La Casa De Oracion, Day 306 (Guatemala story)

I distinctly remember the moment we arrived at La Casa de Oracion where we’d be staying. We filed through a dusty green metal door and walked into the Garden of Eden. The dust was left in the street. We were now in a magnificent courtyard filled with flowers next to a quaint little home. All was instantly peaceful. The chaotic scene vanished. It was a miraculous transformation. Vibrant pink flowers created a canopy overhead. We were encompassed in gorgeous oranges, reds, yellows, purples, flowers bigger than I’d ever see, not a speck of dust in view. The earlier shock completely metamorphosized but didn’t leave for one moment. I couldn’t help but think, was Ron a missionary or an angel? I decided right then and there that I did not want to leave after just one week. The Guatemalan Garden of Eden at Ron’s is amazing. It was clean, and colorful, and beautiful. It smelled wonderful and everything looked cozy. I’d come to this far off land to make some sort of a difference but I was so overcome the moment we stepped inside that green gate that I wasn’t sure I wanted to ever go back out into the street.

Ron’s house was a sanctuary. There was always an inviting fire crackling in the living room fire place. No matter how loud and energetic our group became the house and courtyard had a constant peacefulness lingering about them. Delicious smells wafted from the kitchen. Humming birds and friendly bees danced through the flowers in the courtyard garden. Everyone wore smiles and bounced around with joy. The living room welcomed us with large comfy furniture a kin to the velveteen rabbit. It was gently used but one could see in it countless special moments of congregation filled with awe and delight. Each couch was upholstered in stories of discovery and fascination. The kitchen produced amazing meals but its true boast was the ladies who served us, us who’d come so far to serve others. Their fingers never rested. Their smiles never faded and their food never failed to impress. The women who worked so diligently in the kitchen were adorned in traditional Mayan clothing with magnificent friendly smiles upon their faces. In the bathroom each new roll of toilet paper presented to its user a small flower, freshly picked from the courtyard outdoors. I was never so excited by an entrance to a restroom (and this being one I was prohibited from flushing the welcoming toilet paper in). The garden in the courtyard held a lovely friendship with the kindest older gentleman. He tended to the needs of each little bud in the Guatemalan Garden of Eden with such peaceful solemnity. He worked silently in our presence, was delightful to be around and almost made one envy the flowers. I couldn’t help but feel that he too was serving us simply in his care for the wonderful garden.


Even if I’m never again able to return I feel so overwhelmingly blessed to have had the privilege of staying there at Ron’s casa de oracion (house of prayer). One of the greatest attributes to that lovely place was Ron himself. His appearance in comparison to the many surrounding Guatemalans was that of a giant. Towering over everyone Ron evokes a tranquil atmosphere like the cool shadow cast by a cloud resting overhead on a blistering hot sunny day. His dominating presence is accompanied by a safeness felt by all. Ron is one of those classic father figures that people are drawn to if given a close enough proximity. His demeanor and appearance announce him as a serious contemplative man. But moments in his presence are full of peace and security. His face has its fair share of wrinkles but doesn’t seem old only rather cloaked with life. His quite eyes reflect wisdom and never seem to look at the face of a person. They appear to look straight into ones soul. His hair is kept very short and is perfectly white, a stark contrast to the free flowing pitch-black hair owned by everyone around him. He is a close to perfect replica of my grandfather. My grandpa was the only man I’d ever known who helped me to understand Godly fear. Rules, structure, and etiquette were morals I desired to keep and to perfect when around my grandfather. The thought of doing something incorrectly in his sight was dreadful, and not because he was mean or cruel. He was quite exactly the opposite of that. I desired to display perfection around him because of his supremacy. I felt like I was with my grandfather when Ron was with us. They both possessed the same calm, and the same peacefulness wrapped up in a respectable authoritativeness.

We often called Ron “Pastor Ron.” He was quick to correct anyone who made that mistake. “I am not a pastor,” he’d say. He is a regular guy who is just trying to do what God has asked of him. The Guatemalans call him Don Ron. I think that’s like mister and shows respect. He said that we should call him that if we must add something to his name. Don Ron ate meals with us. He sat in the living room with members of our group in the morning. We spent moments with him relaxing in the courtyard but he wasn’t around very often. Ron spends hours each day in prayer; hour upon hour in communion with the Lord (I still think He might be an angel).