The water came out of no where, and it fell from the sky so quickly. The truck had gone ahead with all the supplies and made it across the creek-turned-river before the storm came, but there they were. Hiking. In El Salvador. A few miles from town, and one river away from the village that was their destination.
They thought about turning back. There was no way they could cross, but where would they stay? What would they do? They had come so far- to share and eat and write down family histories and give out medical supplies and eye glasses- it seemed a shame to be stopped by some flash flooding.
As they stood there thinking, some men appeared on the other side. One scrambled up the slippery trees in the storm with a length of rope and found a path from branch to branch and created a tight-rope across the river between trees. Another man thew another rope across and hollered for them to tie it around their waist.
One by one, all of the visitors and the man from the village made it back across. Holding on to the tight-rope, feet swept out from underneath them, trusting that the guys on the other side had their safety rope tight in their hands.
The truck didn’t make it back across the river for three days.
For strong hands and strong wills, for sturdy rope and a prayer, we give you thanks. May we always find a friend on the other side to help us across, and may we learn a bit about anchoring the rope for each other too. Amen.
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