The plane dipped through the clouds and touched down in Guatemala City, and I felt that familiar mixture of nerves and excitement that comes when a dream is about to unfold. I had planned this trip meticulously, down to the smallest detail, yet as the wheels hit the tarmac, I still asked myself the same question: What in the world am I doing here?
When I told people I was heading to Guatemala, I usually got the same response: Why? Is it a missions trip? No, this wasn’t a missions trip. Guatemala had simply caught my attention through the countless YouTube travel videos I binge-watch late at night. The country looked beautiful, raw, alive, and I wanted to experience it.
Of course, there were dozens of things I hoped to see, but I had one big goal in mind: Pacaya. A volcano where the heat from the earth is so intense you can roast a marshmallow right on the rocks. That simple, quirky image lodged itself on my bucket list and wouldn’t let go. Roast a marshmallow on Pacaya. Whatever else happened, I wasn’t leaving without doing that.
But as much as I dreamed about the volcano, my heart swelled most when I glanced at my kids. My faithful sojourners. They’ve joined me on so many of life’s crazy adventures, the ones who once pulled out a Bible and read to me when my husband walked out the door. Here they were, excited, wide-eyed, ready not only to roast marshmallows but to explore something bigger: a new country, a different rhythm of life, people with stories unlike our own.
Two weeks before we left, God gave me a gift I didn’t expect. I reconnected with a coworker I had never known well until one conversation turned into another. I learned she was from Guatemala. When I told her I’d be visiting her home country, her face lit up. Within hours she sent me a long list of things to see and then asked the question I hadn’t figured out yet: How are you getting around?
I admitted I didn’t really know, probably Uber, maybe taxis. She paused. “Rhonda, let me call you back.” A few hours later, she had arranged transportation through her family friends. It was a gesture of kindness that would prove to be more valuable than I could have imagined.
So, after a trip through customs, we stepped out of the airport into the Guatemalan sun, and I heard a voice call out, “Rhonda!” Faithful indeed. Her family friend had waited over an hour for us, and just like that, our journey began.
We piled into his car, and to the kids’ delight, the backseat was full of snacks! Chips, candies, all in flavors we’d never tried. My two food-loving adventurers tore into them while I adjusted my translating earphones. One went to me, one to our driver. As long as the cellphone signal held, we could talk freely, with words flowing in real time between English and Spanish.
Out the window, Guatemala rushed at me. Motorcycles weaved through brutal traffic, palm trees swaying under a soft sky, women with babies strapped to their chests, street vendors walking between cars selling food to weary travelers. Everything moved to a different hum, a rhythm I couldn’t yet understand but wanted desperately to learn.
“Brother,” our driver finally said to my son after his fifth question about traffic laws and why everyone was driving so crazy, “you are in Latin America.” We all smiled.
But then, oh, the mountains. And the volcanoes. Rising out of the horizon like old storytellers, patient and powerful. More than thirty volcanoes in this country, our driver explained, three of them active. Pacaya was the one for beginners, the one I had my heart set on.
I scribbled in my journal that morning before boarding the flight: Do not fear. You are in God’s hands. In the past, trips like this had always included a husband, a protector, a buffer. Not this time. This time, I was the protector of my children. It felt different, heavier, but also strangely empowering.
And so, with prayers in my heart, snacks in the backseat, and mountains calling from the horizon, we drove toward our first stop: Antigua.
The Pillar of God
Imagine standing in the desert with thousands of others, fresh out of Egypt’s grip. The air still smells of salt from the Red Sea, where the waters had only recently collapsed over Pharaoh’s army. Your feet are blistered from hurried travel, your heart is pounding with freedom, and suddenly, you see it.
A vast column rises before you, not like smoke from a fire or mist from the sea, but something otherworldly. By day, it stretches upward like a mighty cloud, shimmering against the sky, shading you from the harsh desert sun. By night, it burns with a glow so bright that the sand around your tent flickers orange and gold. It isn’t just light, it’s Presence. The very nearness of God wrapped in cloud and flame, moving ahead of you step by step.
The Israelites had two possible roads before them. The short way, hugging the coastline, could have brought them to Canaan in just a few days. The long way wound through barren wilderness, rocky, dry, and unforgiving. If it were up to human wisdom, the choice would have been obvious: take the short road, get there quickly. But God’s wisdom saw deeper. Along the coastal road lay the Philistines, fierce enemies Israel was not prepared to fight. God knew their weakness, and in mercy, He chose the longer way.
The wilderness became their testing ground. It peeled away any illusion of self-sufficiency and pressed them to rely completely on God. Just as the Egyptians had been swallowed by the sea, now God’s own children would be shaped in the desert. He measures every trial according to His people’s strength. His path may not be the shortest, but it is always the surest, the one that prepares us for what lies ahead.
Still, He never left them to wander blindly. That towering pillar became their constant reassurance. It told them when to march and when to rest. When it rose, they followed. When it stayed, they camped. No debate, no confusion, no guesswork. At night, families lay down to sleep under a sky lit by the glow of divine fire. In the morning, they woke to the same faithful cloud, waiting to move. It was impossible to deny: they were being led.
The pillar pointed to a greater truth, that Christ Himself was with His people. The same Jesus who declares, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life” (John 8:12) was there in the wilderness, guiding, sheltering, protecting. And He is still with us today.
When I think about the Israelites, I try to picture the awe, the trembling joy of knowing God Himself was leading them, step by step. I can’t help but wonder how it felt to walk into an unknown wilderness yet see proof of His presence with every move of the pillar.
Arrival in Antigua
That image was on my heart as our plane landed in Guatemala. I didn’t know what the next ten days would hold. The language was unfamiliar, the customs unknown, and the road ahead uncertain. But just as He went before His people in the desert, I believed He would go before us, too, guiding each step, each encounter, and even each detour, in His perfect way.
As we drove toward Antigua, I pressed my forehead against the window and tried to take it all in, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the feeling of being somewhere completely new. It was intimidating, yes, but it was also exhilarating. My senses came alive. The air carried hints of smoke, spices, and flowers all at once. Vendors walked between cars selling roasted corn, fruit, and bread. Motorcycles buzzed by with two, sometimes three passengers balanced together. Life moved quickly, and yet I found myself wanting to slow it down so I could absorb every detail.
I peppered our driver with questions, and through the gift of the translating earphones, he answered patiently, one by one. What did people eat here? How did school work? How dangerous was it to ride a motorcycle with a baby strapped to your chest? He chuckled at my curiosity, but he never tired of answering. By the time we arrived in Antigua, I already felt as if I had glimpsed pieces of Guatemalan life that no travel video could ever have shown me.
Our lodging was a pretty little place I had stumbled upon online and rented for a few days of our stay. The pictures had promised charm, but stepping through the doorway was better than I imagined. A small fountain bubbled softly in the courtyard, surrounded by flowering plants that seemed to spring from every crack and corner. Stone pathways wound between bright walls, and a staircase led us to the rooftop terrace.
That rooftop quickly became my favorite place. From there, the view stretched out over tiled roofs and winding cobblestone streets, reaching toward the silhouettes of volcanoes in the distance. At sunrise, the mist curled around their peaks in quiet majesty. At sunset, the sky blazed with color behind their outlines, a reminder that God paints new masterpieces every single day.
I loved everything about Antigua, the cobblestone paths that made me slow down with each careful step, the unfamiliar but mouthwatering smells wafting from open windows and street stalls, the bursts of flowers spilling color over stone walls. But none of it compared to the stillness of sitting on that rooftop and simply looking at the volcanoes.
Isn’t it amazing what happens when we pause long enough to see God’s creation without the weight of everyday stress pressing down on us? Out there, I wasn’t thinking about work emails or grocery lists or the endless cycle of to-do’s. I was just present, breathing in the beauty of a land that was new to me but ancient in His design. It felt like worship, just to sit and look at what He had made.
I spent a significant amount of time gazing at volcanoes rising like silent sentinels over the city, I felt the same truth that had carried the Israelites through the wilderness: we are never alone on the journey. God goes before us. He lights the way. Sometimes, all we need to do is pause long enough to notice the beauty He’s placed before our eyes and rest in the assurance that we are exactly where He wants us to be.
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