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The Road Less
Traveled
By John Taylor
Itinerant Missionary
The World is the Field, Honduras, Central America
A few feet ahead on the trail, Joche Barahona turned back to where I was pulling myself out of the knee-deep mud. "Brother John, I am not coming this way with you again!"
I could hardly blame Joche. Our simple "four hour" walk, which was to become an eleven hour walk, had been filled with difficulty. A three hour bus ride from Catacamas to Culmi, followed by a nine hour trip, bouncing along on the back of a small pickup, in four wheel drive most of the way over the mountains; the anxiety of traveling along a road where just hours before another truck had been assaulted and its driver shot by bandits; sleeping on the rough floorboards of a rustic house at Guayabo; scrambling over rocks and through the river in the pitch black of early morning-without a flashlight. It had not been easy. My only consolation was that it was Joche's idea to come this way - not mine.
I had been this way once before, eighteen years ago. On that occasion it was a two day walk, from first light in the morning till after sunset at night, from the end of the road to the first village, Paya. On that occasion, when night fell, our small party of travelers stopped at a small thatched house to ask whether we could hang our hammocks overnight.
On that occasion we discovered that the family who lived in the house were not Christians, but were happy for us to hold a little service in their home. In the dim light of the candle, a kerosene filled bottle with a homemade wick, we sang, read the Bible and brought testimonies and a message from God's Word. The result was that the entire family prayed, asking Christ to be their Savior. We left at first light the next morning, not knowing the family's name, and not having seen their faces clearly in the dim light. I had not gone back that way since.
When Joche met me in Catacamas, Olancho, I told him I had to go to Serrania, a three hour walk beyond Paya. Joche said if we could go this back way, he would accompany me.
"But Joche, I went that way eighteen years ago. It's a rough trail"
"That was a long time ago, Hermano Juan. Now the road goes in a lot closer. I was talking with a man who told me we could go by bus to Culmi, by truck to Guayabo, and from there it's only four hours walk to Paya."
That's how we found ourselves in our predicament. Already twenty-six hours of traveling and waiting behind us, and four hours into our walk, it was obvious we were no where near our destination. On top of that, we were unprepared for such a hike. Instead of back packs we were carrying sports bags, which were quite uncomfortable, switching them from hand to hand, or putting our arms through the handles to wear them like rucksacks, which they were not designed to be. In addition, I had on sneakers instead of proper walking boots, and the way was muddy. Walking in clay mud in sneakers is like walking on ice.
We had both slipped and slid and fallen and gotten stuck in the mud all along the way.
Just when we were both ready to sit in the mud and cry, Joche spied a house in clearing. It was a big house of concrete blocks with a tin roof and solar energy panels -- quite unusual for the setting. We had seen no other houses for the past four hours.
"Let's go in there," Joche suggested.
That was a great idea, so we walked up to the house, where several men, a few children, and a couple women were on the veranda. I noticed a tiny church next to the house. "My name is Juan and this is Joche. We're headed for Paya.” "Paya? That's a long way from here," came the reply. Our hearts sank.
Graciela, the lady of the house, brought us welcome cups of coffee. I asked Sebastian, the father of the family, about the church. He told us he was the pastor. I asked whether he had come to this remote area to start the church.
"No, we've lived here for thirty years." I inquired how he had come to start a church way out here. His answer was astounding. "My family and I received Christ as Savior, let's see, it was... (he calculated the years in his head)... oh, yes, it was eighteen years ago when a missionary named John Taylor came through here."
Joche and I looked at each other in amazement. "I am John Taylor," I added. The family moved in to take a closer look and erupted in delight. "Why, yes, you are!” There was an outburst of rejoicing all around!
Through the years I had wondered about the family I had visited so long ago. What had happened to them? Had anything really happened that night, or were they being polite and accommodating when they prayed? Now, all these years later, here they are, not only still trusting Christ, but serving Him as well.
We were fed and re-coffee'd and hugged by all. When time to hit the trail again, Sebastian looked at my sneakers and said, "Those shoes are no good for this trail. Let me see if I can find a pair of rubber boots." In his storehouse he had a brand new pair, my size, which he gave me.
After another short time of rejoicing and prayer, we were sent on our way, on mules for a bit of the journey, leaving the family behind in joyful tears.
"Joche, you know what this means, don't you?"
"What, Hermano Juan?"
"It means we will have to come back this way again."
Editor’s Note: John Taylor and his wife Stellene have been active in missionary work and GCMF members for 30 years. They have served in Europe and Central America.