Day Seven: “The Day Everything Changed for One Young Woman”

This morning we found ourselves tucked into the quiet countryside, standing at the edge of a small homestead where Señora Santita was making fresh bread in a wood-fired oven. Smoke curled up into the sky from the corner of her outdoor kitchen while watermelon vines stretched toward the horizon, and bean starts swayed in the morning breeze. The land around the home was rich with life, avocado trees, papaya trees, and lime trees scattered purposefully around  the property testifying to this family’s sustainability and care for God’s creation.  Three generations lived under that one humble roof, passing the time and the recipes that held their family together.

It struck me…funny, really…how in the U.S., so many with an abundance of money and resources are trying to recreate the simplicity and richness that our Honduran friends live every day.

Organic food. Off-grid living. Family rhythms. We market it as “intentional living.” For them, it’s just life. I wonder how many of them would trade it all for the ease of American convenience while we scramble to recover what they’ve never lost.

My curiosity pulled me toward their outdoor kitchen, and with kind smiles and warm gestures, they invited me to see more. It was beautiful—a blend of old-world wisdom and modern touches, not built for convenience but for what was best for the family. There was another wood-fired oven in the center, anchoring the space, while a microwave sat quietly off to the side, like a guest at the table, welcome but not always needed.

Two plump rounds of fresh dough waited on a prep table as we arrived. Nearby, two family members waved towels to keep flies off the rising bread like guards protecting treasure. They gave us a quick lesson in dough folding, laughed as we tried, and then let us have at it, rolling, shaping, and learning.

Once the dough was ready, it was carefully placed on baking trays and set aside. When the fire reached the perfect temperature, the oven doors were opened and the trays were slipped in with practiced hands that had done this hundreds of times. Husband and wife worked side by side, occasionally fussing with one another like only people deeply in love and deeply experienced can. They were artisans, no doubt, two hearts kneading love into every loaf. Their home was open, their hearts even more so, and nothing felt off limits. They offered all they had, and somehow made it feel like more than enough.

Later, Santita’s husband plucked a dozen leaves from an avocado tree, leaves known not just for their aroma but also for their medicinal properties. The oils from the leaves are said to help with digestion, inflammation, and even respiratory issues. When steeped, they release a flavor similar to cloves or anise, making a soothing, spicy tea that comforts both the body and soul. It was absolutely amazing (when sprinkled lightly with locally grown sugar cane) even though I am not a fan of those flavor profiles. SO GOOD.

After lunch, we piled into the vans and headed for the village of Guaimaca. The road had recently been paved, so the ride was smoother than expected. We passed a couple of police checkpoints without issue and made a quick stop at a local coffee shop to meet Harrison’s family. If you’ve been following our journey, you already know how much we love and appreciate Harrison. He’s not just a translator, he’s part pastor, part big brother, part gentle guide. Meeting his family was a joy.

Caffeinated and full of stories, we took off toward a mountain village where the road changed drastically. Smooth pavement gave way to gaping ruts, washouts, and tight turns that looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. The road itself felt like a time machine. Even the modern church building, finished this year, stood in contrast to the old blue-tarp schoolhouse where services used to be held barely standing, held together by prayer and fraying edges.

The homes around us were modest but strong, the kind of places that had stood the test of time. Livestock roamed freely, keeping the grass trimmed and adding to the charm. As we arrived, families began gathering, the buzz of anticipation rising like the humidity in the air.

Then came Pastor Ronny his booming voice echoing off the hills. He has the kind of presence that commands attention and warms a crowd all at once. If he weren’t a pastor, I’m convinced he’d make a phenomenal politician. Full of charisma and compassion, he welcomed every person, and the energy in the room swelled as we sang together, gave an offering, and prepared our hearts for the Word.

Nathan Brown stepped up to the pulpit next. He had labored over what to say for the past few days, humbly seeking the Lord’s guidance. And God showed up. As he preached, the Holy Spirit stirred in the heart of a young woman. She was new to the congregation, but today, she knew that this was the day. The seeds had been planted, the soil of her heart was ready, and the Gospel had taken root. She surrendered her life to Jesus right then and there.

Romans 10:15 came alive: “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news.”

We often think of “beautiful feet” as a poetic phrase, but it’s more than that, it’s the picture of someone who carries the hope of heaven into hard places. It’s dusty feet on bumpy roads. It’s humble voices proclaiming a mighty Savior. It’s the obedience to go, to speak, to share and then to stand in awe as God does what only He can do.

That day, Nathan’s feet were beautiful. Pastor Ronny’s were too. And so were the feet of every team member and every faithful believer who made a way for that young woman to hear the good news.

We felt it, the weight of glory in that mountain church. Not because of the setting, but because the Savior had stepped into the room, and one more soul had stepped into eternity.

When the final “Amens” were said and the hugs exchanged, we loaded 22 people into two pickups to get them home, families who had walked long distances to be in God’s house. The road was dusty, the kind that gets into your teeth, your clothes, your memories. But no one complained. We rode home tired, dusty, full-hearted, and wide-eyed with gratitude.

Grateful for bread.

Grateful for laughter.

Grateful for muddy roads and fresh salvation.

Grateful for a God who still saves.