went through Christmas when so many worry about forgetting the meaning of Christmas. Others grouse that we no longer give thanks at Thanksgiving. Is the Fourth of July for celebrating our independence or is it about BBQ and fireworks? Get the idea?

So, here we are on Martin Luther King Day. How should we celebrate? I suppose we could have some sort of special service or commemoration. That would be nice, and many do so.

Since it’s late and I’m loose, I’ll risk telling you what I really think. It seems to me that a lot of the special services are about black churches and white churches having a celebration together and acting like everything is solved thanks to Dr King. We exchange special music, read quotations or watch a video clip of Dr. King and play like we all adored him all along.

I don’t know about you, but I’m old enough to remember being a white child in the South and hearing grownups talk about MLK being a “card-carrying communist” and wanting to make Americans a “mongrel race.” I never really figured out why a communist would want to carry a card, and the repulsion to intermarriage just sort of slipped over my little head. I just knew the adults who were taking were not speaking kindly. Since then, I have learned enough about human nature to imagine that those same types of attitudes are still alive and well in many places, including some churches and/or church people.

Since I didn’t grow up African-American, I can’t answer to what attitudes and comments were being made (or still being made) in that community. You’ll have to fill in those blanks for me. I’ve been alive long enough to know that some progress has been made toward racial equality in our nation, but the same experience constantly reminds me that we still fall short of the ultimate goal.

Here’s what I struggle with. After the celebration everyone goes back to the way it was, only we feel a bit more proud of ourselves because we played for a day that everything is OK. It’s not. Our society is still ill with horrible prejudice, stereotypes, discrimination, bigotry, hatred and bitterness. And, it goes way beyond black and white.

The root is definitely racial – the human race. We are sinners. Pure and simple, we are sinners.

Again, it seems to me that this is where the church is supposed to come in. What are we missing here? Why is it that after the celebration, we all go back to our black and white churches and have not much more contact for the next year?  That just seems to me to be smashing the dream and not working to realize it.

People often ask me how we managed to have a multi-ethnic church. The truth is we did nothing to have a multi-ethnic church, except welcome and embrace it when God dropped it in our black, white, brown, yellow and red laps. I don’t even believe it is realistic to think that every church could or even should be multi-ethnic. If the neighborhood is 99% one thing or another, then the church in that neighborhood will probably reflect that same demographic in most cases. I really don’t think we would have more success trying to forcibly change the demographics of churches than we have had overall with schools.

So, maybe it’s the heart attitudes we should work on instead of the demographics. I know a great Book that deals with these issues pretty well. You really should study it sometime.

I think that every so often God just raises up churches like ours as a model to which others can aspire. Has it been easy? Nope! Has it been worth it? Yep!

This brings me back to MLK Day. This year we decided to honor Dr. King by encouraging our people to serve. We played a clip of Dr. King preaching on the subject of serving. We sent folks to work at the City Union Mission, at its warehouse for thrift stores, at the Jewish Vocational Center and at the Salvation Army’s Three Trails conference center. Also, we delivered culturally-sensitive food baskets to a bunch of recent immigrants to our city. Pastor Jay and I began the day by scrubbing down the exercise room at the mission. Then we went around and visited each team on site. It was a good day and I am thankful for everyone who participated.

You can see the danger, can’t you? I just said it talking about the special services and celebrations. So, we go out and spend the day volunteering to serve in honor of Dr. King. Then tomorrow we go back to our normal self-focused lives, only just a bit prouder of ourselves because we spent a few brief hours serving.

Don’t take me wrong. It’s great to have a special service, and it’s equally great to go out and serve in the community. But, our main objective and prayer should not be simply to serve, but to trust God to make us serving people – every day and with every person. In our Why Church series last Fall we talked about six marks of a disciple of Jesus Christ. One is that they were always serving. They were  always serving because their faith was transforming them into serving people.

As an adult listening to the preaching and speaking of Dr. King, I am amazed at his skill and gifts. I am truly moved by his courage and leadership. There is no question that God used him in mighty ways. I wonder what it would have been like to have heard him preach live as an adult believer.

I’m pretty sure that Martin Luther King was never a “card carrying communist,” but I do know that he had his share of human flaws. We all do. Thomas Jefferson, George Washington and Abraham Lincoln had their own quota of human flaws, fully-known and often ignored. God used them all. But Presidents Day and Martin Luther King days are not times to focus on flaws. They are occasions to remember lessons learned from men who were thrust onto the center stage of history and gave the best performances of their lives, from which we have all benefited.

I’m just sharing from my heart here and don’t mean to offend anyone or judge anyone’s efforts to follow Dr. King’s dream. One of the ways we can celebrate Dr. King’s life and legacy is simply to keep the dream alive and live each day as a servant of God, allowing him to use us in any way to be transformers of lives and society – beginning with ourselves. I bought into the dream and hope you do too.

If you’d like to hear the original 17-minute speech delivered by Dr. King, you can find it here. Not that much time right now? Here’s a brief excerpt.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.” I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slaveowners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood. I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice. I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today.

Just got back from the latest symphony concert. Any casual reader of this blog knows that I am hopelessly music-dependent. I can get into just about all forms of music, but we have been season subscribers to the Kansas City Symphony for many years. Tonight, guest conductor Jeffrey Kahane directed the orchestra from the piano as he performed Mozart’s Piano Concerto No 25 in C Major. After intermission, he and the orchestra tackled the formidable Rachmaninoff syphony No 2 in E Minor.

Sergei Rachmaninoff 1873 -1943

You may not care a lick about classical music, but you have undoubtedly heard the music of Rachmaninoff and been stirred, even if you had no idea who wrote or performed the music. I promise you that is true. I was certainly stirred tonight along with many others in Helzberg Hall at the Kaufman Center.

Here’s a quote that got me thinking. When asked about the nature of music, Rachmaninoff answered, “What is music? How does one define it? Music is a clam moonlit night, a rustling of summer foliage. Music is the distant peal of bells at eventide Music is born only of the heart and it appeals to the heart. It is love. The sister of music is poetry and the mother – sorrow!”

Sergei Rachmaninoff was no stranger to sorrow. Born into the Russian aristocracy, the Rachmaninoff resources were confiscated in the Russian Revolution in 1917. Rachmaninoff sought refuge in the United States but never overcame his deep homesickness for his native Russia. Anyone who has ever been homesick will immediately be drawn into the ethos of Rachmaninoff’s music. Though a musical genius, Rachmaninoff’s first symphony bombed. He waited years before attempting the second, and even then it pained him.

Other composers also found indescribable beauty in sorrow. Beethoven even grew angry and bitter as his deafness grew complete. Yet some of Beethoven’s most magnificent work flowed from the pain of his deafness.

Country may be your thing, but everyone has heard the jokes about country music being about losing your pickup or hound dog. Seriously, you don’t have to even think about it much to realize that history is replete with beauty arising from pain and sorrow.

Job is chronologically the oldest book in the Bible. Looking into Job’s pain, young Elihu did not have the maturity to see all that needed to be seen, but he did have a grip on a true principle. There was nothing untrue about what he said to Job and his three friends except that he was clueless how to apply it.

In Job 35:10 Elihu was upset that none of the older men were throwing themselves down before God in their pain. He said, But none saith, Where is God my maker, who giveth songs in the night.

Yes, God gives songs in the night. Elihu may not have comprehended the depth of that statement, but it is confirmed elsewhere in scripture.

Psalm 42:8 proclaims,   Yet the LORD will command his lovingkindness in the daytime, and in the night his song shall be with me, and my prayer unto the God of my life.

The psalmist Asaph said in Psalm 77:6,  I call to remembrance my song in the night: I commune with mine own heart: and my spirit made diligent search.

This same thread snakes its way through the Bible, but these few examples give the idea. Sorrow is capable of giving birth to wonder and beauty.

Recently in our Why Church series, we constantly remarked about six characteristics of disciples in the Book of Acts. One of them was suffering. Do you remember the other five? Suffering is used of God in our lives.

Why do we struggle to see this wonderful truth? Could it be that we are quicker to be whiners than worshipers?

Let’s see … where were we? … oh yes! I was being a bit nostalgic and telling you how my 48 hours in Honduras last week caused me to remember things that happened long ago. My young driver Dennis and I were sharing stories and I was just about to tell “the bus story.” If you didn’t see my last post, begin here.  I was telling Dennis that this was not my first trip over this particular mountainous route through Honduras.

It was in late Fall of 1974 as Cheryl and I load up our VW bus along with our two little girls (one was 5-weeks-old and the other had just turned 3) and all our worldly belongings. We jump on I-35 and head south. Way south! We will drive straight through to San Jose, Costa Rica, our home for the next year.

The only things we owned in addition to what was in our VW were Cheryl’s china and my books. That’s about it. We knew that we would only be a year in Costa Rica, so the plan was to send the books and china to meet us one day in Managua, Nicaragua where we thought we would be for a good long while. Before we left, we had packed everything into two 55-galon metal drums.

At the risk of sounding like one of those “walking to school uphill both ways in two feet of snow with cardboard in my shoes” stories, things were quite different in Central America in those days. There was no Internet, no SKYPE, no computers and few even had telephones. To call home we had to spend a few hours at a post office filling out forms, paying money and standing in line to use one of a couple of phones that you had to run with a crank handle and shout into them hoping to be heard about the static. It was hard to communicate. Letters often took up to two months to arrive, if they did.

The mission that we were affiliated with at that time was sending a used school bus to a single lady in Managua who ran a Christian school. We asked if we could have our two 55-gallon drums loaded on to the bus to be shipped down along with some of her things and some donated medical supplies. No problem!

We wait for weeks to hear word that the bus has been shipped from Florida to Puerto Cortés, Honduras, the nearest port accessible to us, even though it’s about a 500 mile trip. A friend and I will go and drive the bus back along with the precious cargo aboard.

Our first trip was a false alarm. My friend had contacted the port and thought they said the bus had arrived. Puerto Cortés had just been hit with a moderate earthquake and some lines were down, so the normal bad communication was now fully terrible, terrible enough that we got the wrong message. This was the reason for the motorcycle trip I mentioned in the last post.

Several weeks later we confirm and then reconfirm again that the bus is on the lot in the port. We head out to Honduras in my friend’s pickup. Arriving late one evening, we get a couple of hours of sleep in some fleabag hotel thinking to be at the port the first thing in the morning.

The bright light of the tropical morning illuminates the most coyote-ugly bus on Planet Earth. It just squats there on the lot like a mangy, sway-back horse with no more happy trails left in it. Had it been a horse, clearly the Christian thing to have done would have been to put it out of its misery. Various windows are broken; the entire outside of the bus is a single bruise of dents, gashes, cuts and shades of body paint and rust donated from crashes and years of history. A couple of the tires are flat giving the bus the distinctive look that it would fall over at any moment.

Speechless, mouth open, a little faint, I stand thinking there must be some mistake. Unfortunately, this is the only bus on a wide open lot. The numbers match. We have already processed the paper work. There is no doubt. This is OUR ugly bus. I wondered if it is possible to laugh hilariously, weep and vomit simultaneously.

Our dilemma – paperwork was processed and a soldier assigned to our bus. Since the bus was shipped to Nicaragua as the final destination and not Honduras, the bus has to go directly to Nicaragua without passing go or collecting $200. The guard is to ensure that we do not sell or leave anything loaded on the bus and that everything makes it to the other side.

Two young men look at each other in disbelief with a good deal of fear mixed in. What the heck do we do now?

You might have guessed that when we go to start the engine, it didn’t. Of course! We have a pair of pliers that we use to rip loose a few strategic wires to jump a circuit to get it cranked. We learn that if we do it just right, we will not normally get shocked – much.

Slowly, with tires flapping thump, thump, thump, we limp out the customs gates and cross the street to a convenient filling station to patch the tires. We spend a bit of time running to other places trying to locate inner tubes and other spare parts that, of course, the shop does not have on hand.

Finally, we are ready to rock and roll. My friend follows behind in the pickup as I gently coach and plead with the bus to get make its way toward the interior. Something doesn’t feel right, though. A lot of something’s don’t feel right, but what are you going to do? The dude with the big gun is standing beside me to keep me on course.

The rear of the bus is doing the salsa, pulsing back and forth from the hips. My friend motions for me to pull over. That’s when I discover that in addition to everything else, there are … no brakes. Stopped at last on the side of the road, my friend shares his observation that as I tried to keep the front part of the bus heading straight down the road, the bus’ butt was sliding about 20 degrees in a different direction – a sure sign the bus has been in a pretty good wreck resulting in a bent frame. This will not be easy to fix with our pair of pliers. Not only that, one of the rear dual tire sets is visibly jumping all over the road in every direction.

All of this, of course, puts a certain pressure on the rear tires that we figure couldn’t be too good over a long period of time.  But, there’s this soldier with the gun again, and at this time in my life my Spanish is limited to a few standard phrases accompanied by a smile. That usually works well to order food in a restaurant, but not to discuss internal combustion engines, international customs requirements and the like.

What to do? We decide to move forward – slowly, real slowly. So we do, for about 10 kilometers until another stinking tire blew. At this point we don’t know what to do except to leave the bus on the roadside, remove the offending tire and head back to town to get it fixed. The guard agrees to stay with the bus and off we go.

We find a tire shop, readily identified by mounds of bald tires all around a filthy shack inhabited by dirty, burly guys swinging ball-peen hammers at tires on rims. After repeated attempts to get a bald tire to fit on the rim that we discover the rim itself is bent.

Later, we learn that a team of laymen from a church in northern Florida had volunteered to drive this beast of a bus to the port in Miami for shipment and had a little wreck along the way, rolling the bus in a ditch. Normal people might think to do something like call an insurance agent, have it fixed, or even discuss it with a responsible adult. Unfortunately, many churches have a shortage of normal people.

Instead they simply pulled the bus out of the ditch, sat it upright and kept on going to port. Shouldn’t be a problem! After all, this bus is going to missionaries. Missionaries like crappy stuff! They specialize in junk. They can do wonders with it.

Keep in mind this is the period of history in America when some people collected used tea bags for missionaries. No, they really did. We actually got some in the mail. Stood in line at the post office to get the package, paid cash money to get it out of customs and took it home. To our delight, and the delight of our kids, we learned that a church somewhere loved Jesus enough to sacrificially set aside their tea bags after getting as much use out of them as they could. Then, they brought them to church where teams of ladies collected them, sorted them, put them in packages and sent them to the poor missionaries who surely would love to get a taste of home.

I digress. Back in Honduras with our magic missionary bus, we now know we are dealing with a bent rim. After multiple attempts with multiple ball-peen hammers, our bent rim will be straight no more. It will go to the grave irredeemable, apostate and twisted. What will be our next move? Did you really think our tire shop has a rim just that size? Puh-leeeeeese!

We hear of a missionary who lives in that city. Maybe he can tell us where we can find a rim for a bus wheel. Maybe he will offer to let us spend the night, or loan us a bit of money because by now we were running out. ATM’s had not yet been invented. I’m dead serious. How can we buy a rim even if we find one?

After a bit of questioning, we finally find the missionary’s house, knock on the door and are almost giggling thinking to speak with him in English. Surely he will be a great resource.

The door opens, slowly, cautiously and about halfway. We quickly introduce ourselves, list mutual friends and contacts, explain our situation and put ourselves at his mercy. Within 45 seconds the door is – shut. He basically told us to go and butt a stump (old missionary expression). He wasn’t much help, but we are learning a great deal of reality about ministry and the love and unity of the Body of Christ!

It’s far too long to give you all the gory details, dear reader, but suffice it to say that several more hours of desperation bring us a perfectly good used rim through miraculous provision. Soon we are back at the bus ready to mount the wheel.

By this time the light is beginning to fade. Long ago we passed the point of no return when we drove out of the customs lot. So, we devise the best plan we can. We will drive forward again toward the border. The soldier in open rebellion against the laws of the sovereign Republic of Honduras steadfastly refuses to ride in the bus with me. He says that would be far too dangerous. He will ride in the pickup and follow behind. He is a very wise man.

As long as we can get it started with the pliers, we will keep going. Ahead of us lay several hundred miles of the wildest mountain roads on earth. I still have no brakes, but I will try to keep control by braking with the engine compression. The door will remain open so that in the last resort, I can throw myself out, hopefully before the bus careens over some mountainous cliff. This should be good. It’s great to be young and immortal – and just a bit stupid.

From that point on we begin to climb into the mountains. The night is pitch black, no moon, and I am exhausted, having had only a couple of hours sleep in the past 24. Somehow by the grace of God we survive. To this day it all seems like a blur.

Still dark, we roll into the border. For those of you among the uninitiated, this means no less than a couple of hours of paper work and standing in line. As you pull into the border area you are given a little scrap of paper. The object of the game is to collect the necessary number of stamps, seals and signatures on this little paper. You have to clear immigration where they review and stamp your passport with all the corresponding seals and signatures (Seals, stamps and signatures are critical to life in Latin America. Should an enemy succeed in stealing a nation’s stamps and seals, civilization would immediately come to halt and life as we know it would cease). Then, one has to visit the office of the national police to ensure that your driver’s license is valid. Oh, and don’t forget the health office. We used to carry yellow cards with lists of shots and finger pricks, vaccinations and all sorts of stuff to prove that we would not suddenly fall dead before clearing the border area. There is always an office of agricultural control where men with spray bottles come and spray gagging juice all over your vehicle to keep one country’s coffee-killing flies out of the next country. The office walls are pasted with illustrated fliers explaining how a single contaminated fly can destroy a nation’s economy. Finally, the vehicle has to clear customs. All your papers have to be in order and you then wait until inspectors come to go through your stuff. You pray that you don’t have to take out absolutely EVERY item, but sometimes you do. Just about the time you think you have it all figured out, they change the order in which you have to collect the stamps.

When you have all the stamps on the paper, you want to run back to your vehicle to escape! You want to be careful not to be too conspicuous so as to attract attention and be told that you still lack another stamp. Slowly, you pull out of your parking stall and head across the international bridge. Just before entering the bridge, you hand the treasured paper scrap, now decorated by blue and black official-looking seals, stamps and scribbles to the guard who shines a flashlight in your eyes or some equally annoying move to keep you intimidated to the very last moment, thereby ensuring that you do nothing crazy or illegal like try to escape the country with an illegal substance, like cheese not in a properly-sealed package.

Ahhh! Finally! Now, we get to go through the entire process again on the other side. This was life in Central America in those days.

So, this is what we did at some obscene hour of the predawn day. At last we have filled the paper scrap twice, once in each country. We have kissed our Honduran guard goodbye and picked up a Nicaraguan solider who will accompany us to the customs house in the city.

From the Nicaraguan border, the roads gradually open up and become less intensely mountainous. I want to slam my head several times into the dashboard, lie down on the floorboard and sleep for a few days. But I can now sense that we are on the home stretch. There will be no stopping now.

Handing the little piece of paper to the guard, I think I smell something a bit off. No, make that the smell of something burning. I look down and see white electrical smoke coming from somewhere under the dash. Patiently trying to bring the brakeless bus to a stop, I simultaneously try to rip out every piece of wire I can grab until the smoke and fire go away. With the fire out, we assess the damage. We can still use the pliers to start the motor. Check. But, the bus now has no lights. Dawn is still an hour or two away, so I will have to traverse that final portion blind. By this time I really don’t care. You can’t really imagine until you have driven somewhere like the Central America of many years ago, but I will be plowing through stray horses, cows, pigs, dogs, turkeys, chickens and assorted humans, both walking and on motor scooters. To the best of my knowledge I don’t think I hit anyone or anything. I’m sure I must have scared the fire out of many.

I won’t bore you with all the other little challenges along the way, but by about 5:00pm we are pulling into Managua, Nicaragua. Our fine attorney has already arranged to clear customs and we are able to cross the city that very evening, arriving sleepless after our 48-hour journey at the compound where the lady missionary lives and where there is a little Bible institute. The bus had died once in the middle of rush hour traffic due to overheating. We manage to get it going with our wonderful pliers, but now it dies again on the highway, just as we are turning into the compound. This time there is no staring it up, even with the golden pliers.

We can’t manage to get any help from our institute student “brothers,” so with the help of one more missionary, we finally, somehow, get the bus off the highway before someone gets killed.

The moment to unload the bus has arrived. The lady missionary had waited several years to get some of her personal possessions sent to her by family and friends. I watch helplessly as she weeps upon discovering that her things had not made the trip. We later discover that a mission executive’s wife has been hounding him to get some donated medical supplies out of her basement. He makes the decision to send the medical equipment instead of the missionary lady’s personal possessions. By the way, the medical supplies are worthless, totally worthless, even for missionaries who specialize in creative use of worthless crap. When we finally contact him later, he is highly offended that we are not be overwhelming grateful and forever indebted for this fine bus that he has personally secured to be donated to God’s work on the mission field. There is no room for any discussion that this bus might not be less than wonderful.

The last items to come off the bus are our two 55-gallon drums. I am embarrassed and feel badly that our stuff came and hers did not. There is nothing we can do about it right then, of course. I want to do bodily harm to a mission executive. I know right then that my days with that particular mission will soon be coming to an end.

Instead, at that moment, I go home and collapse. Along the way I cry a bit. I am learning some tough lessons about human nature, carnality and the reality of many aspects of missions.

And that’s my bus story. I learned a lot.

The lady who lives inside my cell phone woke me up right on time Friday morning.

“The time is now … six … fif … ty … A … M.”

I really don’t care for her voice although I’m sure she must be a nice person. I used to have a wonderful New Age type tune (like door chimes gently singing outside a beach bungalow) that would slowly crescendo until I woke up, but lost it when I upgraded to a new operating system. That’s when I found this lady inside my Android. My subconscious mind is now adjusted to wait for her voice each morning. This causes me to wake up immediately to shut off the alarm before the annoying Austin Powers theme begins to blast in my ear.

Packing up from 48 hours in Honduras sure didn’t take much time or effort and I was soon joining my affable host for breakfast. We were accompanied by Mario and Maria Teresa, other houseguests from Guatemala.

“Tell me again why you are flying out of Tegucigalpa.” the good doctor asked me. “I always prefer to fly out of San Pedro Sula.”

“Yes, I agree,” was my immediate reply, “but the flights were all full today and I actually got the last seat out of Tegucigalpa. It’s the season, you know,” referring to the many travelers during Christmas and the New Year that stretch out a bit more on either side of the holidays than they do in the United States.

“Yes, of course, it’s the season,” all agreed.

Mario gave me a little smile as he searched for just the right word. “The airport in Tegucigalpa, es … es … es  … algo.” (It’s uh, … it’s … it’s … something.)

I had not been through that airport in years but knew that he was correct and trying to be diplomatic as a guest in a Honduran home. I can remember years ago flying in and out of Tegucigalpa on those old noisy turbo props. Since the city is elevated, the planes thread the needle of the nearby peaks, twisting and turning from one side to the other as though looking for the light at the end of a tunnel. The uninitiated grip their seats in silent panic certain that a horrific crash is about to happen. Suddenly, the runway appears and at times you appear to be landing uphill.

Siguatepeque rests in the mountains almost exactly halfway between the progressive coastal city of San Pedro Sula and the mountainous capital of Tegucigalpa.

Looking out the window of the doctor’s magnificent home overlooking the Evangelical Hospital complex, I could see that my ride had arrived. Danilo (call me Dennis) is a twenty-something who works for the Biblical Union bookstores and is constantly traveling around the country. He’s the same guy who had picked me up in San Pedro Sula almost 48 hours earlier, waiting for me with one of those little signs with my name on it.

Those little signs don’t usually work for me for some reason. I can’t figure it out. Whoever is supposed to hold them up is usually held up themselves and don’t make it to the airport – or something. On our recent trip to India last month I think we batted two out of three. Oh well, getting a taxi is about the same deal wherever – except watch out for Kolkata!

I was glad to see Dennis again. After fueling up he gave me his version of the little spiel that the pilot gives you just before you pull out of the gate. You know – the weather in the destination city, flying time today, and any expected turbulence along the route. “And thank you for choosing to ride in Dennis’ van this morning. Now please sit back and enjoy the trip.”

“It will take us about two-and-a-half hours to get to Tegucigalpa. They are working to improve the road and certain portions are open, other parts are finished but have no markings and then there are lots of places where it is still torn up.”

The mountains of Honduras are huge, rugged and gorgeous. The roads that traverse them are not measured in kilometers but rather in the number of curves. I think that our English term “switch-backs” can be traced back to ancient Mayan language from this very region.

Sometimes four and sometimes three lanes, the new road is very nice indeed. Right out of Siguatepeue we were making great time. Then reality set in with constant swapping out one side of the road for the other as work progressed. It wasn’t really that bad and it will be a tremendous improvement when finished.

Dennis had asked me earlier on the ride from San Pedro Sula if I had been to Siguatepeque before. I told him that I had only passed through.

“I was born in Siguatepeque”, Dennis offered. “Tegucigalpa depresses me. I don’t like it at all. I will die in Siguatepeque.”

“Well, Dennis, you and I will have crossed the country from one side to the other by the time we are done.”

It was then I realized that I was not only on a journey through Honduras, but also through time. I had been this way before.

“Dennis, this is not the first time I’ve been this route. I’ve actually made this same trip a number of times – many years before you were born.” He appeared to be a bit intrigued.

“So, this road was just a simple two lanes and very different then?”

“Yes, it was a little different.” I proceeded with caution, not wanting to be the old Dude grousing about how it used to be in the good old days.

Some things never change, though – the raw beauty of the mountains, the fresh smell of the pines, the kaleidoscope of shades and colors chasing through crooks and crannies of peaks near and far, the clouds battling the summits for domination of the skies. The poor and simple folks, whose dwellings line the roadside, are always somewhere around the next curve. Some abodes are small yet proudly maintained in their simplicity, a life that often seems very appealing when overcome with the demands of modern life. Others are mere shacks thrown together of whatever is available.

Just as the road is a thread of life and commerce, so is the civilization that cradles its side. Here, drivers of huge semi-trailer trucks pull over to grab a meal at non-descript comedor (eating place) where the menu is whatever those in the place happened to cook that day. Sometimes there are more formal restaurants with colorful signs shouting words like tamales, pupusas, frutas, platos típicos and more. Most “shops” are no more than a rustic stand offering chilled coconuts or other such delicacies. There are little outposts where one can purchase a perfectly good bald tire from a pile if yours can’t be fixed immediately. If you ever wondered where the phrase “shade tree mechanic” originated, this is the place where the term is dressed out in all its literal glory. Farmers from higher up come to this lifeline snaking through the mountains. Here, they will purchase a plate of rice and tortillas as they wait for the bus that will take them on their infrequent trip to town to sell and/or stock up.

The road is a thoroughfare for non-humans, too. From time to time one shares the road with cows, horses, wandering pigs, scruffy dogs and the like.  Or, as I saw yesterday, dozens of buzzards fight fiercely with each other for a piece of road kill, ignoring the vehicular traffic at the peril of becoming the next victim.

Oh, and then there are the emergency triangles. You can’t leave home without them. Mario and Teresa commented on them this very morning. As they were preparing for the nine-hour trek from their home outside of Guatemala City to Siguatepeque, they remembered that in Honduras you must have one of those little bright red and yellowish triangle thingys to put on the road in case of a breakdown or other mishap. They actually got a ticket last time because they didn’t have one.

Supposedly the government decrees such things as red and yellow triangles to keep from having their highways littered with broken tree branches. Yes, tree branches. In Central America broken tree branches placed in the road are the universal sign of vehicle trouble. I think it probably goes back to the days of the Conquistadores when they put down a broken tree branch in the path to mark where a horse had lost a horseshoe or something. How can you tell if the broken tree branch in the road is actually warning of a disabled vehicle or if it just broke and fell from the tree? You’d just have to be there. You wouldn’t ask if you understood the system. Once you see it you never forget. It’s a pretty good system.

The score on the way to the airport today: broken tree branches – 3; red and yellow triangles: 0. Why waste a perfectly good triangle thingy as long as good tree branches are abundantly available? Just make sure you have one somewhere in your vehicle.

Every so often Dennis felt obligated to point out things that must have changed since my trips years ago, or things that must be the same. He was processing how it could be that this blue-eyed foreigner could have been familiar with his beloved mountains before he was ever an embryo.

“Dennis, you know the first time I came this route I was on the back of a motorcycle.”

The subject of motorcycles had come up as we discussed how nice the day was and how it would be fantastic to slip through the mountains aboard a motorcycle. Dennis bought a nice one a couple of years ago, but it was stolen. Then, he bought an ugly one, plain Jane, held together with duct tape and wire. Since then he’s had no problems

I think my motorcycle riding comment was as distracting to him as sending about five text messages while updating his FaceBook account. His look was a combination of incredulity, fascination and admiration.

“Yes, I was on the back of a friend’s motorcycle as we went from Managua, Nicaragua to Puerto Cabezas, Honduras to pick up a bus that had been shipped from the US filled with supplies. When we got there, we discovered we had received a false report that the bus had arrived. We had to go all the way back to Nicaragua the next day and wait another few weeks for confirmation that the bus had indeed arrived.”

“So, the next time it was up to me to drive the bus over this route to Managua.”

“You drove a bus through this road? You alone?”

“Yes. Even the government-assigned military guard refused to ride in the bus with me as he is required to do by law because it had so many problems. he feared for his life. My friend followed behind in his pickup that we brought this time instead of the motorcycle. I drove with the door open so I could jump out if necessary.”

Now, I had his full attention. Should I tell him the bus story? I haven’t told that story in years.

Next – the bus story.

Well, I’m in Siguatepeque, Honduras. Yesterday I wasn’t sure where I would be or if I would have Internet access. After a 3:30am wake up, I headed to San Pedro Sula via Houston, arriving around noon. From there it is a two hour drive high up into the mountains to the city of Siguatepeque. The camp is on a ridge above the city, but they have me staying in this fascinating hospital compound complete with a nursing school, Translated, this is called the Evangelical Hospital and it is impressive. I am staying in the home of an 80-year-old still practicing surgeon. So, there is Internet and life is sweet.

They just drove me back down from the camp after speaking tonight. I’ll be the main speaker all of tomorrow also before heading home Friday via Tegucigalpa, Honduras, the capital city. This is a cooperative effort of three churches, one in Guatemala, one in Honduras and the church where I was formerly the pastor in El Salvador. These are college age young people and the focus is God’s global mission. Let’s see … college kids and missions. Yep! Sign me up!

It’s been good to see some old friends and acquaintances tonight. Mostly it was good to see God move in the hearts of the young people. All three churches are heavily invested in sending out transcultural missionaries to the least-reached.

I’ve had a long day, so excuse me while I get some rest. Nighty-night!