3:30 AM wake up. Not since working for that unmentionable green-apron coffee giant have I started the day that early. Our team hits the road to help an electrician do a job for a church in the city of Coban… or so we thought. I feel good considering how early it is, but my mood quickly changes when I end up in the back of the van once again; the exhaust fumes exhausting my patience. There seems to be a thick tension between all of us, the drive is unusually silent for many hours. Though we are all striving to be, we are not morning people. As the night turns to light, we warm up to the idea of being awake…
After about 6 hours on the road, we are forced to stop. Traffic is backed up. We find out that the local Myans are protesting high water prices. We wait an hour and a half, and finally can continue on our way, once again dodging the enormous potholes and fallen rocks.
We finally make it to Coban, but continue on. Driving a little further, we turn off onto a very steep, winding dirt road. “We are going to the other side of the mountain.” He tell us.
He pulls over, and we are greeted by some young boys, around the ages of 10 & 11.
“They will help you carry your packs.” Marco explaines.
We all look at each other in a bit of disbelief. Our packs were just about the same size as the boys, if not bigger, and probably weighed very little less than them. 
We hike up and up, deeper into the Guatemalan jungle. A mile? A mile and a half? 2 miles? It’s hard to say, but it was straight UP. In a few places, the soil had been carved out to form steps, footholds for our wandering feet.
Finally. We arrive at our destination for the day. Scrap wood thrown together, and a tin roof, the church was not much bigger than my living room back home. Dirt floors. Plastic chairs stacked against the wall. This place was the bare essence of a house of God.
Marco introduces us to the slender man standing next to him. He is wearing a red shirt, nice dress pants and dress shoes. His cell phone is strapped to his belt, and I’m thinking in my head, “This must be the-”
“This is Pastor Luis,” Marco introduces us.
Luis begins to tell us his story, and Marco graciously translates.
He tells us that he has been a Christian for 2 years, and a pastor for one. He has seen the church grow from eight people, to 20 people, to now, on some weeks, 40 people. He told us that some people came as far as three hours away, each way, on foot, to hear the Message, to pray, and to worship. Luis tells us he has church Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays… and Tuesdays. We were invited to tonight’s worship.
The small room filled; 8 adults or so, and many children. (The pastor himself has eight little ones.)
There was a glorious mix of prayers that night; the Mayan Que’chi, Spanish, and English. I can’t even begin to describe how absolutely beautiful the Que’chi language is!
The congregation invited us to the front, and we told them of our mission, that we were there to be their partners in prayer, and to thank them for their hospitality. Pastor Luis invited the people to pray over us, and an explosive, powerful eruption of words and emotions filled the room. We didn’t know what they were saying, but we felt the gravity of their prayers, seeming to wrap around us with every word.
Before we left, the oldest woman at the service hugged each one of us. “Dios de bindiga” – “God bless you,” She told us.
After the service, we headed to the pastor’s house to eat dinner that his wife had spent the day preparing for us, consisting of a chicken, a duck, and a rooster. (All which had hours ago been walking around outside.)
The pastor’s house, was much like the church. Scrap wood. A tin roof. Dirt floors. There were two rooms, a living area with three beds and the kitchen in back.
We crowded around the table and were presented one by one of the most amazing meat and veggie soup I have ever seen. Each one uniquely prepared in its own bowl. Considering the beans and tortillas we had earlier for lunch, I got the feeling this was a very special meal.The pastor’s children sat around us, barefoot on their beds, watching intently, undoubtedly wondering, “Who these strange foreigners in our home?”
The meal finished, and we headed back to the church. This was our home for the evening. We set up our sleeping mats, our misquote nets, and I realized, that we had more that we brought on our backs to that hilltop than the pastor had in his own home. 
Suddenly, everything else from the day just melted away. All the tension from the car ride, the not-so- easy climb to the top of the hill… Who are we to complain? Who am *I* to complain? I have been so abundantly blessed, and it hurts sometimes that it takes this harsh reality before my eyes to remember.
We stayed only a night. Before we left, we got together as a team and wondered how we could bless this man and his family?
Luis had mentioned earlier about his desire to put all of his children in school, but that it was hard for him to get the money too.
Our team has been blessed with being under budget thanks to our generous host and modest living conditions thus far. Giving this pastor the funds for his children’s schooling was the least we could do. Supporters, thank you. *This* is what it’s all about.
As I sit and write this, now actually in the city of Coban, in a mall of all places, I can’t help but be amazed at the contrast of lifestyles, not more than 25 miles apart.
My feet are cold and muddy from today’s earlier hike down the hill. Eyes opened. Heart humbled.
