Newsletter

March — April 2008

Dear Friends,

As I walk up here in the mountains listening to the wind in the trees (which is pretty loud), and the wind in my lungs (which is louder still), I’ve been thinking about what I should write for the newsletter.  Actually for several weeks now I’ve been struggling with what to write, and the deadline is coming up soon.  It’s not that there is nothing to write about.  Even more than usual, these past few months, either by direct experience or first hand observation, I have had plenty that I could write about on the topic of suffering and sacrifice.  But, the general interest in that topic is pretty limited.  I mean, there can only be so much that people want to hear about suffering and sacrifice.  I think that people might rather hear something funny for a change.  Unfortunately, I’ve never been very good at being funny when I tried. So, for a while there I tried to remember a funny story.  At a mission hospital, you do see a lot of sad things, but there is also a fair amount of humor.  The problem is, that the stories are often either too hard to explain (and still be funny), or too... well, too medical.  So, I’ve given up on the funny angle altogether and am back to the drawing board. 

      I met a man on the trail a half hour ago.  He is sort of an archetype, a distillation of the people of the mountains above the hospital. His name could be Franscisco Soza. (Either due to the poor condition of his teeth or to his humility, or both, his diction leaves something to be desired.)  Down in the villages of the coast (only 5 miles in distance as the buzzard flies, but an hour or more of travel by foot or pack animal), down “below,” he might be called “Paco,” or perhaps in a business transaction, “Sr. Soza.”  But, up here in the mountains above the coastal plain, the handful of people that he might encounter on any given day would address him as Don Francisco.  The “Don” part is like “Sir”—a sign of respect for having reached at least the ripe old age of 40 summers.  Don Francisco is not sure of his birth year, but he believes that he has “nearly completed 55 years this summer.”   Don Francisco is about 5’3” in height and weighs about 120 lbs. in his worn-out clothes and rubber boots.  The skin of his hands and face is the color of coffee, and the consistency of leather left too long out in the weather.

      Don Francisco’s posture and movements are unassuming, purposeful, deliberate.  On the trail he doesn’t scuff, or stomp, or move abruptly.  They call this “andar lijero,” to move softly or lightly.   Don Francisco is on his way down the mountain from a small farm near Naranjito, hauling firewood on the back of his horse to the coastal village of Colonia Margarita.  I am moving up the trail from the access at Lucinda toward Naranjito on a Sunday afternoon.  We are beginning a proactive investigation into the issues of taking on more of the public health responsibilities in our region for the government of Honduras.  This little trip is one of the first steps (so to speak)... and a good excuse for a walk up into the mountains.

A man from the mountains
      I have been on the trail, the “caminito,” toward Naranjito for just over two hours now, and Don Francisco is the only person I have encountered.  As is customary out here where people are few, and the trail is long, we stopped and spoke for some minutes.  We first stated what a pleasure it was to meet, (though we hadn’t met before), then asked after each other’s health.  Though we had never met, he knew who I was.  Apparently I had cared for a nephew of his from Naranjito (which put me at the disadvantage of trying to remember who he was talking about and/or acting vaguely as if I did).  So, I asked how his nephew was doing, and was relieved to find out that he was recovering well ( recovering from what I’m still not certain).  I asked if he himself was from Naranjito, and this is what led to the information I’ve shared about Don Francisco.  I also asked him if this trail only leads to Naranjito.  He said, “Yes, if you stay on the trail to Naranjito.”  “So then the trail goes to other villages?”  “Yes, if you take the trail to other places.” I tried a different tack.  “So the path branches?”  “Yes, Oh lots of branches.”  “Where does the trail branch off for Naranjito?”   “For Naranjito you turn there toward the mountain.” “Toward El Toro?” “Yes.” “How far is it to where the trail gives the branch to Naranjito?” “Oh, some ways still.... a little far.”  “How many minutes do you think it would cost in walking to there?”  “Up the mountain? Oh, maybe half an hour, maybe an hour.  It depends on how fast you walk.”  “And how will I know when I reach this branch?” “Up there you will see three tall trees—sapotillos.  Over there you turn toward the mountain.”

      Since I took my leave of Don Francisco, I have been walking steadily uphill, sometimes in the shade sometimes in the clear, but always uphill.  Instead of a flat and level path, the “caminito” is more often like a meandering ditch dug by the passage of many feet, human and animal.  It dips and turns, then follows a stream, then claws its way up a ridge.    As I climb, I’ve been thinking.  I’ve been thinking about customary social behavior in the countryside versus what is customary in the city.  As you can tell, Don Francisco and I stopped and greeted each other. And, while we were not exactly working out the permutations of fractal geometry, we at least carried on a brief conversation.  Not long ago I was stuck for a few minutes in an elevator with 15 people in Panama City.  Although a few of us made eye contact and nodded, no one spoke to anyone else. 

      As I get higher on the trail I think about how quickly I have become remote from a place which most would consider remote enough.  I remember that I am glad that I am traveling armed on this trail.  While most are humble campesinos (country folk), there are plenty of bad guys up here.... and no police.  One of those bad guys killed a child on this very trail some months ago, and I know that he knows that we have made inquiries, and come out against him down at the hospital.   Some who read this might not agree.  They might think “What? A missionary traveling with a gun?  He should just trust God to protect him.” Believe me, I do trust God.  I just think it foolish to have Him work harder than He already has to do.  I have had a fair amount of experience trusting God.  I have lived for some years with my wife and children just down the hill at the end of one of these trails.  I’ve just come to the conclusion that it is a bad idea to “tempt the Lord your God.”  I could be making a wrong choice in this.  It has happened before, you know.  Or maybe those who would point the finger just haven’t walked this part of the trail. It is important to see things from another’s point of view.

      It has now been more than an hour since Don Francisco told me about the fork in the trail where the three big sapotillos are.  So, just now I am thinking about trees and directions. In this last hour I have seen three big trees a few times.... like about 100 times.  I mean this part of the trail does border the jungle.  And the jungle is basically made of tall trees.  And was it three sapotillos? Or was it sapotones? Or sapones? Doesn’t matter.  I never could remember which one is which.  When we were in Panama recently, we were trying to find our way through a detour and a lot of road construction to a connecting road back down to the canal zone.  We weren’t exactly lost, but, you could say we had been bewildered for a few hours.  We met no shortage of people happy to give directions.  It’s just that none of them had ever driven a car before. The directions were given from the pedestrian’s point of view.  The last fellow pilgrim who offered encouragement and detailed instructions told us (more or less) that the turn-off was some minutes after a long stretch downhill with very little shade and a lot of thorns in the grass.  Then you come to the place where there are a “monton” (a heap) of tall trees, and there you are.  That’s the road.  By some fluke we stumbled upon the right choice to turn off. And, sure enough, that road had a heap of tall trees on either side (it went through the rainforest).   But, it wasn’t until after you were several hundred meters down the road that the trees began. It made me think that, like beauty, directions must be all in the eye of the beholder.

      Up here with plenty of time to reflect, I’ve been thinking that in order to offer directions that would apply to every man, one would have to have traveled the road from every pilgrim’s point of view, but still made the right choice.  This may sound like preaching, but I hope not.  I’m not very good at preaching either.  I’m just saying honestly that one of the things that  drew me to the carpenter from Nazareth when I first seriously read the gospel accounts of his life was His ‘wholeness.’  He gave good directions. He gave simple, clear directions that seemed to come from a bottomless well of understanding of the human condition, but were always the right choice: “Take up your bed and walk.” “Allow the little children to come to me, for of such is the Kingdom of heaven.” “Have the people sit down in groups and I’ll bless the food, and then we’ll share what we have.” “Don’t pray on the corner for show.  That is between you and God.”  “Leave your nets.  Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” “Don’t judge according to appearances, but judge with righteous judgment.” “Whose image and inscription is on the coin? Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and unto God what is God’s.”  “Let the one who is without sin cast the first stone.”  These are simple, straight-forward directions. Once you have heard them they are clear to follow.  But to come up with them? That is a different thing. You would have to be someone who understood the road from all pilgrims’ perspectives, but still made the right choice.... someone “tempted in all ways that are common to man, and yet without sin.” That is ‘wholeness.’  That is someone worth following.

      Now, before the light gives out, or my legs give out, I think I’ll sit down under these three tall trees, wipe the sweat off my hands, and wonder how to start writing.

In Jesus,
Jeff McKenney, M.D.


President, Cornerstone Foundation

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