I began my week in a humble posture. Brought low by a virus that kept my face in the toilet and my body weak for days. I didn’t know if I could muster the strength to trek for a week through the mountains of Nepal with the physical endurance required.
Nervous also for the spiritual demand I might face, my heart was weak and my strength was small. My simple prayer was that God would give me the fortitude to make it through and that this adventure would be a sweet gift to my team.
We are headed to the epicenter of the second major earthquake that hit Nepal last year, registering at 7.8 near the border of Tibet. Our intended journey is to visit as many villages as we can of the twenty – five mountain churches that were planted by this local pastor. His grin and kind eyes make it nearly impossible to believe he used to be a very dangerous member of his own tribe, a former hit man, before Jesus Christ took hold of his life.
We begin our hike at 8,000 feet. I take a deep breath before taking my first step and exhale my simple prayer once again. The rocks are steep, but well placed. Their slate surfaces shimmer in the sunlight, smoky grays and rosy pinks, sparkling silvers and creamy pearls. I pick up a small piece broken off the rock and scrape the surface with my fingernail and the soft powder glitters in my hand.
We reach the top at dark. I look up and feel so close to the stars, I could almost reach out and pull myself up onto the curved handle of the big dipper and slide down into its deep chalice for an evening dip. How can we possibly be so close to this majestic beauty? Have we actually drawn close enough to the sky for the stars to seem within our grasp?
A man greets me in the dark and ushers me by flashlight into a small room where we will be staying for the evening. There is no electricity in this mountain village. The floor is made of dirt. We’re exhausted and happy to sleep in until nine in the morning, unfortunately only because our host is running a low grade fever.
I walk out into the morning light and behold the breathtaking view of the mountain valley for the first time. Sunlight glimmers upon the river stitched between the strips of mountains. Two buffalo low in the stable behind me, the pungent smell piercing my senses. A wooden slab stands next to the stable, white feathers spilling over the top and covering the ground. I realize that’s all that remains of last night’s dinner.
I’m handed a metal cup of warm sour tea with fresh buffalo milk. I respectfully struggle to choke it down, nearly the exact essence of the pungent stable in liquid form. We quickly pack for the next leg of our journey but are suddenly whisked away to the village pastor’s home where a woman kneels down before us requesting prayer, her back in severe pain.
Before the gospel was brought to these villages, the people would pay with their limited possessions to see witch doctors for healing, having to return again and again. When Pastor Indra first came through these mountains, the villagers would mock him, teasing him to pray for their sick and dying chickens and cattle if this God of his had such power to perform miracles. So he did. In simple faith, he began to pray for their livestock. As each animal was healed, their small flocks and herds standing before them completely well, the villagers’ hearts softened to hear the words of salvation the pastor had to offer.
As this woman kneels before us, I remember these stories with gratitude to be a witness to what the Holy Spirit is doing here. We pray along with Pastor Indra for her back to be healed. Was she healed? I wonder. I ask our translator if she still has any pain. She tells him it is significantly reduced, so we pray again. Her smile begins to stretch across her face so wide that I can’t help but reflect her joy in return. She wiggles around, twisting and turning, moving freely. Quickly standing to her feet, she pours out her thanks and waits nearby, her face glowing.
We have lunch before continuing on. It is already a good morning.
The distance we travel is much further but the climb isn’t nearly as steep. We wind along roads hugging the mountainside, picking golden raspberries and watching the goat farmers herd their flocks in the emerald pastures. A chocolate and cream colored goat breaks from the flock and comes up next to me, nudging my leg. I stroke the coarse hair on its head and neck, feeling the bridled strength of its powerful horns.
I pause to inhale the beauty that surrounds me. The expanse takes my breath away. Terraced slopes stretch over 10,000 feet from the sky down to the river below. Cornfields and potato crops rise against golden strips of wheat rippling in the wind. Buffalo and bulls roam freely.
We laugh constantly with one of our sixteen year old Nepali guides whose quick wit and clever one-liners have us grinning with delight. He is still mastering English, which somehow only serves to add to the ingenuity of his humor. He teases us, never failing to remind us that these are not mountains, they are just “hills.” Real mountains are snow capped year round. My burning legs and lungs beg to differ…
This young man, being trained up in leadership, is an incredible testimony to the goodness of God. Rescued from the violent streets and adopted into this Christian family, he is now leading teams into the slums of Kathmandu and the mountains of Nepal, translating the gospel and ministering to the broken.
We arrive at the next village after nightfall once again. We squeeze in next to one another and rest from the day’s trek. Dinner is cooked over an open wood fire in the middle of the floor and we’re served heaping portions of dal bhat (rice and lentils). The pastor tells us the family is so happy to see him. They have been unable to contact each other since the earthquake last year.
Without forewarning of our visit, we don’t eat until ten in the evening. The family is still hungry for spiritual teaching, so we stay up late into the night, worshiping and praying by the light that gently flickers from the oil lamp. My teammate Jenny teaches and encourages them to remain strong in their faith though they have been sifted like wheat through the devastation of the earthquakes. Just as Jesus interceded for Peter that his faith would not fail (Luke 22), she reminds them that He is always interceding for our faith as well (Hebrews 7) and that we are shaken so that what cannot be shaken will remain (Hebrews 12).
I open my eyes at five in the morning and look up to see a naked butt. Shocked, I quickly divert my eyes to the two baby goats jumping in the doorway. What else can you expect from fifteen people staying together in a room where you live, sleep, bathe, and cook all in the same space? I giggle quietly to myself and stretch my body, thankful for my cozy sleeping bag in this cool mountain air.
We’re served steaming hot cups of black Himalayan tea that tastes so good, we laugh even more grateful that it contains no trace of buffalo milk. We giggle and grin, our bellies full of laughter and our hearts blessed by this sweet family. Even in the midst of deep poverty, joy abounds.
Once outside, I scan the horizon for my first glimpse of an actual snow capped mountain, settling for the blue and purple haze of peaks set against the peach morning sky. We continue on our trek for a little over an hour to jump on a mountain bus. It is like riding on the back of a camel, rocking and swaying gently as we climb over steep rocks and tumble forward into gaping holes. We pick up a group of tiny village school children who squeak and pop out of their seats with each jolting bump.
We slog along until we reach the next village. A storm sweeps in unannounced, bringing strong winds, heavy rains, and pelting hail along with an uneasiness that settles over the people. It is the same erratic weather that accompanied the earthquakes last year. We can still hear them praying and worshiping at four in the morning.
Our next trek is a return down the mountain followed by a Jeep ride to the Tibetan border. We pass through the epicenter of the earthquake, the devastation and rubble piled on both sides of the dirt mountain highway. Rocks that ridicule the size of semi-trucks crashed down the mountains through houses and villages, bringing landslides of rubble in their wake. I cannot imagine the terror. Over three thousand deaths and twice as many injured.
We visit Pastor Indra’s village, the orphanage, the hospital, many of the homes all destroyed. He was inside his father’s home at the time of the earthquake, now standing with gaping holes, the entire south-facing side of the house stripped away to reveal the couches, beds, and carpeting hanging off the edges of each level like an open dollhouse. They are grateful to God to be alive today.
The erratic storms continue and we take shelter in a tiny metal and bamboo shack, well aware that nowhere is safe if another earthquake hits. We crack open the door to release the smoke burning our eyes from the open fire sitting on the floor cooking our dinner. The rain whips past the door frame and tickles my face as I huddle beneath a heavy wool blanket.
The storm passes and we emerge from our shelter to behold the clear black velvet sky speckled with sparkling diamond stars from mountain peak to mountain peak. Constellations I have never seen before, thousands upon thousands stretching from horizon to horizon. I have chased the stars and finally caught them in such a display.
We continue our trek up to the final village, we are told a short “fifteen minute” hike in the dark. Thus we have been told before and know we will be hiking for at least an hour, climbing steep mountain steps under the weight of our heavy packs until our legs shake. We cannot see much but the step in front of us, but we look back to see the lights twinkle on the Tibetan hillside across the border. Once again we continue late into the night, worshiping and praying with the villagers here and the many more who have followed us here.
I wake up at five in the morning while the rest of the world sleeps and tiptoe outside, collecting the baby chicks that cunningly slipped past me through the doorway into the room. I turn toward the stables and head along the stone path, catching the eyes of a bull intently looking at me. I look up and am suddenly stopped in my tracks. There it is. In all it’s majestic glory, the first snow capped mountain of our trek. This beauty that sits here in perfect silence. Time stands still for a moment until I hear our young Nepali guide hollering to everyone still sleeping, “If you wanna see mountains, these are mountains!”
Amidst all the beauty, the greatest moments that have been captured and written on my heart from this week are the moments of joy and interaction with those around me. I haven’t laughed so much in years or felt so keenly the simple desire of the human heart to be seen and cherished. Brian, our ministry host, is right. So much of the goodness of life is found in relationships. These are the moments I will treasure.
(I hope the imagery in the writing is enough to capture the essence of this trip! Sadly, my camera was lost or stolen during the car accident in Varanasi, India)
