After 4 years in Athens, 3 years in an elementary school classroom, and all my combined time in Nicaragua, I have seen my share of amazing.  I could sit with you all day and marvel over the extraordinary, and find ways to make the ordinary spectacular.  The cynical would call me easily amused, but I prefer to think of myself as one who remains in awe.  I think we were created for wonder, after all.  The sky has really been doing in for me the past few evenings.  I don't think the sight of a puffy white cloud resting on a pink and blue western sky will ever get old to me. I certainly hope not.

The story I am about to tell you, however, can not be filed under any sort of small wonder.  This is my share of amazing that ought to bring a tear to your eye, that ought to give you hope, that ought to find you looking for the greater metaphor and the highest of hopes.

Her name is Sasha.  We did not come into friendship with each other until just this past summer, though we had both heard the other's names in the Nicaragua circle, always formidably.  She'd come to Nicaragua many times before, but always in the weeks after I had returned to my classroom, so I never had the pleasure of her company.  And what a pleasure indeed.  For the two weeks I spent with her, we spent most of our time laughing and sharing our hearts, trying to figure out exactly what the Lord was doing with us. Our hearts were drawn to the other, both finding so much joy in the other's company.  Simply put, it was lovely.  

For Sasha, however, her time in Nicaragua has it's moments of bittersweet.  Her years before had found her scaling the volcano at top speed, shoveling selecto until the sun took its rest behind the mountains, and showing off on the field like only a NYU soccer player can do.  

This year, plans were different. Last November, Sasha's heel got caught in the grate of her fire escape and she tumbled off,  leaving her paralyzed from the waist down.  With that one night, Sasha's life changed drastically.  What I admire so much about this young woman is what she did with that change.  I can not imagine that state I would have allowed myself to rest in, the words I would have shouted at the Lord or anyone else who tried to offer me any sort of comfort or help.  Sasha refused to let her anger override her will or her purpose, nor would she let her injury define her.  So, in August, she boarded a plane to Chinandega as she always had in the past, refusing to forsake what she loved.

There was no shortage of help for Sasha to provide.  She shoveled, she carried, she played, she cleaned, she loved, she hoped.  It was almost the same as it had been before, minus the obvious differences.  She could participate in nearly everything as she always had.

It's that "nearly" word that drove her crazy.  "Nearly" everything.   

One clear Sunday, we took the group to Cerro Negro, per usual.  Cerro Negro translates into English, roughly meaning, "My own personal hell."  This volcano, though I conquer it every single week, still continues to mock me.  I might win the weekly battles, but she is absolutely still winning the war. There are two ways to climb it, the "easy way" and the "hard way".  I prefer to call them the "Scenic Way" and the "I'd rather drag my teeth down the highway going 80 than go this way" way.  The former is straight up, most of the climbing on your hands and knees on the ash.  For every two steps you take, you fall back three in the loose rock.  The very first year we climbed it, it was April and sweltering hot.  The sun refused to back down and I found myself next to John Bland, my boss.  John looked at me, held up his empty water bottle and returned his gaze to the neverending climb that ascended before us.  "Kelly, don't be offended," he began, "But i've been praying for the last ten minutes that this thing would errupt so we could just go ahead and die and not have to climb the rest." 

On the Sunday that we went with Sasha, she sat at the foot of the monster, sketching it with charcoal and taking in the day.  Though outwardly she seemed pleased with her afternoon plans, she had a hint of unease.  When I asked her about it, she simply said, "It occured to me that I won't see that view again.  I wish I would have taken it in better the last time I climbed it."  She shook her head, and brought herself into a better mood, showing everyone her artwork.  The next week when we returned to the volcano, Sasha did not come with us, understandably.  

Her time here grew shorter, and each day presented a new adventure, as it always does.  And though everything was wonderful and new and fantastic experiences surfaced daily, Cerro Negro still loomed.  One morning, John had had enough.  Gathering up a few of the staff, we made our way to that awful thing with determined hearts.  The scenic way, though typically easier, was much rockier and would have been too much of a challenge.  This left us with only one choice.  With smiles on faces, providing our own pump up music (El ojo de tigre), we began to ascend Cerro Negro, Sasha situated on the backs of the men in the group.  For an hour, we climbed, the boys trading off as carrier so often.  And there we sat, at the top, looking out at the greens and the blacks and the blues of the landscape as if it were the first time and as if it were the last time.  It was the most beautiful I have ever realized it to be, each color serving its different purpose to make a masterpiece. We sat in awe, drinking it in, (and each smoking a cigar, without doubt the greatest cigar of my life) Sasha called her dad (each of us, at this point, turning away as to not show anyone else the fact that we started weeping as soon as she said, "Hey, Dad- guess where I am!") and then, each of our hands finding anothers, we prayed.  Earnestly and emphatically and gratefully, we prayed.

I don't have words to describe the feeling that washed over each of us that afternoon; there was a peace and an exhilarition all at the same time. Nothing is comparable, but that's ok.  I don't want anything to be.

We made a video of sorts of the entire adventure, from struggling up to the tumble down (we took out the cigar scene and replaced it with us singing a cheesy Christian camp song with hand movements, because we figured it would sell better to the baptists that way).  Check my facebook for said video, as I don't know if I can post it here.

There are all sorts of metaphors and stories I can pull from this, but for now, I will let you take it in on your own.  

God is good. That's about all I know.  He's tricky, but, in the end, He's good.