Bump, bump, bumpety bump. The moto (motorcycle) bounced over one rock then another, but even being bounced about like a sack of potatoes could not dampen my enthusiasm. We were on our way to the village of Sungkhum by ourselves for the first time—hoping to just enjoy the day. Sungkhum is only about one hour away by car during the dry season, so we figured we could get there by moto during the rainy season in about an hour and a half. Oh, how wrong we were!
Almost two weeks earlier, my family and I had tried to get to Sungkhum, but on the way we found a washout that made it impossible to reach the village by car. Now Katie and I were on a mission to find a way by moto. Sungkhum had become not so much a destination, but a challenge! Reaching a dirt trail just before the washout, we turned onto it. Had Katie been in a competition, she would have started earning trophies. She would have received the first one for mud puddle slogging, achieved by driving through one slippery mud puddle after another—without tipping the moto even once! I contributed to her success by jumping off the moto and trudging behind at spots that were particularly slippery and sloppy or difficult looking and hopping back on once the ground again became a soggy brown mush.
Next, she would have received a medal for crossing and recrossing the streams that freely flowed over the trail. Throughout this time, we kept wondering if this was really a detour around the washout—or if, after all of this, we would just have to turn around. At last, in the distance, we noticed a gate that appeared to rejoin the road.
Once again, off of the moto, I panted my way behind her. We were filled with the hope that all her driving had not been in vain as she passed the washout, drove through the gate skirting a puddle on the other side, and motored up the dirt hill. As we went down the road, we finally saw a road marker assuring us we had passed the washout! At this point, “muddy and rocky hill driver” medals should have been awarded to Katie.
By now, we had been driving for almost two hours, and Katie was getting extremely tired. We stopped and rested in the shade for a while. Then forward we went—right through a giant, terrible puddle of quick mud. Have you ever heard of quicksand? Well, this is similar—except it is mud! Maybe that is not entirely accurate, but it sure felt like it at the time. We were stuck! We struggled to regain possession of our moto, sapping even more of our already waning strength as the mud kept trying to suck the bike into captivity! Finally, we struggled to the other side and were on our way again.
Next, Katie worked on her sandy ground trophy. At this point, our blood sugar was getting low, and we were getting hungry. The moto was getting harder and harder to drive. Since we had not reached our destination after almost three hours on the road, we started debating whether or not we should turn around and head back. Then we saw the first house of the village. We had arrived!
Well, we had at least arrived at the bridge leading to the rest of the village. But looking at the bridge left us feeling uneasy about crossing it by moto. So rather than risking our lives—and moto—by crossing the bridge, which was crooked with numerous holes and dangerous-looking nails in it, we chose the significantly safer method of walking across.
With only one small shop in the whole village, on the opposite side, we paraded through with all the villagers watching. Many were left in wonder at our sight, and some asked what we were doing there and how we had arrived. After purchasing a few snacks, we walked back through the village to the bridge, where we found a place to rest and enjoy our very stale but, to our starved palates, delicious snacks. While finishing our tasty treats, we heard a threatening rumble of thunder. As we were still recovering from the morning’s trip, and with the storm threatening, the rough road before us seemed even more foreboding. We were beginning to wonder if we could make it back without our strength giving out.
After praying about it, we decided to call my parents to ask them if we should brave the trip during the coming storm or ask if anyone from the village would be willing to act as our host family for the night. I really did not want to stay in the village since I, with my better understanding of the language, would be left to do the talking. And unless Katie gained more strength, I knew that I would have to walk most of the way back, which I felt I could do. Because Katie was the one driving and the most tired, I let her decide. After considering the decision, she decided to brave the storm and return to our house.
“I can do this,” I repeated to myself as I followed behind Katie. I noticed a difference in Katie’s driving, too. It seemed much straighter than before. When we had driven the sandy part to Sungkhum, she was swerving and shaking. Yet now, although she started shakily, she seemed to slowly gain confidence. When we reached the giant, squishy mud puddle, I began walking across when I heard her panicky voice behind me saying, “Help me, Hannah! The moto is sinking!” While trying to pull the moto out, we got it stuck again. Standing there, knee-deep in the mud while tugging to get the moto out, I suddenly realized why Katie had been so worried about getting out before the rain, which was still threatening to fall on us at any moment—we were both very, very tired. We lifted the moto free of the sucking giant. Now came all the hills to climb, praying with each step, Lord, help me . . . make it up . . . just one more . . . hill.
I detest climbing hills. Yet, along with Katie, I somehow made it up all of them. Our silent prayers continued ascending to God that we would reach the gate before the rain. At the last slope before the gate, we both looked out on a valley framed by a beautiful rainbow. God had answered our prayers. When we turned onto the detour, it started to sprinkle, yet it never did pour on us—just slowly, lightly drizzled. Finally reaching home, we found out that the town had received a down-pour.
Katie and I both know that arriving home from Sunghkum safe and mostly dry was not by our might, nor was it by our power, but by God’s Spirit! He helped Katie drive, and He helped me walk—but He also kept the torrents of rain from dumping on us. And that is something only God can do. So the next time you are in a tight spot, remember our story, Zechariah 4:6, and that it is not you who can do it, but God.
