Storytime with Lucky

Someone recently asked me why I love the mountains. Why do I love climbing them when the climb itself is often painful, tedious, daunting, miserable? I didn’t know how to answer him. Then today, perusing old notes and drafts, I discovered that the answer had been written in part three years ago. What began as a blog post drifted into a lengthy personal crisis of heart and mind that I was not prepared to face. It ended in me lying on a mattress facing a cinderblock Honduran wall, my mind swirling, tears falling silently so as not to disturb my roommates. I strained to see a vision through the fog, but exhaustion and resignation were the victor that night. I was wrestling with fear and a call. I knew in my heart that God was calling me to leave Kansas City. I didn’t have the courage to acknowledge this, much less follow through. I was too ashamed to re-read what I’d written, let alone post it. What if I posted it, and then remained a coward? I was afraid to appear foolish, ...

    I've been mulling over memories.   Memories from the worst week of my life.  Struggling to come to terms with the fact my family who I had envisioned always being together had instead been ripped apart, I was gradually spending less and less time with my younger brothers.  I was nineteen years old and still reeling emotionally from my parents' divorce and combating a fresh wave of disillusionment. Then, still raw from my own struggles, I staggered through tragedy after tragedy over a short and bitter two week span.  In that brief fortnight alone I suffered the loss of a friend, then the death of a friend and role model, an abrupt and unsettling proposal of marriage, a new job, then several days aiding a close family whose house had been burnt down, and witnessed the fights that led up to and the separation of some close family friends, and finally cussed out under false accusation.     Near the end of that time, I was carpooling back ...

School let out early because of the unbearable heat. Intending to go sit in the hammock and enjoy the breeze while I typed up homework, I step out of the kitchen house, coffee mug of hot tea in one hand, water bottle in the other. I see my 7 year old student Tony seated on an old ripped up tire laying by the road in front of the house, tears dripping from his long black lashes. I go and sit beside him. “My brother left me for the canalito," he whimpered. The canalito, or 'little canal", is a small channel of water that runs along the road and fields commonly used to wash clothes, bathe and swim in to escape the heat. “I’m sorry Tony.” “My brother, and Abi, and Kathy. They go to the canalito. But I, no,” he explained to me in his broken English. He stared longingly at the field across the way. After further conversation, I asked him about his sister Doylin who I hadn’t seen in a while. “She is with my mother. My mother is no here.” He threw a small rock into the ...

As much as I wish I could say that the totality of my identity is in Christ, it would not be true.  Much of my identity and who I am is because of my family and culture that I grew up with. The same is probably true for you. But stop and imagine with me for a moment.  Imagine your culture is trash.  Imagine your family is Trash.  Trash is your very identity.  You were born into trash, trash provided your life, sustained your life, IS your life.  You live in and work in trash.  You eat trash.  You drink it.  The trash clothes you, provides your shelter.  It is all you have ever known.  It's where you were born and where you grew up.  It's where you were running as a child, fell and scraped your knee, and ran to your mother to kiss away the tears.  It's where your brother tickled you til your sides hurt.  It's where most painful memories and joyous moments occurred. It's where you had your first crush.  It's wher...

I hopped out of the truck and stood still, full of excitement mixed with curiosity and anticipation and a dash of panic   after we'd parked near the top of this mountain of trash that is the San Pedro Sula landfill .  Glancing around I absorbed my surroundings; squinting in the incredibly bright sunlight, wisps of hair waving in the wind. There was no natural protection from the sun and it bore down on us intensely despite the relative coolness of the midday heat.   The villagers trickled down towards us, the shape of their bodies entering my vision as they  rose up over the horizon  or exited obscure homes that blended into the landscape.  One of our party announced our arrival over the loudspeaker and even more trickled down, lining up in front of the truck.  We prayed over the food, then distributed it.  The community received their food in orderly lines, taking their meals and water quietly with an occasional smile and a rare "Gracias", d...

With a swirl of dust the white truck passed us as we drove along the track leaving El Doradito.  A shriek chortled out from the bed of the truck as it flew by.  The three passengers bounced and jolted along and I recognized Enrique who waved and hollered at us, his chop of black hair flopping in the wind.  We caught up to the truck.  "Where are you going?!" Enrique hollered over the sound of the engine, leaning as far out of the truck bed as he could manage as we passed them again.  We turned off the dirt road onto cement and fell in line behind a small blue Ford pickup whose bed and cab were loaded to the axles with 15 some odd men returning from work in the cane fields. Enrique and I Arriving at the stop sign before the highway he leaped from the bed of the truck and ran alongside Debora's car, tapping on the windows.  "Where are you going?" He repeated. We gave him a ride to La Lima, dropping him off alone at a corner so he could walk the rest of...