DIOS SABE LO QUE HACE

July 12, 2024, marked a long-awaited time for us.

Several years earlier, Jeanette and I stood approximately 2000 feet above sea-level listening to the whisper of the mountain river far below us. From where we stood, we could see the humble community of Canchias, Honduras. On the outskirts of this community, we looked at the clay-colored roofs of a place that was once vibrant and alive with activity. From here we could almost imagine that the smell of tortillas still permeated the air, mixed with the sound of conversations and laughter. Later a dear brother, Leo, and I stood in the camp and shed tears for a place that was undoubtedly very special and had begun a rapid descent into disrepair and isolation. How could this happen to this place? Could the nose be pulled up here before it was too late? Questions seemed to hang in the air as heavily as the memory of the wood fires and the smell of tortillas.

Little did we know.

Looking back, it seems to make sense that the land and the people in it, needed to rest, scars needed to begin to heal. It is in that look-back that thankfulness grows along with the encouragement that we can trust, looking forward.

The picture below is of the first group that accompanied Levi and me to Honduras, less than a week after we signed the papers for the property on July 12th. As we began to eat dinner in Leo's home, the power went out. I stood back and watched as candles were lit, lively conversation happened, and memories were made. The power outage made the experience richer. I listened to the conversations mix with the rain outside and was thankful.

Dios sabe lo que hace; God knows what he does.