Becoming Catholic?

Danika and I had been down here for almost 4 weeks and had yet to properly thank the Lord for all that He has done to get us here and keep us safe. Feeling an overwhelming need to do so, I ventured out Saturday morning in search of a church that “spoke” to me.
Later that day we ended up down in West End at the beach when I saw an old wood sign that said ¨Saturday Mass 7 pm¨ and an arrow pointing up into the palm tree littered hill. I decided that there would be no better place to praise God than in the hills surrounded by beach and made plans to come back later that evening.

few hours later, sans sunlight, we found ourselves wandering around trying to find the sign again. (Turns out a small old wood sign hidden in with the trees is not the easiest thing to spot in the dark.) Finally we found it and followed the arrow faithfully. We walked for a ways and when I didn’t see a building or hear any music I decided that it must not be there anymore. Just as I was turning around something caught my eye, it was a beautiful cross that was lit up in the hill. I followed it and found a small group of people gathered in the moonlight surrounded by candles.

The stars illuminated the sky above us and the faint sound of waves crashing on the shore resignated in our ears.

It was the most beautiful church I had ever been to.

The service was presented by a Catholic Priest and was in Spanish. And yet I still felt the presence of the Lord more clearly than I ever had before.

Yet again another powerful lesson that I have learned since coming to Honduras.

Too often people think that the “church” is defined by the four walls that surround it. When we say that we are “going to church”, what we really mean is we are driving to a building where we will sit with a group of people that talk, look, and think just like us. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

But as I received communion and knelt in the dirt with my daughter babbling along as I prayed, I felt the power of my surroundings, the power of the sermon that I barely understood and yet understood completely.

We ended the service singing “How Great Thou Art” in Spanish and Danika stared up at the candle lit cross as if she too felt the power pouring down from it and washing over us.

As I walked along the shore back to town with my daughter it dawned on me that the beauty of being a Christian is this: You can never ever run out of things to be thankful for.