January 27, 2000

Arriving in the Guatemala airport felt like coming home. I think I know it as well as I do Omaha's Eppley field. Every visit it is more cosmopolitan, but it unmistakably Guatemala.

After collecting my various baggage, I headed outside to look for my “Guatemalan family” who was to pick me up. I no sooner cleared the doors of the airport, than I heard “Patreeceea.” Manuel, the younger son, stood there waiting and waving! After an exchange of hugs and other greetings, he explained that Leo, his dad, had wanted to pick me up, and would be driving around shortly.

Leo is one of the most godly and humble men I’ve ever met. He also has had recurrent occurrence of cancer which have left him in constant pain. That doesn’t prevent him from serving however he is able. He got out of the car in tears, saying (in Spanish), “I can’t believe God let me see you again!” This was the first of many times on this trip that I dissolved into tears. As we drove through Guatemala City, I sat in wonder at how familiar it was—how much it felt like home. I didn’t even flinch this time at the weird turnarounds and even weirder driving practices of the locals. And traffic in Guatemala is quite the sight to behold. He who goes the fastest and is the biggest, goes first!

As we entered the city of Antigua where I which I would call “home” for the next 10 days, Leo asked my permission to make a stop. He pulled up to the church of San Francisco. He became very excited when he learned I’d never visited this particular church (among the dozens there are in this town). He then told me we’d only be a few minutes, saying, “I want to thank God for bringing you back to us!” For the second time in as many hours I was in tears. We prayed together before one of the altars, and then Leo and Manuel led me to the tomb of Hermano Pedro. His story is too long to tell here, but his life was spent among the poor and helpless of Guatemala. Many hospitals and orphanages bear his name, including the one in which I would be visiting over the next several days.

When we arrived at the house, again there were hugs and kisses and tears as I greeted Mari (the mom) and Naya (the housekeeper). I no sooner put down my bags, than I was handed a piping hot bowl of “pepian,” a traditional Guatemalan chicken stew. The fact that it was only about 2:30 in the afternoon, and I had had lunch on the plane was disregarded. They had saved this dish especially for me, and I ate every morsel with gratitude. I really WAS home!