This is a excerpt taken from my Journal that I kept while doing some short term missions in Honduras. I spent some time at a place called El Sembrador, near a small town in Eastern Honduras called Cantacambas.
This Farm School was started by a couple in the middle of the 20th century. They were rejected by every Missionary organization that applied to… Not to be deterred they sold their farm in Washington Courthouse OH, rented an ocean-going barge, shipped their remaining equipment and moved to Honduras with their 1 year old son Timothy
Amazingly, after some 25 years, they cultivated over 2,000 acres of farmland (carved out of the jungle), fed, clothed and educated 200 young boys every year. El Sembrador, as it came to be known, educated most of the pastors now working in Honduras. Some of their students have risen to the highest positions in the government. There is more to say, much, much more… But here are some of my sentiments after my experience there…
FINAL THOUGHTS: (Hand Written Journal Pg. 73)
Jungles to Defeat!
Wednesday, July 20, 1994
4:45 a.m.
Rose at 3:50 a.m.
El Sembrador Farm School Dining Room
Here I am in the Dining Room... One last time. I have many things going through my head. I hope to have the time to write them all down[…]
[…]For the last time I've heard the almost deafening, driving whine of the crickets outside the bathroom window. This was quickly followed by the familiar rhythmic ebb and swell of the kind of cricket that lives where we do - the darkness hiding all but their faithful persistent song.
This morning I have heard, for the second time in my life, the blood-freezing, guttural growl of a native monkey - high in the tree tops. It's voice pounding through the forest and semi-darkness - inquiring about companionship, food and safety. I have heard his voice for the last time... While, his voice may have reverberated and died in the distance, the echoes of his song will remain forever in my memory.
After gently brushing away my faithful morning companions - the termites, I will sit at this table for the last time, recording my thoughts from the day before. Coleen and Cheryl, two missionary women from the States are always there before me, preparing for the days meals – poised to feed 40 plus men three times a day. With the subtle and indistinct sounds of their quiet efficiency in the background I bend to my task of collecting my experiences from the days before[…]
[…]For the last time this week I have worshipped with them [my new friends from Honduras]. The three churches we visited and ministered in are forever, indelibly fixed in my mind.
I will never forget their proud yet humble determination to live on and make the absolute best of what they have. I will always be mindful that there wasn't a student among us - who if they sold half of what they personally owned - couldn't have bought any of these people out - lock, stock and barrel!
What amounted to a life time of back-breaking work, for these people, could be more than compensated by a few birthdays and maybe a Christmas or two. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to marry and raise a family in what amounted to a small one room hut. Carved out nothing more than inconsistent small opportunities; in a land that has no mercy for the poor. I will always see their liquid brown eyes, sun darkened faces and arms, calloused hands, work bitten features, humble abodes clumped together in isolated communities - scattered across a rugged unforgiving land - governed by a small group of questionable and corrupt men - in a city of a million jumbled and ruined lives - most dwelling in disasters called "neighborhoods".
My last night at El Sembrador, I stand on a section of newly poured concrete in the Auditorium, completed by our Missions Team. In front of me - to the west rise some of the highest mountains in Honduras. With quiet exhilaration I witness the sun, with slow majesty recline behind the jagged peaks. In wonder and awe, I watch as these mountains pull a mantle of mist around their shoulders and slowly fade into the darkness.
A chorus of evening birds, thousands of frogs and a million crickets sing a postlude fair well. Now immediately above the knife-like ridges is a surreal white light. A wonderful cool breeze blows into the horizon - its gentle hum, like that of a mother taking her sleeping toddler to bed for the night. Behind the wind creeps the dusk - encouraging the chorus into a melodic fortissimo – all the while steadily pulling behind it, a blanket of darkness.
This is my last day here and so for the last time I have a chance to draw some important conclusions about my experience here...
Despite all of the heart pounding grandeur and beauty of this tiny rugged country, I believe that it's nothing more than veritable wasteland - next to the soul lifting, eternal beauty of Don and Twila Hawks RECKLESS FAITH AND LOVE FOR MINISTRY. A man and woman, who with complete abandonment, unswervingly heeded God's call. This couple: who subdued, not just a wilderness of untamed plants, animals and disease; but an even more formidable jungle of poverty, illiteracy and faithlessness.
In addition to the corn, rice, beans and trees they planted - they cultivated hope, love and faith! By the grace of God they sowed and harvested from the hearts of men and women - and changed the world around them!
This morning just before we rumbled down a packed red clay lane, I could see the gutters were swollen with orangish red water from last nights rain. Dawn was breaking and covering the land with a bluish white light. Crickets, completing their last refrain, were instantly drowned out by the roar from the engine of the bus, as it came to life. Before we boarded, I inhaled a subtle perfume - the sweet smell of rain as it hung heavy in the morning air - bringing with it a sense of refreshment and newness. I couldn't help but think of how refreshed I was; and wondered how this tremendous experience might bring something new to my life!
Slowly we rumbled down the lane. The squeak and clatter from windows would be our journeys music now. Out of the faint light of the cabin of the bus, came half a dozen murmuring conversations. The bus continued to rumble on down the lane. With each splash and spray of the muddy water flying past the window, the thought of our final departure saddened me more and more.
I will miss you El Sembrador. God willing I will come back again.
I too want to be a man who with reckless abandonment, exercises a living and vital faith. The kind that will change lives - change the world....
Somewhere out there, there is a jungle for me to defeat. A wilderness to cultivate and a myriad of hearts to grow and nurture our God's love, truth and call in...
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