Tantalizing Tikal

As I prepare for my tenth trip to Guatemala, I’ve been reminiscing about previous visits, including this journey into the exotic forests of the northern territory six years ago…

Frank Zappa once said that writing about music is like dancing about architecture.  Akin to that would be trying to describe the aural and visual sensations of an overnight stay at Parque Nacional Tikal in northern Guatemala.  But I shall try.

A dozen of us decided to stay in Central America for two additional days on the tail end of our church mission trip.  We had been in the central highlands, at about a mile high altitude for the better part of a week, and, even though it was July, had been enjoying sunny humidity-free days working alongside our new friends at Bethel Student Center in the humble burg of Patzicia.  Populated with tranquil Mayans who are small-of-stature, but huge-in-heart and good will, it was easy to see why this culture has remained sacred for over 2,000 years.  There’s an abiding sense of peace and understanding of their relationship with each other and to the land. 

It’s not been without problems, however.  Through several epochs this people has both flourished and gone into deep decline. Archeologists and historians are still puzzled as to what transpired to bring the mighty Mayan Empire that covered over 60,000 square miles for over a thousand years to closure.  Was it pestilence? Disease? A prolonged drought? Toxic volcanic ash from a mighty eruption? Genocide brought about from internal warring? Being overrun by an outside nation? It now appears that it was some sort of combination of all the above that hastened the downfall from prominence around 950 AD.

Rising at 3:00 AM, we had to strap most of our baggage atop a creaking mini-bus, and motor our way from Antigua to Guatemala City for a pre-dawn check-in.  Operating out of a small hangar off to the side from the main airport, we flew a domestic airline that ran several one-hour shuttles each day between the capital city and the infamous ruins two hundred miles to the north. If we had chosen to drive, it would’ve taken close to eight hours each way to navigate the mountain passages and primitive roads leading down into the rain forests.

As soon as the door to our twin prop aircraft opened, we realized we were in a much different circumstance.  Hot, steamy air whooshed into the cabin, and we began sweating even before we deplaned.  We had descended to nearly sea level, and there were no more hills, let alone lofty mountains, as far as the eye could see.  Just lots of huge, exotic trees,and intermittent swampy lowlands.

Boarding another bus, we drove one more hour further into the jungle, getting to know others from London, Luxemburg, and New York who were also going to explore the Mayan wonders. When we emptied out at the official hotel of the park, we were greeted by chattering spider monkeys in the trees above us, and swelling waves of buzz-saw like armies of cicadas in quadraphonic bombast around us.  

After quickly disposing of our luggage in our rooms, we set out with our tour guide (curiously named “Nixon”) for an initial four hour hike of the ruins.  With temperatures and humidity percentages both approaching  a hundred, we traversed dusty trails under gigantic ceiba trees (some twenty stories tall, with massive spreading trunks as wide as a UPS truck).  Mahogany and cedar also dominated the scene, the latter with a distinct odor reminiscent of bean and onion soup.  An All Spice tree added to the olfactory sensations with a scent quite reminiscent of Old Spice after shave.

Our anticipation grew as we trekked deeper in the woods. The Mayans had built some gargantuan pyramids and temples that had become iconoclastic worldwide.  I had wanted to climb them since I was a youth…and now, finally, I was so close.

When we eventually came out of a thick clump of fauna we gazed upon the back side of the Jaguar Temple…standing there mesmerized…our necks craning back to take in the two hundred foot high edifice that jutted out from the greenery surrounding it.

We scampered about the main acropolis, taking in the exquisite carvings, and marveling at the combination of brute force and craftsmanship that built these various holy sites. How many died from falls, or being crushed, or fevers over decades it took to erect these at roughly at the same time the Romans were conquering the Mediterranean?

My roomie for the trip, David, and I scaled several of the largest pinnacles together. As we made the strides up the steep steps (almost ladders, really), we wondered how tiny Mayans managed to climb the hundreds of twelve to fifteen inch leg-lifts to reach the top. With lungs heaving from the thick air, and sweat glands working overtime, we were rewarded with a gentle breeze at the top of each summit—the only wind we ever felt in Tikal.  From these perches we surveyed half a dozen other pyramids standing strong like Gibralters in an otherwise all-encompassing green sea of leaves.  Some of these identical views were captured by George Lucas in the very first Star Wars film in 1977 to represent one of his exotic far-flung planets.

Descending was even more stimulating.  Not only were the steps just six inches wide, but they were often covered in limestone dust and rounded off from two millennia of wear and tear.  One misstep could have resulted in more than just a band-aid.  Visions of multiple fractures and even loss of life crossed our worried minds as we walked backwards down those unforgiving stairs like two-year-olds attempting their first solo try down the basement steps on their own.

Working our way from one cluster of temples to the next we heard so many exotic sounds above us: descending whistles like infant bottle rockets, clipped chirping, squawking, inquisitive tones, and even a tea kettle approaching full boil. 

At one point Nixon stopped us suddenly and told us to crouch low, where we saw a miniature superhighway of thousands upon thousands of leaf-cutter ants coursing across our path. Carrying ten times their body weight, these industrious red workers hoist what look like little green sails of leaves back to their humongous colonies (some with mound clusters the size of a living room) for food storage.  I studied these tiny critters several more times over the next day.  I was fascinated with the sociology of common purpose, and the single-minded commitment to their calling.

We came across several tremendous beetles---some the size ofa half dollar; and handfuls of different chameleons and salamanders; red-winged grasshoppers twice as large as what one sees in the U.S., and a Jesus Christ lizard—so named because it can run across the top of a pond—making a dash across some water.

Though brimming with it, not everything was life.  A carcass of a four-inch tarantula was wedged in a hole---no doubt being dragged in for supper by another spider (they eat their own dead). A large dragonfly with a translucent back, was struggling in a sticky web, about to become someone’s meal. A wren with yellow and black markings no less vibrant than a bumble bee, had apparently starved to death struggling to free itself from a screened porch.  Squadrons of foreboding vultures were circling above some recently felled beast that they were zeroing-in upon. Even one of our group members, Gayle, was stung by a scorpion that had found its way into her suitcase overnight.  Fortunately, the venom was not strong enough to kill a human (although it did cause some searing, swelling pain)…but most certainly would’ve felled a lesser creature.

After hiking several miles amongst the main compounds of this once burgeoning city of over 100,000 ancient citizens, the afternoon rains began. With the thick canopy above us, we mostly just heard the rains; intermittent drops coming down in patches around us. As we worked our way back to the hotel, we saw lemurs, toucans, raccoons, and howler monkeys all scurrying about for cover in this daily ritual.

That evening, as the hotel turned the generators off at 10:00 PM, we were plunged into sudden and absolute darkness—so thorough we couldn’t even see our hands in front of our faces. As I lay as still as possible, trying not to think about how sticky I was from the smothering heat, what was initially eerie quiet became an aural feast that helped lull me to sleep. Layers of sound cascaded down from the above and around:  chirping crickets trying to woo each other; the creaking and blurting of various tree frogs and toads (some that were as large as a cereal bowl).  Occasionally the rhythm would be punctuated with a coconut’s thumping splat as it met the soaked sod. All in all, it seemed like God’s soothing benediction to another magnificent day.  One of Debussy’s soft evening pastorals couldn’t have been lovelier.

At daybreak, the forest began to giggle with life, and once again, I lay there soaking it in. I would be hard pressed to be awakened by anything better than the tender, lilting sonnets of tiny parakeets, wrens, and sparrows. A very light rain, much like gently tapping my finger against my throat, was working its way down through the layers of forest above us, and cascading upon the dozen layers of dried corn husks that made up the thatched roofoverhead.  Other droplets were ricocheting off bathtub sized banana leaves outside my window. A puddle below was receiving sundry drips with a rounded, melodious plunking like a lone pebble into a deep cistern. 

I couldn’t just lay there any longer…I needed to get out in the midst of it.  Out along the edge of the compound there was a swing, and as I quietly rocked back and forth on it, I felt like I was joining into the beats and measures of that early morning serenade. A light fog that was creeping through the greenery above was hardly muting the celebration of life.  Most of the over 260 types of birds that inhabit Tikal were unseen, but certainly not unheard. Titters, muffled warblings, and gurgling melodic conversations were everywhere.  Between a few were several harmonic vollies unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. There were caws, hooties, wah-wahs, warks, pata-tooeys, and wija-woks.  Some modulating with relentless repetitivity, others untimed and meandering.  One with an ascending triple call, another like the warning beacon of a truck inreverse.  Over my shoulder, in a clump of hydrangea bushes, I heard the warm fluttering of hummingbirds—so faint that it was nearly imperceptible. 

A few minutes later I heard the slightest of shuffling behind me. I quietly turned to see a family of coatamundies stealthily picking its way thru the thicket.  A brown-furred, tail-less type of critter about the size of a beagle.  Having never seen these before, I was curious, and slowly stood up, beginning to approach them. They suddenly sat motionless hoping I wouldn’t see them blend into the earthen tones of the jungle floor.  As I got within twelve feet, they silently arose and walked away from me. When I got closer still, they froze once again, rabbit-like with their eyes opened wide and whiskers twitching. When they felt I was too near, they gently stood in unison and strode quickly away into some low-lying brush.  Chances are, I will not be able to repeat that awe-inspiring interplay with such a rare species ever again.

Tikal, with all its intertwined dependence and relentless pursuit of life, reminded me of the resounding, abundant joy that each day can bring to us, if we allow ourselves the privilege. It sure seems that the Mayans recognized that and embrace it even to this day.  In my daily toil of computer screens, airport terminals, cell phones, and traffic tie-ups, I desperately needed that visceral memo on the profound simplicity of God’s creation in all its splendor.

I Miss Rich Mullins

Being St. Patrick's Day,  I've been thinking of some of my favorite Irishmen.  Though Rich was not born there, his name and lifestyle certainly reflected much of the Irish flare.

I miss Rich’s beaming smile and furrowed brow.

I miss Rich’s pop sensibilities blended with eclectic instrumentation.

I miss Rich’s quick laugh and his barking anger.

I miss Rich drinking eight glasses of water a day to “counteract” his smoking habit.

I miss that Rich read the Bible not to understand God but to encounter Him.

I miss Rich singing the “Star Spangled Banner” acapella to open a show but being outraged at U.S. foreign policy.

I miss Rich’s contrite heart and his assertions to, like Martin Luther, “sin boldly.”

I miss our extended chats about the rebel Jesus and our arguments over theology.

I miss Rich’s focus on the needs of others and his recurring challenges with absentmindedness.

I miss Rich’s wrestling with fame and his willingness to confess openly his darkest problems.

I miss Rich’s love for the Church and his aversion towards westernized churchianity.

I miss Rich’s servant heart and his uncompromising stance with record label suits.

I miss Rich quoting lengthy passages of scripture and swearing like a longshoreman.

I miss Rich’s longing for purity and his struggles with celibacy.

I miss Rich’s attraction to “high church” and performing his concerts bare foot and in tattered clothes.

I miss Rich’s love for Amy Grant and his disdain for the majority of her fans.

I miss Rich’s zeal for what moved him (like seeing Dances with Wolves twenty-seven times while it was in theaters) and his equal frustration with pop culture trends (like obsessive dieting).

I miss Rich’s desire for meaningful friendships and his frustrations with loneliness.

I miss Rich’s clarity that realized taking pride in poverty was equally as wicked as taking pride in wealth.

I miss Rich’s blunt rebukes and gentle grace.

I miss Rich’s intense self-judgment and his recognition of Christ’s deep fondness for him.

Yep…Rich was a complicated character, and a friend. When I read Rich Mullins: An Arrow Pointing To Heaven by James Bryan Smith I guess my emotions about Rich’s untimely death in 1997 were still a bit raw. But many memories started flowing…

Like when I met Rich the first time at Blanton and Harrell Management while I was a consultant on Amy Grant’s Straight Ahead Tour.  Mike and Dan had recently signed Rich to their new Reunion Records label.  He was just as scruffy as you would expect wandering the hallways, and had some definite opinions about the $15,000 Turkish carpets on the floors.

Or the time a few years later when I was helping manage the artist department at Compassion, and had worked hard with Rich on a printed piece to go into his second album, Pictures in the Sky.  He was excited to use his platform to help needy children in the developing world.  Unfortunately, I had just come from the parent record company, and the president of the label had decided not to allow the flier to be inserted after all. We were sitting in the old Shoney’s restaurant on Demonbreum here in Nashville when I gave him the news.  In an instant, his eyes flashed, he pounded his fist so loudly on the table that it lifted all the silverware and tipped a glass of ice water. “That bastard!” he screamed.  The bustling joint grew eerily quiet as Rich fumed further while I tried to calm him down. With our mutual passion for the insert, we eventually got those in charge to change their minds, and hundreds of precious little ones ended up with better lives as a result.

Then there was the time I was on the road for Compassion with the modern rock band The Choir.  One show was in Wichita at a second floor night club.  A terrible load-in for the band and crew.  Rich had become a fan of their music, and showed up early to assist with all the equipment and stayed late do the same.  The Choir and their crew had no idea Rich was with them, and since he was just wearing a dirty baseball cap with his hair pulled back, they never recognized him.  Later, on the bus as we were headed to the next town I asked if they had enjoyed meeting Rich at all. “He was there?!” they exclaimed. They were pissed that they never got to actually meet him, even though he’d been helping all night. Rich never went out of his way to introduce himself, even though it was his home town, and he helped fund the club where they were playing.   He was just thrilled that they came to play and were making an impact on some kids he knew.

Another time I wanted to introduce Rich to some of my cohorts at Compassion.  I had warned my boss and the others that Rich could be a tad unpredictable, and that he was never shy about expressing whatever thought process his mind was churning.  “Be prepared….and take whatever he may spout-on about with a huge grain of salt,” I cautioned with a wink and a smile.

We drove up to Boulder, Colorado to see him open for Amy Grant on the Unguarded Tour. Rich was not in a particularly good mood after his sound check in the cavernous Univ. of Colorado Fieldhouse was completed.  Once he got permission from the road manager to go off site with us to eat, he was grousing in the van about the idiocy of Amy’s fandom that were waiting like cattle in long lines outside the hall.  Rich claimed that he would enjoy going up to those pre-teen wanna-be’s who were all wearing their leopard skin jackets and black spandex tights and “slap some sense into each and every one of them.”  My fellow Compassionates laughed nervously.

We drove to several area restaurants, but they were all over-run with said fan base, and the waits were over thirty minutes to be seated, so we kept moving.  This did not assist in changing Rich’s demeanor whatsoever.  Since we had limited time before Rich had to return backstage, we had to settle for a McDonald’s that was, once again, full of Amy-ites.  My chums were doing their best to make small talk with Rich, but he was sullen and somewhat withdrawn.  My boss, Dave, looked at me as if to say, “What is this guy’s deal?” 

As Rich was munching on his fillet-o-fish and slurping some orange drink, he suddenly plopped the cup on the table top and declared with intentionality that would make Idi Amin flinch, “Ya know, I could pull out a sub machine gun and mow down every single person in this restaurant, and not feel one moment of remorse.” 

Trying to lighten the mood I interjected, “Aw Rich, you’re so full of it sometimes…just relax and let the kids have their naïve fun.”  

He then took another bite and mumbled, “I am so very, very serious. Get me a gun and I’ll prove it.”  More uncomfortable acknowledgement and tittering ensued from our group.  Thankfully, his mood began to lighten, and he apologized for being such a jerk just as we dropped him off at the arena.  To this day, I’m amazed that my teammates at Compassion were willing to keep moving forward with Rich.  But it was a tremendous partnership that grew deep and more precious over the next eleven years.

The time that Phil Madeira and I put together the Mark Heard Memorial Tribute Concert at Belmont University also sticks out in my mind.  Rich had only recently come to be familiar with Mark’s artistry, and was moved by his sudden death the previous summer.  The concert was a rousing success as an artistic endeavor, the auditorium was packed, and we saw over $10,000 raised for Mark’s widow and daughter.  But we knew that another revenue stream that could not only help their financial straits, but also expand Heard’s heritage would be for artists to commit to covering Mark’s wonderful songs.  Rich was the first to pop up that night and promise to do just that.  His next album featured a powerful rendition of Mark’s “How To Grow Up Big and Strong,” and thousands more publishing dollars went to the foundation to assist the Heard family as a result.

I think my favorite story revolves around taking Rich on his very first overseas trek.  It was 1991, and I put together a Compassion Artist Vision Trip to Guatemala with Rich, Rick Elias, Geoff Moore, promoter Chuck Tilley, and my manager, Devlin Donaldson. None had ever really met each other before, and there was a great bond that formed during that week in Central America.  In fact, that is where the seeds of the Ragamuffin Band concept were sewn, with Rich and Rick became fast friends and collaborators from that introduction forward.

Whether we were trudging through Guatemala City’s massive dump, or clambering up Mayan pyramids at Iximche…whether we were sitting through an earthquake late one evening in our rattling little motel in Panajachel or skimming across the glass surface of the gorgeous Lake Atitlan… whether we were blowing bubbles with kindergartners in San Pedro La Laguna or Rich getting popped with a swinging stick from an overenthusiastic little piñata basher in Tecpan…whether we were watching naked kids splashing in a stream or he was leading a group of native teens in singing “Awesome God,”  Rich was radiant.  You could just see how this was impacting him from that point forward.

Before we had departed for the trip southward, Rich asked me if it would be OK to bring an instrument.  I assumed he meant an acoustic guitar, but he wanted to bring his large hammer dulcimer.  “Rich, that thing is worth a couple of grand and is pretty delicate,” I reasoned. “It may not survive the transport, and the kids at the projects are gonna want to bang on that thing relentlessly.”

“I won’t mind…I really want to bring it, and I certainly want the kids to try and play it,” he replied.  And sure enough, when we got there, once they saw the magic sounds Rich could bring out of it, they all wanted to try.  Most were none too dignified in their attempts to get notes out of it, but Rich was just beaming ear-to-ear with their efforts. I’ll never forget the images of kids crawling all over Rich trying to take turns pounding on one of his most prized possessions, and him being absolutely thrilled with joy. Before the end of the trip, a few strings were broken, and several chips were taken out of the fine wood finish.  But Rich simply didn’t care.  You could see his heart for wanting to teach children via music come to the fore during those moments…and that’s exactly what he committed himself to five years later when he moved to the Navaho reservation in New Mexico.

I like this summary of Rich from An Arrow Pointing Toward Heaven:

Growing into the person God created us to be, Rich thought, was the goal of the Christian life—not trying to sin less, but to be God’s more.  Mitch McVicker comments, “He would often say that the most holy thing he could do was to be completely human.  He was more interested in being genuine and real than being crisp and clean on the outside.  He said, ‘God created us human, and that means struggling, falling, admitting it, and being healed.’  A part of being holy means knowing that you are a struggling human and that you can be forgiven and healed by God.  He always focused on the hope on the other side of sin.”

Many of us are preparing to live rather than actually living.  Meditating on this may awaken us to the fact that we have one life to live, and the day—the moment—we are in will never be repeated.  In a sense, a well-lived life is the best way to cheat death.

“So go out and live real good,” Rich wrote late in his life, “and I promise you you’ll be beat up real bad.  But a little while after you’re dead, you’ll be rotted away anyway…it’s not gonna matter if you had a few scars.  It will matter if you didn’t live.”

Yeah, I still miss Rich Mullins and that thirst to drink in all God had to offer.  I still see Christ reflected in his sometimes awkward attempts to live fully.  With Jesus as my hope, may I humbly do likewise.   

Goodbye Dear Brenda

I predict this Saturday is going to be one of the more bittersweet days I've experienced in a while.  In the south central volcanic hills of Guatemala I will be saying goodbye to Brenda Maria Leticia Tambriz Tzoc.  She has been my sponsored child thru Compassion International since 2000. And now she's graduating with high success out of the program at age seventeen, and getting ready to move into her young adulthood. This will be the seventh time we've visited, allowing us to become pretty close over this baker's dozen of years.  Here is the English version of the letter I'm giving her as we say our farewell's...at least for now.  We will both appreciate your prayers as it is bound to be a teary hasta luego. 

My Dearest Brenda,                                                                                    Aug. 2012

It seems like it was just yesterday that I met you for the first time at the Compassion office in Guatemala City twelve years ago. Do you remember that day?  We had a nice visit there where your mother gave me the first of many lovely woven gifts: a dark violet head wrapping, that I now use as a centerpiece on my dining table. 

We then traveled in a minibus out to Antigua where we toured through some of the old monasteries and had a wonderful lunch at a restaurant that had a lush, sun-dappled garden and playground. While we were eating you kept looking longingly out at the yard, and I knew you wanted to explore. When we finished our eating, we excused ourselves to discover what they had to offer.  No interpreter was going to be necessary. Because you were so tiny, we could hardly hold hands when we walked.  You had just learned how to skip, and so you gave me some lessons on how to do it properly.

When we arrived at the swing set, you were a mixture of excited and scared.  I sat down on the little seat and gave a demonstration on how it worked.  Then you took a turn, and were instantly giggling as you began moving yourself back and forth.  I positioned myself behind you and began pushing you a bit more with each return. Your gentle laughter turned into joy-filled squeals as you soared higher and higher.  The others back at the table could see and hear you, and they were clapping.  I then taught you how to use the slide and that was a great source of happy woops as well.

With each passing year I have been equally joy-filled watching you grow.  Whether from the updated photos, the progress in your penmanship, the maturity in your drawings, and certainly in the lovely time we have gotten to spend together in the seven journeys I have made to Guatemala. I want to thank you and your mother, Micaela, and other family members for making so much effort to travel long hours to see me, and always giving me a fantastic hand-made gift like my colorful jacket, the dress shirt, the vest, and the ornate wall hanging, just to name a few. 

I have a stack several inches thick of every letter and thank-you note you have ever sent to me, as well as hundreds of photographs from our visits.  Six of those pictures are framed and hanging in my home.  My favorite is in my main room where all of my friends sit while visiting.  It is that portrait of you sitting next to an ancient Antiguan fountain, where the mixture of your robin-egg blue sweater, sea green blouse, and the beige and rust painted wall all perfectly frame your flowing, shiny black hair, almond skin, and warm ebony eyes. Your gentle smile is the centerpiece.  You are no longer a little girl losing her baby teeth…you have blossomed into a striking young woman.  All of my houseguests always comment on how beautiful you are.

But your beauty isn’t just physical.  I recall how proud you were to write out all the numbers up to 100, and writing out the alphabet, and spelling your own name in your kindergarten and early elementary years. In successive visits you impressed me with addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. With each successive year your letters showed refinement in your penmanship and structure, and your drawings grew in beauty and skill.  You also became a good basketball player.  In the early days I needed to lift you up high so you could make a basket.  Now you can shoot the ball with ease and accuracy, while dribbling circles around me.  As I look back on this dozen years, I have always been warmed to hear of your good grades as you were learning so much in school and at the Compassion Student Center, and to hear you speak of your hopes for a good future. Yes, you are a woman who shows beauty on many levels.

Thus, it is sad on one hand that our relationship as sponsor and child is coming to an end. But on the other, it is so exciting to think where you will be heading next in your life. 

Let’s not look at this as the end of our story together.  I would rather think of it as the close to just one chapter, and the turning of the page into many more to come.  I will be anxious to see more of how God will be moving in your life as more unfolds with each new season.

I would very much like to stay in touch with you.  Below is my mailing address.  I would like to get yours as well, and we can continue exchanging communiqués on our own.  And perhaps we will be able to visit more when I make my journeys with Compassion International to The Land of Eternal Spring that is Guatemala.  I pray you feel the same way.

In closing, I’ll recall how touched I still am by one of the picture that was taken of you and me inside the front entrance of your home in SololB of the central highlands when I visited in 2003.  Your mom had painted DIOS NOS AMA in bold purple letters on the wall next to the door, for everyone to see as they came and went.  That declaration, “God loves us,” was and still is evident in the fruit that has come forth in your life, Brenda.  And our God is hardly finished with you and your family yet.

“May God himself, the God who makes everything holy and whole, make you holy and whole, put you together—spirit, soul, and body—and keep you fit for the coming of our Master, Jesus Christ.  The One who called you is completely dependable.  If he said it, he’ll do it! Friend, keep up your prayers for me, as I will for you. The amazing grace of Jesus Christ be with you always!”   (First Thessalonians  5:25-28)  I love you, Brenda!

Under His Mercy,

Mark


Here are a few pics from our times together.  There will be more in the near future (my computer is fighting me on some downloads of great shots of when Brenda was tiny).