A Father's Love

It was a normal late Sunday morning in Guatemala. A grandmother took two of her granddaughters to visit relatives in San Miguel los Lotes. A father's motorcycle sat in the repair shop. The rest of his family was at home with him, his wife and boys. In villages all along the mountainside, families were enjoying yet another day, making tortillas for lunch, playing outside with colorful plastic balls, and laughing with family members.

An explosion of fire from Fuego's mouth turned a normal day into a nightmare that sent panicked villagers running. While everyone was running away, one man was running closer and closer, desperate to find his daughters.

It's as if I am listening to someone describe the plot of a movie they saw, but as I feel the sweat beading on my skin from the baked air within the house of corrugated tin, I feel the heavy reality of a father's incredible story. Seeing two girls laying on their beds, special socks on their feet and one with dressings on her arms, I know the story's end will find them alive, but it doesn't make it any easier to listen to. I realize that I'm thankful that the father's story is translated bit by bit, as it gives me time to compose myself enough so the tears don't escape from my eyes.

The father ran to the repair shop and told the man he needed his motorcycle fixed immediately; he had to rescue his daughters. With a fixed motorcycle that he was only charged 10 Quetzales for, the man ignored the bad roads and many potholes and raced toward los Lotes, closer and closer to Fuego's wrath.

In the dim lighting I can't tell if there are tears in his eyes as he speaks, but when this one sentence is translated into English I struggle, blinking quickly, to stop the tears from falling. He says, "I ruined my motorcycle, but I have my daughters." His gaze of love sweeps over them both.

He reached the terrorized town an hour after the first lava flows. Desperately searching through the steaming chaos, he cried out to God for rain to cool down the scorched earth so he could find his daughters.

Meanwhile, the girls had clustered for safety inside a home, but with too many people trying to breathe in the increasingly toxic air, they had to leave or suffocate. They ran for their lives over steaming ashes that burned their feet. The one girl stumbled and fell, sustaining bad burns on her arms. 

It rained. For 12 miraculous minutes it rained, and a desperate father found his daughters, alive but hurting. Their reunion was enjoyed but a moment as pyroclastic flow came racing toward los Lotes.

The motorcycle wasn't getting them away fast enough. Finally, they saw an ambulance fleeing and got a ride in the back, escaping the blanket of death and smoldering destruction just in time.

The little house is silent as all of us are mesmerized by the incredible story of a father's love and a miraculous rescue. Their story, though full of pain, is marked by God's touch. We are all still holding our breath, our minds trying to comprehend what we have heard.

As the mother of the girls begins to speak, I look over to see the pain, love and strength mingling on her face. They had many family members in los Lotes, she says. Seventeen of them - including the grandmother who was with the girls - were injured and are recovering; at least twenty of them are no more. She looks down, mouth trembling; I look down, heart bleeding.

None of us can get past the father's story. What an incredible story of sacrificial love for his children, akin to that of God's sacrificial love for us! An earthly father displaying the reckless love of God that leaves the ones he loves behind to search out the ones he loves who need rescuing. 

We spend the rest of the time praying for the girls and worshipping together, singing praise to the One who loves us desperately. The Spirit is thick among us as guitar strings and voices raise song after heartfelt song of worship and the girls look on, smiling.

My heart is full. This is what it means to be the Church.

As we walk back out into the hot sunshine in a clear blue sky, showing no indication of the terrors that gripped so many just a mere eight weeks ago, I know I will never be quite the same.