If I were to create some sort of montage of the beautiful places I have seen in my life, it would probably be quite the youtube video. I'd put some sort of U2 song in the background, with Bono singing his poetry over each photo. You'd see the sunset's myriad of colors over the rocks at Poneloya, you'd marvel at the blues of the ocean in France- noting how each shade is richer than the next yet just as pleasing to the eyes, you'd want to reach out and touch the rock formations at Joshua tree, you'd feel the silky white Seaside sand under your toes, you'd see history played out in front of you in Rome, you'd smell the sweet honeysuckle branch from the North Georgia mountains, and you'd hear Atlanta's song as the stars twinkled over the cityline. However, this weekend, I hit the summit of Telica volcano and all those other sights faded away. saw something my eyes had never met before. Smoke poured out of the crater, the sound of lava gurgling like the ocean below. Next to the crater laid a field filled with grass and sprinkled around the edge with palm trees. if you scrambled over the rocks and looked to your left and right, you'd watch the line of volcanos puffing little white clouds here and there. The green farmlands slept after a long day's work in the sun, and the twinkling lights of the city danced as houses came alive with people returning home from their jobs. To my right, the sun began to rest his heavy head, while, to my left, the fat full moon smiled on us, lighting our path back to our campsite. As the group began to drop to sleep, I quietly excused myself and wandered out to the field. I couldn't help but remove my shoes, silently singing to myself about standing on holy ground. My bare feet soaked up each step in the soft grass, rejoicing in the cool night air. The moon was full and fat, proclaiming harvest, but tragically hidden by thick clouds that I can only attest to the crater that I so (foolishly) willingly sat only 50 yards beneath. The dark edge of the volcano was only made more ominous by the moonless night, and I couldn't take my eyes off of it, watching the white smoke linger against its black outline.
Before I knew it, I was praying. I broke the silence of the night and my words tumbled into the air. Being alone in a field, in a volcano, in Nicaragua, I took full advantage of talking as much as I wanted to, and I didn't stop. I talked to the Lord about my inequities and my fears, fussed at Him for not comforting my heart, then begged forgiveness for the fussing. I questioned, I praised, I cried. As I was demanding to know my purpose in this country, I realized something. The words that had been coming out of my mouth had not been English, but Spanish. And the comforting whispers of the Lord had been in that same tongue. I paused, and noticed that my field had been alluminated. Directly above me, the clouds split, and the moon grinned, shedding light on the leaves of the trees and the blades of grass. The wind wraipped it's furious arms around me, and God quieted me with His love.
And yet again, I heard my call to this place.

"These mountains, which have seen untold sunrises, long to thunder praise, but stand reverent, silent so that man's weak praise should be given God's attention."- Donald Miller
(thanks to ML for introducing me to a few great literary works)