The rain was pouring - no the rain was pounding. The rain had knocked the power out. The ceiling fan which had provided at least some comfort during the night had long since quite working. The air was hot and thick and hard to inhale. At least it was daylight.
I dreaded getting up.
I was way out of my comfort zone. My worrisome mind had already switched from adventure mode to survival mode. I worried about the river that we had to cross to make it home. It had already been flooded when we crossed the day before. This latest deluge would not help matters.
Our medical mission team had spent two grueling days working near a small Mayan village outside of Belmopan. We had seen over 900 people, most of which were children. We were exhausted. All that stood between us and the long road home that morning was getting the team safely back across the swollen river, driving through a few muddy miles of washed out jungle roads, and driving two hours through a monsoon on a broken down van with no windshield wipers.
As I lay there longing for home and the comfort and safety of my own bed God reminded me of the beautiful children that we had left behind the day before. I wondered if they were dry. I wondered if they were safe. The huts that these children call home were not adequate shelter against such a storm.
There are simply no words to describe the depth and the reality of the poverty that we witnessed last week.
I am now safely home. My house and my bed are even more comfortable than I had remembered - but for now at least - it hard for me to relax and enjoy them. God keeps reminding me that it is still raining on the children in Belmopan.
One world? I don’t think so….
I dreaded getting up.
I was way out of my comfort zone. My worrisome mind had already switched from adventure mode to survival mode. I worried about the river that we had to cross to make it home. It had already been flooded when we crossed the day before. This latest deluge would not help matters.
Our medical mission team had spent two grueling days working near a small Mayan village outside of Belmopan. We had seen over 900 people, most of which were children. We were exhausted. All that stood between us and the long road home that morning was getting the team safely back across the swollen river, driving through a few muddy miles of washed out jungle roads, and driving two hours through a monsoon on a broken down van with no windshield wipers.
As I lay there longing for home and the comfort and safety of my own bed God reminded me of the beautiful children that we had left behind the day before. I wondered if they were dry. I wondered if they were safe. The huts that these children call home were not adequate shelter against such a storm.
There are simply no words to describe the depth and the reality of the poverty that we witnessed last week.
I am now safely home. My house and my bed are even more comfortable than I had remembered - but for now at least - it hard for me to relax and enjoy them. God keeps reminding me that it is still raining on the children in Belmopan.
One world? I don’t think so….
