Light in the Village

It was late evening when the knock came at the door of the mission house.  A couple of the firemen whose station was just on the other side of the wall from where we lived stood there.   A woman who lived in a village some distance from the city needed a ride home and the ambulance was down.  They wondered if  Larry would be willing to drive her there in our van.  We had always been discouraged from driving outside the city after dark.  Unseen objects in the road were known to cause serious accidents, and cows and other livestock, often seen meandering across the highways during the day, were virtually impossible to see at night.  But the firemen spoke somberly explaining the circumstances and why it was necessary to make the trip immediately.  A few minutes later I heard the gate open and the sound of our vehicle backing out onto the street.   

This was the second trip the young mother had made to the Hospital Atlantida in the last few days. Her young daughter had become very sick and she had traveled to La Ceiba seeking help.  But for whatever reason the little girl had been sent home and her condition had worsened. Once again the woman returned to the hospital with the child, but she had come too late.  The little girl died after being admitted, and it was imperative that the two be returned to their village as soon as possible.

Kneeling on the floor of the van, the grieving mother wailed the entire drive back to her village.  Her three-year-old daughter lay behind her wrapped in the heavy, butcher-like paper that was used in the hospital morgue.  That's where Larry found her, sitting there alone beside the body of her little girl.

When Larry turned off the highway, she rose as he approached the first house. Those within heard the sound of the approaching vehicle and immediately exited and descended upon the young woman as she fell into their arms.  They would have had no way of knowing what the outcome of the second trip back to the hospital would be, but there was no question now.  Immediately the word spread and amidst the cries and sobs of family and friends, preparations were already being made.  Tomorrow the little girl would be laid to rest.

The family was poor, their house small.  But at the end of a long path was a much larger house, big enough to accommodate the village for such an occasion as this.  Within a matter of minutes word came back that they were ready and waiting to lay out the body of the child for the wake.  

Somehow Larry was the one who ended up leading the procession that night.   He would later recount that he couldn't ever remember being in a darker place.  There were no streetlights or warm welcoming porch lights to make the journey down that unfamiliar path any easier, and he was concerned that he not veer off that winding track or lose his footing.  In his arms he held the little girl who not too many hours earlier had been warm with life, reminding him of our youngest daughter back home, not all that much older than the child he now carried. 

And then he saw the light, an oil lamp that had been set out in the distance at the far end of the path.  Relieved and grateful, he shifted his gaze from the unfamiliar surroundings and focused solely on that beacon that lay ahead, drawing him and those who followed from behind.  The way didn't seem quite so dark now, that one lamp penetrating the blackness of the night just enough to keep him and the others from stumbling on the way to their destination.

The house sat expectantly as Larry carried the child through the door and laid her down.  There were others who would take over now, his part in all of this was finished.  He headed back up the trail towards the van, his arms empty, the light now at his back.  Morning would break soon enough and the oil lamp would be snuffed out until night descended once again.

I imagine Larry drove home on that black highway with the beams turned up high.  It was after all a very dark night.  But inside there was light, and it had been present all along.  It was visible when those firemen came to the door of the mission house and at the moment a grieving mother was rescued from that morgue and reunited with her family.  And the light was there when a stranger carried her child through the shadows along that uneven path.  Even before the oil lamp was lit, light had come to that village.


"You are the light of the world.  A city on a hill cannot be hidden.  Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl.  Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house.  In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven."  Matthew 5:14-16