Wednesday proceeded much the same as the following two days with construction in the morning and early afternoon. The Saint Michael’s team had completed five levels of cinderblock and laid horizontal rebar on top. That evening, after the soccer match, we attended a lovely service with the Guatemalan Girls.
Finally, Thursday too was similar to the past three days, with construction, soccer, dinner, and games. However, that night following the ping-pong, Justin, myself, and several others heard the beautiful music from tin shed. Everyone listening seemed to be as enamored with the enchanting Latin-American music as I had been two nights before. I distinguished the word “Jesus,” which carried on the harmony as we sat in silence, appreciating the distant music. Soon we were scared to our rooms for the night when several gunshots echoed through the hills.
Friday arrived as the last day of construction. The St. Michael’s Team worked tirelessly that morning to pour concrete to encase the horizontal rebar of the Ester House. We had the final afternoon off to rest and play with the girls. Our team prepared a bon-fire that night and invited the girls to join.
Cold gusts of wind swept down from the mountains, and the warmth of the glowing fire was seductively inviting. Most of our team sat leisurely around the fire basking in its warmth, perhaps trying to recover from the intense past week. Soon after the fire began, Justin quietly asked me if I wanted to go on a walk to find the musicians in the tin shed. I accepted and followed him to the large steel gate of the compound, where John, Ellen, and Charlotte were standing. The five of us slowly opened the huge gate and quickly locked it behind us.
We nervously wandered down the lonely dirt road beneath the dim light of the pitiful street lamp and turned into the darkness of an unlighted, narrower street. A mangy dog burst from the darkness and attacked the frail fence, which protected us and ran along the side of the street. The growing sound of music, which dulled the savage barks of the dog, encouraged us. We walked faster. Eventually, we stumbled upon the vivacious house of music and saw that it was also a small house of worship. The doors were wide open and we were content to simply listen to the small service from the outside, when a small Guatemalan man greeted us warmly. Though he could not speak any English, and we could not speak any Spanish, we understood that he wanted us to go into the service.
Part two of three. . . The last installment tomorrow.