Kimberly and I spent the last several weeks in a mountainous region of Guatemala called the western highlands. The area we visited consisted of several small villages and towns around a vast body of water named Lake Atitlan, which fittingly translates into “at the lake”. Three volcanoes take up the breathtaking skyline.
When we arrived at our camp, several young boys and girls ran up to us to help us carry our bags and equipment. Most of them were under the age of 10, barefoot and dirty. The obvious signs of a hard days labor couldn’t be hidden under the donated t-shirts they were wearing. A makeshift soccer goal of two empty milk cartons was set up in the knee-high grass beside their home.
Their homes were made up of cinder blocks patched together with cheap cement and a red-rusted corrugated steel roofs no bigger than a one-car garage.
If you were to enter the homes, the floors would always be spotless. An intense pride in their possessions is instilled in even the youngest of child.
Sheets hung from the ceilings dividing the houses into rooms. There was a clay stove in one corner, a stack of foam for sleeping in another corner and a table, with two wobbly wooden chairs close to the door. Children ran barefoot through puddles outside.
The village we stayed in is known for natural dies and artesian goods. They are also known, as most of Guatemala is, for their coffee, which makes up a huge portion of their yearly income.
The name “Guatemala” literally translates into “Place of many trees,” and as Kimberly and I walked through the coffee bushes bursting with ruby-red coffee fruit, I tried to pay attention to how differently the people carried themselves, especially the children.
There was an intense seriousness about life and the world that you wouldn’t see in a child in the United States. As the kids turned to me, I saw their bright smiles and their eyes which had seen more than any 10 year old should.
There were two boys selling limes from a wheel barrel and a young girl hand-crafting a scarf to sell. A teenage boy walked slowly up the mountainous slope with a stack of lumber tied to his back.
Two old ladies crushing up bark to make dye mumbled something to us as we passed by. Farmers swung hoes to claw at the brown earth of the terraced hillside while others chopped at trees with machetes.
Once we made it to the street there were dozens of boys waiting to shine shoes and a young girl, probably under the age of 5, selling gum from a box that hung from a strap over her petite shoulder.
At lunch one afternoon, a young boy came up and started polishing my tennis shoes. I looked down at him confused. Doesn’t he realize that you can’t polish those? What do I say to him? As he looked up at me I saw his lazy eyes and swollen stomach. He was starving.
All he said was “Tengo hambre, Tengo hambre. Tengo hambre.”
“I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I’m hungry.” The restaurant owner was walking over to grab the kid and throw him out when Kimberly grabbed a chair and sat the boy down in it like a mother would do to a disobedient child. When the owner came over she said, “tres tacos por el nino, por favor.”
We now officially had a 3rd at our table.
Most of these kids start working as soon as they are able and will do so for the rest of their lives. Kimberly spoke with one of the girls who lived on a coffee plantation close to our camp.
“How often do you leave your village, Angela?”
“I have left the village three times.”
“Three times since…”
“Three times in my life.”
It hit Kimberly and I that we had left more times in the two days we had been in her village than she had in 13 years.
One day a girl and her younger sister and brother had the courage to ask Kimberly how her face was always so sparkly.
“Como te…” They said as they pointed to her face.
Kimberly, with all the love in her heart, promptly went to find all of the makeup she could and let the young girls use it as long as they wanted. One of the boys, not quite sure what was happening grabbed lipstick and put it on his face.
One of the younger girls, Nila, came to us with a burn on her face. An ash from their stove fell on her while she was asleep. I was able to find some burn relief cream and we gave her family some antibiotic lotion to help heal the painful wound.
As we packed up to leave after 21 days in their village, we said goodbye to families and children from up and down the mountainside.
Dina, a lady who owned the tienda in town. The tortilleria ladies. The homeless guy who only wanted food. And the children, who we played soccer with, and put makeup on.
But as these short trips into the more indigenous parts of the world typically work, it affected us nearly as much, if not more than, the natives. It made us realize, once again, how blessed we truly are.
There is always that part of me that wishes that we could do more. That we could feed more, that we could help more. But through this season I’ve come to realize that we can’t do everything, but we do have to do what we can. More importantly though, we must do what our Father asks of us. Sometimes it’s filling a young child’s stomach, other times it is simply giving them a hug. Whatever the case, we never want to grow weary of doing what the Lord asks of us.
And let us not grow weary while doing good, for in due season we shall reap if we do not lose heart.
Galatians 6:9
