Cuauhtemoc’s Motel Tarahumara treated us well Tuesday night. It was a quiet, enjoyable evening, including a lively card game and a good laugh at poor Mom’s expense, who just couldn’t understand the concept of losing-in-order-to-win in the game of Hearts. After a traditional Andy Griffith to close down the night, we hit the sack around ten.
Wednesday morning’s events included an easy check-out of the hotel, a delicious (and nutritious) breakfast at a nearby Nutri-Vida store, and the unfortunate discovery that my poor brother had a horrible sore throat and the beginnings of a nasty cold.
Leaving Cuauhtemoc turned out to be pretty easy - we found the highway without a hitch, and began passing by endless, perfectly ordered rows of apple trees, staked out and pruned, ready for the summer growing season. These apples are the famous Cuautehmoc Mennonite apples, which along with its Mennonite cheese, makes up a large part of the region’s economy. This part of the state of Chihuahua is highly populated with German Mennonites that immigrated to the area in the early 20th Century from Canada and Germany, in order to found a religious community free from persecution. Through German ingenuity, hard work, and John Deere tractors, they transformed this dry valley into a fertile, highly-productive farmland. It’s quite interesting therefore, to pass by several businesses along the highway, whose names and advertisements are in Spanish and German!
We passed out of the Cuauhtemoc region in the mid-morning, and began entering the more mountainous and forested Sierra Tarahumara. Our destination for the day was the famous Basaseachi waterfall, which is reported to be the tallest waterfall in North America. Although it was a long 3-hour (one-way) drive through the mountains to reach the small Basaseachi national park, it was well worth it. We parked at the little tourist town, and then started a short 15-minute walk on a stone/gravel path through the delicious aroma of pines and alongside a quick-flowing little stream that cut through a stone gulley until we arrived at the waterfall itself.
Although I had first surmised that we were going to encounter the waterfall at its base, I quickly realized that we actually arrived at its mouth! Suddenly the little stone path gave way to a large opening, the ground now completely made of rock, and the little stream gathered up force for a 1000-meter tumble off the cliff on which we were now standing! As my eyes took in the majestic sight before them, I couldn’t walk any further. Monstrously tall cliffs, the big brothers of the one on which we stood, encircled and formed a massive pine-carpeted canyon, through which flowed the same stream that was falling from our feet to the canyon floor. The immensity of those sheer cliff walls astounded, frightened, and awed me.
Grand. That is probably the best word to describe Basaseachi, although it falls short. Staring into the grandeur, watching stone cliffs rocket out of the evergreen reminded me of the abruptness of Petra’s regal rock face, jutting out of the desert floor in declaration of its uniqueness and majesty. It was as if they had kingly countenances, mouthing words of defiance to the puny, camera-toting tourists standing on their little brother’s bald stone head.
Still savoring those words of terrible beauty in my mind’s eye, we returned the way we had came and found a small, home-kitchen restaurant that offered authentic Mexican food to hungry travelers like ourselves. We devoured the enchiladas, burritos, caldo de res, and chile pasado, my family relishing the new flavors of Old Mexico, and I taking joy in their relishing of my newfound culture.
Coming to places like Basaseachi and experiencing its breathtakingly majestic scenery often puts a mixed emotion in my heart. Yes, I feel wonder and joy, astonishment and even dazzled disbelief at the spectacle before my eyes. But I simultaneously have a sense of disappointment, which is attached to my inability to fully experience the beauty. I can only go as far as the chainlink fence will allow me, and there must my experience stop. Or, even if I am able to go past the legal boundary and explore the depth of the beauty until my body wears out, I am not confident that I would be fully satisfied.
Here’s what I mean: the part of my soul which is so greatly thrilled by the majesty of Basaseachi’s cliffs can only truly be satisfied by drinking from the Source of such beauty.
Delighting in the depths of the Creator is the only means to fully experience the beauty of creation.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Saturday, March 1, 2008
A Tale of Green and Brown
Since I haven't written in a while, I decided to make up for my lack of communication with a long story. Apologies for its length; it's something that has remained powerfully engrained in my mind the past few weeks. Hope you enjoy it.
On the outskirts of this valley-bound city under the shadow of tan, rugged hills spotted with scraggly bush-trees, lies a forgotten suburb named Albergue (pronounced "Ahl-BEAR-Geh"). Just recently has this part of the city of Parral been connected with the outside world with a paved road. Before, dirt truck-paths were its only access with the city itself, even though it's only a mile from one of the busiest parts of town.
Although I'm still being educated on its demographic makeup, Albergue apparently has a large Tarahumara Indian population, who are the native peoples of this part of the world. They were here long before the Spaniards arrived in the 16th Century and mixed their white European blood with the sun-tinted Talahumaras.
Most Tarahumara are on the fringe of society here. Many don't speak Spanish and live in the mountains, far away from the bigger Chihuahuan cities, completely disconnected from society in a way similar to the American Indians, but even more so due to the language barrier and cultural prejudice. Some come down from the sierra to live on the streets of the cities, begging for money. On the streets of Parral, I often encounter them: dark-skinned, ebony-haired women in brightly colored clothing, carrying little babies with dirty faces on their backs, asking people for money with their native tongue. "Codima?"
The people in Albergue are of this heritage of poverty and social rejection. This is the torn, stained curtain of a cultural backdrop for the story I'm about to tell.
In the church here is a guy named Mike. He's a good 6 inches shorter than I am and sports a good lookin' mustache, like most Mexican men. But unlike many Mexican men, Mike truly, humbly, and passionately loves Jesus Christ. And it shows. It's hard to have a conversation with Mike without out feeling the bombshell effect of love, joy, grace, and humility that Jesus has caused in his life. I heard one day that Mike was in charge of leading an outreach to this place called Albergue, and they were in need of somebody to lead worship. Being able to pluck a few strings on the guitar, I signed up and started going with Mike and a sweet spitfire of a lady from the church named Lucy.
My experience in Albergue can be summed up easily: Mike (or occasionally Lucy) picks me up from my house around 4:00 pm every Saturday, and we drive to the other part of the city, where Albergue is located. We descend off the paved road onto a dirt one which leads to a dusty soccer field, whose goals are made of rusted iron posts poorly welded together, ready to fall apart. The boundaries of the field are piles of dirt and rock on one side and a dirt wall on the other, on top of which is the paved road. There are often young boys and girls playing soccer there, covered in dust and yelling at the top of their lungs in the midst of a spirited game as we drive up.
We begin to talk and play with the kids as they arrive, knowing that we come every Saturday at this time (of course, the fact that there will be something yummy towards the end of the Bible lesson never hurts). My friend Judith (a young single girl from the church) also comes and accompanies me in leading worship, so we get out our guitars and begin tuning up. After a short worship time, we engage the kids in a short Bible lesson about Jesus' life. When we finish learning the memory verse for the week, the yummy something always emerges from the trunk of Lucy's car and we enjoy a snack on the dusty field as the yellow sun sets behind us.
Last week, I was privileged to play an important part in the lesson and become the man blind from birth in John chapter 9. One of the guys that comes and helps out with the outreach played the part of Jesus, and in place of putting saliva-made mud on my eyes, we substituted chocolate. It worked out just fine - I threw off my dark sunglasses and began declaring the technicolor wonder of my newfound reality (in less-than-perfect Spanish, of course).
After getting the chocolate fully off my face, I sat down with some of the kids as we enjoyed Lucy's snack. The sun was setting; its soft, warm yellowness bathing me as the casual mountain wind brought a slight chill to prick my skin. I sat in the evening's fading glory, the sound of chattering children filling my ears. Like every foreigner often does, I reflected on the oddity of my situation: a privileged white nerd from the US, sitting on a bare, brown soccer field on the outskirts of a city I had never heard of a year ago.
Suddenly, gazing at the stretching brown before me, my eyes saw something unexpected. There was green in the midst of the brown. On this dry, dusty soccer field, I saw a few small patches of green grass, subtly yet stubbornly holding its place in the brownness. The revealing power of the sun's yellow light drew my eyes to the clear contrast of emerald on dirt. I had never seen it before. It smote my vision like Rembrandt masterpiece. How was it possible for green grass to grow on this overused, tramped-on field that hasn't seen rain for months?
In the midst of the wonder, I saw a metaphor emerge. There was life in the midst of death. There was a clatter of awakening bones in the dry valley. It was springing from the dust, like Lazarus out of the tomb. Light issuing from darkness. There was something, a work of divine sovereignty and mercy, materializing in front of my eyes. The Kingdom, arriving humbly but powerfully in a place of desolation and brokenness, brought by the dusty, beautiful feet of those who preach the Good News.
Not only for Albergue, but this metaphor soon brought its guns to bear on my own broken life. I don't wear my frailty obviously, like this poverty-stricken place, but I'm poor nonetheless. Weak. Dry. Withered. Cracked. Dust itself cannot produce verdant fields. Only mercy brings life out of death and produces lushness in the desert.
I will open rivers on the bare heights,
and fountains in the midst of the valleys.
I will make the wilderness a pool of water,
and the dry land springs of water.
I will put in the wilderness the cedar,
the acacia, the myrtle, and the olive.
I will set in the desert the cypress,
the plane and the pine together,
that they may see and know,
may consider and understand together,
that the hand of the LORD has done this,
the Holy One of Israel has created it.
Isaiah 41: 18-20
On the outskirts of this valley-bound city under the shadow of tan, rugged hills spotted with scraggly bush-trees, lies a forgotten suburb named Albergue (pronounced "Ahl-BEAR-Geh"). Just recently has this part of the city of Parral been connected with the outside world with a paved road. Before, dirt truck-paths were its only access with the city itself, even though it's only a mile from one of the busiest parts of town.
Although I'm still being educated on its demographic makeup, Albergue apparently has a large Tarahumara Indian population, who are the native peoples of this part of the world. They were here long before the Spaniards arrived in the 16th Century and mixed their white European blood with the sun-tinted Talahumaras.
Most Tarahumara are on the fringe of society here. Many don't speak Spanish and live in the mountains, far away from the bigger Chihuahuan cities, completely disconnected from society in a way similar to the American Indians, but even more so due to the language barrier and cultural prejudice. Some come down from the sierra to live on the streets of the cities, begging for money. On the streets of Parral, I often encounter them: dark-skinned, ebony-haired women in brightly colored clothing, carrying little babies with dirty faces on their backs, asking people for money with their native tongue. "Codima?"
The people in Albergue are of this heritage of poverty and social rejection. This is the torn, stained curtain of a cultural backdrop for the story I'm about to tell.
In the church here is a guy named Mike. He's a good 6 inches shorter than I am and sports a good lookin' mustache, like most Mexican men. But unlike many Mexican men, Mike truly, humbly, and passionately loves Jesus Christ. And it shows. It's hard to have a conversation with Mike without out feeling the bombshell effect of love, joy, grace, and humility that Jesus has caused in his life. I heard one day that Mike was in charge of leading an outreach to this place called Albergue, and they were in need of somebody to lead worship. Being able to pluck a few strings on the guitar, I signed up and started going with Mike and a sweet spitfire of a lady from the church named Lucy.
My experience in Albergue can be summed up easily: Mike (or occasionally Lucy) picks me up from my house around 4:00 pm every Saturday, and we drive to the other part of the city, where Albergue is located. We descend off the paved road onto a dirt one which leads to a dusty soccer field, whose goals are made of rusted iron posts poorly welded together, ready to fall apart. The boundaries of the field are piles of dirt and rock on one side and a dirt wall on the other, on top of which is the paved road. There are often young boys and girls playing soccer there, covered in dust and yelling at the top of their lungs in the midst of a spirited game as we drive up.
We begin to talk and play with the kids as they arrive, knowing that we come every Saturday at this time (of course, the fact that there will be something yummy towards the end of the Bible lesson never hurts). My friend Judith (a young single girl from the church) also comes and accompanies me in leading worship, so we get out our guitars and begin tuning up. After a short worship time, we engage the kids in a short Bible lesson about Jesus' life. When we finish learning the memory verse for the week, the yummy something always emerges from the trunk of Lucy's car and we enjoy a snack on the dusty field as the yellow sun sets behind us.
Last week, I was privileged to play an important part in the lesson and become the man blind from birth in John chapter 9. One of the guys that comes and helps out with the outreach played the part of Jesus, and in place of putting saliva-made mud on my eyes, we substituted chocolate. It worked out just fine - I threw off my dark sunglasses and began declaring the technicolor wonder of my newfound reality (in less-than-perfect Spanish, of course).
After getting the chocolate fully off my face, I sat down with some of the kids as we enjoyed Lucy's snack. The sun was setting; its soft, warm yellowness bathing me as the casual mountain wind brought a slight chill to prick my skin. I sat in the evening's fading glory, the sound of chattering children filling my ears. Like every foreigner often does, I reflected on the oddity of my situation: a privileged white nerd from the US, sitting on a bare, brown soccer field on the outskirts of a city I had never heard of a year ago.
Suddenly, gazing at the stretching brown before me, my eyes saw something unexpected. There was green in the midst of the brown. On this dry, dusty soccer field, I saw a few small patches of green grass, subtly yet stubbornly holding its place in the brownness. The revealing power of the sun's yellow light drew my eyes to the clear contrast of emerald on dirt. I had never seen it before. It smote my vision like Rembrandt masterpiece. How was it possible for green grass to grow on this overused, tramped-on field that hasn't seen rain for months?
In the midst of the wonder, I saw a metaphor emerge. There was life in the midst of death. There was a clatter of awakening bones in the dry valley. It was springing from the dust, like Lazarus out of the tomb. Light issuing from darkness. There was something, a work of divine sovereignty and mercy, materializing in front of my eyes. The Kingdom, arriving humbly but powerfully in a place of desolation and brokenness, brought by the dusty, beautiful feet of those who preach the Good News.
Not only for Albergue, but this metaphor soon brought its guns to bear on my own broken life. I don't wear my frailty obviously, like this poverty-stricken place, but I'm poor nonetheless. Weak. Dry. Withered. Cracked. Dust itself cannot produce verdant fields. Only mercy brings life out of death and produces lushness in the desert.
I will open rivers on the bare heights,
and fountains in the midst of the valleys.
I will make the wilderness a pool of water,
and the dry land springs of water.
I will put in the wilderness the cedar,
the acacia, the myrtle, and the olive.
I will set in the desert the cypress,
the plane and the pine together,
that they may see and know,
may consider and understand together,
that the hand of the LORD has done this,
the Holy One of Israel has created it.
Isaiah 41: 18-20
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