After savoring our time in Antigua and at the breathtaking Lake Atitlán, we returned for what felt like the grand finale of the trip: climbing Pacaya. Well, perhaps climbing is a generous word. We had planned to hike originally, but between the heavy rains of the season and, if I’m honest, our lack of real training, we decided to pay a little extra to ride horses up the volcano instead. That turned out to be a wise decision, even though I felt a little disappointed to not experience the victory of a hard-earned climb.
In the rainy season, showers come daily, and I couldn’t help but wonder how soaked we might get before the day was over. Horses would be faster and perhaps help avoid a thorough soaking. Still, I was excited to see Pacaya up close, maybe even roast a marshmallow over its steaming rocks.
Our shuttle picked us up at the hotel and carried us through winding roads until we arrived at the park gates. Inside, the museum walls told Pacaya’s dramatic story. Our guide pointed to photos of the volcano before and after various eruptions, each image showing how the mountain reshaped itself over time. The thought struck me, I’d never been this close to a volcano before, let alone climbed one. This wasn't just a tourist attraction, it was a powerful force of nature.
We mounted the horses and began our trek up the mountain. The air was cool and damp, and plants seemed to spring up from every direction. “The ash enriches the soil,” our guide explained, gesturing at the avocado and peach trees we passed. He spoke about how locals for generations have used these plants as medicine, often choosing nature’s remedies over visiting a doctor.
As we ascended, the trees thinned and the views opened. In a clearing ahead, Pacaya’s peak came into sight at last. No glowing lava greeted us that day, but we could clearly see the remnants of past flows, dark trails of rock etched into the mountain’s slopes. Our guide explained how their coloring revealed their age: the darker the stone, the newer the eruption. Smoke curled faintly from the summit, and from time to time, steam escaped up through the rocks beneath our feet. The ground itself felt cool, until you slid your hand between the stones and found the heat that still pulsed just beneath the surface.
By this point, we had dismounted the horses. The lush greenery that had surrounded us on the way up was gone, replaced by a stark, barren landscape. Nothing filled the horizon now except for the volcano itself and wide fields of hardened lava. It felt otherworldly, like stepping onto the surface of another planet. The rocks were jagged, sharp, and uneven beneath our feet, a challenge to navigate with every step.
Because we had come in the off-season, and during the rains, the mountain was utterly silent. No crowds. No chatter. Just us, our guides, the horses resting nearby, and a few stray dogs that had joined the climb, padding quietly at our heels. The silence pressed in on me as I looked up at the smoking giant towering above. A single thought rose to the surface of my heart: Lord, how powerful You are.
I had expected Pacaya to be fascinating, but standing in its shadow was more than that, it was sobering. Watching the volcano smolder, knowing it held the power to wipe us off the surface of the earth at any moment, filled me with awe and an eerie sense of smallness. The scene reminded me of photographs of other planets, or even of what the world might look like after a nuclear disaster, lifeless, quiet, desolate. And yet, here we were, breathing in its stillness.
We lingered, taking turns snapping photos in front of the peak. With no other tourists around, our guide gave us as much time as we wanted. The solitude made the experience feel sacred, like we had been given the gift of the entire mountain to ourselves. After a while, we wandered out into the lava fields. I picked up rocks, turning them over in my hands, marveling at how creation itself can look so raw and untamed.
It was then that our guide broke the silence with a smile: “You know, it is tradition to roast a marshmallow here. Anyone interested?”
We didn’t hesitate. “Of course!” we laughed, voices echoing into the emptiness. Marshmallow-roasting had been my goal all along. Our guide shifted a few rocks aside, pulled a bag from his pack, and handed us sticks. In no time, we were roasting marshmallows over the hidden heat rising up through the earth itself. The dogs sat close by, eyes fixed on the sugary treats, and the guide tossed them a few.
It was cold at that altitude, a chill breeze sweeping across the mountain, yet steam vented steadily from the ground at our feet. That contradiction, heat and cold, silence and power, etched itself into my memory. As I stood there, marshmallow in hand, I couldn’t help but reflect: we love God, we seek His peace, but how often do we forget to truly revere His power? Standing on Pacaya was a sharp reminder.
The marshmallow, by the way, was delicious, flavored with the sentimentality of the moment. We explored, snapped dozens more photos, and finally mounted the horses for the descent.
Pacaya had surprised me. I had expected it to be fun, maybe even a little adventurous. But I hadn’t expected to be so deeply moved by the sheer, humbling power of nature. Being alone on that silent mountain made it feel like we were the only people on earth, and I realized it was the kind of experience that could never be repeated in the same way again. It was eerie, it was breathtaking, and it exceeded all of my expectations.
Smoke on the Mountain
Moses stood at the foot of the mountain, his sandals pressing into the trembling earth, the air thick with anticipation. Behind him, the people were hushed, their fear palpable, thousands of hearts beating fast in unison.
Just weeks earlier, this same people had walked through the Red Sea on dry ground. They had seen God strike Egypt with plagues, break Pharaoh’s pride, and set them free after four hundred years of slavery. They had watched their enemy swallowed up by the returning waves, their freedom sealed by God’s own hand. Since then, the wilderness had been their home, manna their daily bread, water drawn from rocks their only drink. And now, after all those wonders, they had been led here, to the base of Mount Sinai. God had told Moses to bring the people to this very place, where He would reveal Himself and establish a covenant with them. They were about to meet the God who had carried them out of Egypt, and that thought alone was enough to make them tremble.
And then it happened.
Flashes of lightning split the sky. Thunder rolled like the voice of God Himself. A thick cloud descended, wrapping the mountain in darkness, until Sinai itself seemed to vanish in smoke. Fire fell from heaven, and the mountain shook violently, quaking under the weight of His presence. The smoke billowed upward like the smoke of a furnace, and the sound of a trumpet blast grew louder and louder until it filled the air with a deafening roar. Creation itself bowed before its Maker.
The people trembled, their knees weak with fear. And Moses, frail, human Moses, was called higher, into the cloud, into the fire, into the very presence of God. The blast of the trumpet did not fade; it grew louder, until the people cried out for mercy: “You speak to us, and we will listen,” they begged Moses, “but do not have God speak to us or we will die” (Exodus 20:19).
And still Moses climbed. Each step into the thick darkness was a step into the unseeable mystery of God’s presence. Smoke wrapped around him, fire lit the ground beneath his feet, and yet he went where no other man could go, because God Himself had called his name.
On that mountain, heaven touched earth. On that mountain, God revealed His holiness in smoke and fire, thunder and trembling ground. But the spectacle was not the point. The covenant was. The Lord had brought His people here for more than awe, He brought them here for relationship. And at Sinai, that relationship was defined. Out of the fire and the cloud, God gave Moses the Ten Commandments, words that would shape His people, mark them as His own, and guide them in how to live before Him and with one another.
The God who shook the mountain was also the God who spoke into the silence, giving His law as a gift. A covenant sealed not by fear alone, but by love, the kind of love that desires His people to walk in His ways and reflect His character to the world.
A Smoking Mountain of My Own
I stood on Pacaya, looking at the barren lava fields stretching in every direction and smoke curling upward from the peak, and considered the parallels to Sinai. Thousands of years may separate the two mountains, but in that moment, I understood the smallest piece of what Israel must have felt. Small, vulnerable, and awestruck in the presence of a power far beyond themselves.
Pacaya didn’t thunder or blaze with fire the way Sinai did, but it didn’t have to. The silence itself was powerful. The knowledge that fire still burned beneath our feet was enough to remind me that creation is not tame. The mountain steamed quietly, alive with a strength that could never be controlled. And standing there, I realized the same God who shook Sinai is the God who formed this volcano, the God who holds the power of life and death, and the God who still bends low to meet with His people.
I think we all need our Pacaya moments.
Life is busy. The world is noisy. Fear rises on every side, and division, hate, and sorrow seem to dominate the headlines. In the swirl of it all, it can feel as though God has gone small, as if His voice is drowned out by the chaos. But nothing could be further from the truth.
We need moments that remind us that God is anything but small. We need to feel, even just for a moment, the weight of a power beyond our understanding, beyond our control, beyond our strength. There is something strangely reassuring about feeling small and vulnerable in the presence of that kind of greatness. Because it reminds us that the God who holds that power, the God who shakes mountains, commands fire, and forms worlds with His word, is the same God who holds us.
And that same God loves us.
That realization changes everything. In the blur of our days, in the busyness of schedules, in the heaviness of a hurting world, we can remember: the God who descended in fire on Mount Sinai, the God who still smokes through the rocks of Pacaya, is the God who has it all in His hands. Nothing is out of His control. Not the nations. Not the storms.
Not even the details of my small, ordinary life.
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