We’ve been high in the mountains of Guatemala this week—7,500 feet up in a place that feels closer to heaven than the noise of the world we left behind. The Mayan village of Chuluc rests in the shadow of a volcano, but what truly takes your breath away isn’t the altitude or the landscape—it’s the people.
There’s a spirit that lives here. You feel it in the children’s laughter as they run and play, a joy found amid hardship. You see it in the women preparing lunch, cooking over an open fire, swapping stories and smiles. You witness it in the men who come from the fields to share the meal with us.
Life isn’t easy here. Many homes have dirt floors. People work hard, day in and day out, to grow enough food to get by. But here’s what humbles me every time: their kindness.
Genuine, generous, unguarded kindness. The kind we talk about but often forget to live.
This little village offers a quiet rebuke in a world that feels more divided by the day, where arguments simmer online and kindness is too often mistaken for weakness. These people, with so little by the world’s standards, give so much—not just meals or hospitality, but welcome, presence, and joy. They remind me that generosity isn’t about what you have. It’s about who you are.
As I watch and listen and try to take it all in, I can’t help but think of the simple wisdom Jesus offered: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” It’s a truth that stretches across every culture and creed. And here, in this place where the living is hard but hearts are open, it’s not just quoted—it’s lived.
Maybe that’s what we’re missing back home—not more opinions, not louder voices, just more kindness, empathy, and connection.
When we lose sight of those things, we lose something essential. We forget that we belong to each other—that our neighbor isn’t just the person next door or who agrees with us, but the one in front of us, the person in need, whoever they may be.
Being in Chuluc, among our friends, slows me down. It reminds me of what matters. And it leaves me with a simple hope: that we can find our way back to a way of kindness that’s not flashy or performative, but sincere, empathetic, and deeply human.
Today, as we make our way home, I can’t help but wonder if there is still a place for that kind of kindness in our world. News of war on the horizon and a growing divide in our country overshadow any talk of hope. It seems that compassion is becoming as hard to find as truth.
Yet if I’ve learned anything from my Mayan friends, it’s this: hope shines brightest in the darkness, and kindness can overcome any barrier.
What if the people with the least have the most to teach us?
EnSpirit 