Surprises in Noisy Silence

Paddle boarding through a mangrove swamp. Check.

Yoga with running water trickling in the background. Check.

Thirteen ziplines over a luscious, impenetrable rain forest. Check.

Horseback riding on muddy jungle trails and white sand beaches. Check.

But 60 kilometers of ATVing in the high mountains? Yes, during our Costa Rica vacation several weeks ago, we did that too. It was there, doing something new and unplanned, that I encountered God again.

Our tutorial - none of us knew what to do!

This whole four wheeling gig is highly out of character for the Comptons, because my parents have long considered the vehicles a source of unnecessary danger. But, the folks who provided the horseback riding also offer ATV tours, and after a week and half of exploration, we had pretty much ventured on every excursion we had hoped to do. There were still three days to kill before our departure, though, so Hoffa signed us up for the following day. I was hesitant. It seemed like a waste of money and time. I just saw four wheelers as loud, dangerous gas guzzlers. What’s the point of riding on one all day? I thought hanging out at the house or beach reading The Two Towers would probably be a better use of my diminishing days of vacation.

I don't know about this...

But, as I often am, I was wrong. ATVing provided many surprises. Now that we’ve been back a few weeks, we have already begun reminiscing on this summer’s family vacation, and almost all of us – I included – agree that the quad tour was especially memorable.

How the Comptons feel about four wheelers now

If you recall from previous posts, we initially struggled to navigate the twisting, unpaved roads surrounding Nosara. Because we didn’t rent a car, we had been walking everywhere for the past week, and even the Compton girls were gaining some sense of direction. My first surprise began as, bend after bend, we quickly departed from the unpaved Costa Rican roads we had come to know. Blindly following our jovial German guide, we entered remote villages, and I began to see glimpses of a more authentic Costa Rica – the tourists’ Pura Vida mask, the false presentation of luxurious paradise, was stripped to its origin. Everyone still smiles, the mangos are still sweet, and the jungle still pristine. But here, despite our swift pace, I noticed the difference. Impoverished farmers struggle to provide for their large families. Sons escape reality on the soccer field. Mothers seek solace in the church. Skinny pets scavenge to survive. Life is hard.

Without an ATV, I would’ve missed this. True, these two weeks were a vacation, but I’m grateful that I have not returned as another tourist oblivious to the economics which prevail most of the country. I had seen this kind of life – and far worse circumstances – in Cambodia, but the more poverty you witness in different places across the globe, the more you realize your own blessings.

While our indirect encounter with poverty was good, it was my second unanticipated surprise that makes this excursion so memorable and precious. High in the Costa Rican mountains, I had an authentic meeting with the Lord. Ever since traveling to Cambodia, I have struggled in my faith as I never have before. (For more on that, check the archived blog titled Jesus? Oh, Jesus). I walked with a childlike faith well into college. Even when I faced challenges at Roanoke, I held on to the relationship and experiences he and I shared together from my youth. I knew his names, and I continued to call on him, even when I didn’t necessarily feel his presence. Jesus - the Beautiful Savior. The Holy One, Beginning and End, untamed lion and sacrificial lamb. He is a heart healer, miracle worker, and grace giver.

Though he calls us to have a childlike faith, God has brought me back to the basics this summer and taught me that that is just what our faith should be – childlike. Not the belief in God that children hold when they are six and have grown up in the church. Most kids believe because they are taught, and they accept the authority of their teachers. They flourish off of the spiritual milk they are given, and while they are still children, it suffices.

Adults, however, must grow up and face the world’s challenges. We’ve got adult minds; we’re skeptical realists. We face the hardships of life and sometimes we say, “Where are you God?” What’s worse, a lot of times there is silence. Sometimes even more hardships are piled on top of the perceived silence. So we conclude that our Sunday school teachers were wrong. God must not be here after all. When we face those obstacles, we can’t function off of milk. We need wholesome spiritual food, consisting of worship, prayer, fellowship, scriptural meditation, and repentance. Only then can we defend the Gospel, as we’re called to do*. As we depend wholly on a gracious father, we return to our childlike faith. Our God’s promises do not fail; he gives good gifts and desires to speak and work through his children. We are his beloved.

Intermittently this past year, I have swung on a self-serving, schedule-filled pendulum which has made it hard to wholly accept those truths. Perhaps in my head. Yes, I chose to believe. I deliberately chose, despite not really “feeling” God’s presence, to hold on to things which had proven to be true in the past. Unexpectedly, Dark Nights of the Soul still came charging, and when they did I felt lost, alone, and confused. I now knew and understood the doubts others had described to me before. Though I appreciated the perspective, I felt like I was supposed to be the solid Christian who is attuned to the Spirit and showing people the Lord’s love. My own doubt both frightened and frustrated me.

Just as those dark moments crawled into my heart, unforeseen and uncalled, it was atop a strange ATV in the bumpy mountains of Costa Rica that I suddenly began to experience God’s good love as I once had.

Most people like four wheelers for their utility – being able to drive cross country where no other vehicle can go. My favorite part is the noisy silence it offers, inviting conscious contemplation. It was amidst this white noise of revving engines that I began to worship the Lord. A quad is too loud for conversation, so even though I was technically with my family as I had been for the past two weeks, I did a lot of solitary looking, thinking, and listening. As we climbed into the mountains, the landscape transformed into grand canopied mountains. The forest boasted countless plant species and shades of green.

Our conversation was simple. Finally being able to hear his voice again, and know that it was him was delight enough.

God, look at this! Unreal! I love your Creation. I love that I can be in it and enjoy it. Thank you for this treat.

I love you, Jessica. This is a gift from Me, and I am here with you. I will not leave you.

Each curving bend brought a new view, which kindled another prayer of thanksgiving. Prayers on prayers became worship, an intermingling of song and conversation. I noticed how many of the songs I sang in my head were about repentance and return.

So I come, straight into your arms

I’m coming back to the heart of worship

Lord, I come to you

We will run to you, turning from our sin we return to you

Even now, here’s my heart God

Yes I shall arise and return to my Father

Ever since the Fall in the garden, humans have naturally sought their own desires. One way or another we have become lost and destitute, and we yearn for redemption. So we have Jesus now, one who never did turn away. He is a shepherd who cares for his flock, and he seeks our hearts. After we have done it our own way and it doesn’t work, we turn back.

On that ATV, my heart, over my mind or will or desire, began turning back to God’s own. I felt his radiant presence, his delight when I called him my only, my worthy One, and the Holy Spirit filled me with a divine joy. You might be thinking, Jessica, you’re a pretty joyful person all the time. This was not the same. It was unearthly, contagious joy resulting directly from returning fully into the Lord’s realm. It came from a denial of the self, of giving him complete praise and telling him that I am his, and everything I do is for his glory. When that offer is earnest, he loves it. 

So I want you to know this: if you’ve been having faith struggles of your own, I get you. I am not some holier-than-thou church-going gal that you can’t relate to. Doubt sucks. I am following God’s command in Joel 2:12 – “Even now,” declares the LORD, “return to me with all your heart, with fasting and weeping and mourning.” I am choosing to return to God’s love, and I am trusting that it is real and enough.

When I straddled the ATV that morning, all I felt was reserved anxiety. I never expected to encounter poverty or the geography of the mountains, much less the most holy encounter with the Lord that I’ve had in a long time. That’s our God for you, though. Many times he is most present in the unexpected. He is always there when we return to him, and he truly delights when we worship him. Hallelujah, praise to a good God.

* But in your hearts honor Christ the Lord as holy, always being prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you; yet do it with gentleness andⁱrespect  -1 Peter 3:15

Costa Rica Photo Journal

14 photos for 14 days in Costa Rica
You couldn't go with us, but maybe this will give you an idea of our time and many fun adventures here. This family vacation rivaled Ireland; it honestly might be the best one ever.

Playing in Nosara

A few updates:

Monkeys

If you have no experience in Central America, it turns out our mystery animal from the previous blog is indeed only a howler monkey, and they sound much more intimidating than they actually are. Had we kept going a bit longer on the trail, the worst thing that would have happened is a possible groping of a testosterone-filled monkey or some poop droppings from the trees above. That’s their weapon, and honestly, I think it’s a more effective tactic than straight on physical attack.

Jesus

Bible study with my sisters (and now mother!) has been going really well. As in, it’s actually happening, regularly. We’re praying for each other and talking about faith issues together. I’m struggling to go beyond that, though. I know I need to start acting on my faith, but I am consistently held back. After yoga class, we walked along with Eleanor, our yoga instructor, and she said she moved from Canada to Costa Rica for emotional healing, mainly from the pains of relationships and previous men in her life. As it was happening, I felt the tug – she needs Jesus. She’s like the Samaritan woman at the well. Talk about Jesus. Pray for her. I could envision my friend doing it. “You need healing?” he would eagerly ask. “Here, let me give it to you.” And then he would pray for her and talk as long as necessary about this good new life, and there would be a big celebration in heaven. I saw the opportunity coming, and already I knew I would not act on it. Why? Am I really that afraid? I don’t think so. It’s more a matter of boldness and confidence. I want someone to lead me. I want to heal alongside others more confident and experienced than myself. I know it happens, I’m tired of not being a part of it, and yet I do not act.

Mojitos 

The new favorite summer drink for the Comptons is a homemade mojito. The first day we were here, we stopped for lunch at a beach front restaurant, where Mama ordered one. That minty hankering hadn’t quite left her when we took a very expensive trip to the grocery store. At the checkout line, she raised her pointer finger and exclaimed, “Oh! Mojitos!” With the very little Spanish she knows, she talked to the locals to figure out what ingredients we might need, and proceeded to race around the store for mint, lime, club soda, and rum. We get home. We have the ingredients, but do the Comptons strike you as expert drink makers who spend a lot of time at home mixing up concoctions? No, all Hoffa wants is a cold beer and a colder glass. His Spanish consists of “Hola!,” but I think mojito might be a Spanish word. Using a lot of hand gestures and repeating “mojito” incessantly, he invited our jovial taxi driver Louis to come inside to make and drink mojitos with us. Louis speaks little more English than Hoffa does Spanish. He came, though, and half an hour later, we’ve got three Hispanic workers – a taxi driver, a plumber, and a delivery man – and five of the six Comptons sipping on mojitos.

Paddle Boarding 

We’re here for a while, so the padres are trying to spread out our activities, but we have one down. Despite our ability to do it anytime on Shem Creek in good ol’ Mt. Pleasant, Mama was really interested in paddle boarding here. When we started talking to the locals about this idea, they all responded in the same persistent way: “Oh, no, we don’t go to river. Many crocodiles. Eat our dogs. Eat us.” Well that scared Mama off for all of twelve hours. “Let’s just go to the Experience Nosara place and talk to them ourselves. Surely they wouldn’t get all of these high reviews on TripAdvisor if tourists were dying on the river.” Well that’s encouraging, Ma. What do you expect them to say? Like any good tour business eager for customers during the low season, they assured us that it was completely safe. The next morning, Eight-pack Alan (as I secretly called him) came to pick us up. He is the most ripped thirty two year old I have ever seen. He also has a cougar. When Hoffa told me that, I asked dubiously, “What? You have a cougar for a pet?!” No, Jessica, his wife. She’s eight years older than him. Dang. You go for it Alan. At any rate, our day on the river really was enjoyable, and though we did see a few crocodiles, they did not bother us. Mama was satisfied, and the rest of us enjoyed the excursion.

Walking

My favorite exercise is the kind that isn’t intentional exercise. Yesterday, after the intentional run in the morning, I also ended up playing in the ocean for two hours, walking five miles, and doing an hour of yoga. We weren’t walking just to walk, but to actually get somewhere; I love that. I take back what I said about winning a walking contest. It turns out Mama and Rosa Marie can put the spring in their step when they want to. I was the one falling behind on the way to and from the free community yoga class at Harmony Hotel on Playa de Guionnes. It gets dark around 6 pm here, and they walked even faster on our return, a little alarmed by the dark. Are you surprised that we still got confused about how to get back?

Stay tuned. I am working on a pretty funny post. It involves boobs and hugs, so get ready.

Wandering

“Dang, I’ve never heard Mama say ‘shit’ before,” Rosa Marie giggled after our 500 meter sprint back up the footpath.

Only the Compton women would be chased off by a deep grunt during our first full day in Costa Rica. Only in Costa Rica, as the monkeys stake their territory, will you hear your rather reserved mother cuss. It’s all because she is one of the most directionally challenged human beings ever, and she passed her mapless genes onto us. Inheriting no internal compass, I opt to call myself a wanderer.

When I’m on the Appalachian Trail, I’m a hiker or a backpacker. On the Ravenel Bridge, I’m a power walker. I could probably win a powerwalking race; yes, I am that dorky. But those varieties of walking are all pretty typical things for me to be doing. They go in a straight line, and you can’t get lost. When I’m in a foreign country, however, I become a wanderer. Not because I have some deep wanderlust running through my veins, but because I will invariably get lost, which, of course, happened today in the intestinal labyrinth of Nosara roads.

After a sample of Mediterranean vegetable, pepperoni and salami, arugula and sundried tomatoes, and bacon and blue cheese pizzas for lunch, Cain and Hoffa turned back along the beach. As they headed to the cozy bungalow we’re renting for the next two weeks, the women – Mama, Georgia, Rosa Marie, and me – decided to find our way into town, buy a few groceries, and check out the lay of the land. So, in our bathing suit cover ups and sandals, rain clouds looming, we ventured the other direction down a rocky, dirt road, which, after wrapping around a house, quickly turned into a small footpath.

“Uh, Mom, are you sure this is the right way?” Georgia, the most skeptical of us all, questioned.

“Oh, come on, it looks alright to me. Let’s keep on,” I pushed, always up to discover where something may lead.

We trekked on another minute. As usual, I led the way. It’s one of my pet peeves to follow others on trails. I like to see where I’m going and what’s ahead of me, which is ironic, since most of the time I’m oblivious to my surroundings. Mama followed, the two sisters straggling behind her.

“Hey look!” Rosa Marie pointed to the trees above us. “Monkeys! And there’s a baby too!”

I was more interested in the bonanza of mangoes our curly tailed friends feasted on than the animals themselves, but it was still exciting to encounter our first jungle animals.

“Hey, let’s turn back,” Georgia suggested. “Do you hear that?”

I retorted that, no, I didn’t hear anything. It was still a clear path, and I continued walking.

And then it happened. This guttural, husky warning, a threatening crescendo began in the thick trees ahead. My ears didn’t register, and my steps continued. Rouh, rouh, roouh, rooouh, ROOOUH!

“Oh shit!” Mama exclaimed.

Oh my gosh! I thought. I’m about to be attacked! Turn around, run away!

My track star sisters were already off, fifty feet ahead of me. Though my mother is one fit fifty year old, running has never been a strength of hers, and bearing four children has not done her any favors. Adrenaline kicked in, though, and even she was trotting along as best she could. It turns out sacrificial love for one’s child is not reciprocal. Mama, get out of my way!

As soon as the trail opened up, I cut around her. Nothing was chasing us, but we weren’t taking any chances with a noise like that, and we all continued running until we were back at the head of the trail. Grateful to be safe, we all laughed, and continued on the next unmarked road. We walked down more jungle paths and continued in almost perpetual ignorance of where we were. An hour later, the clouds released rain in the same way the mystery animal warned us. First a refreshing sprinkle, fifteen minutes later a torrential downpour. We never found the town, and, as only true wanderers do, we unintentionally circled back to the pizzeria. Even when we got back on the beach to follow Cain and Hoffa's footprints, we got lost, passing by our exit and looping back until we found a promising gap in the trees. I suppose this is how our time in Costa Rica may go. The days are circular…waking to the early sunrise, morning dips, a daily adventure, afternoon thunderstorms, reading, and relaxing. Within these days, though, we will wander together, enjoying each surprise around the next bend in the road.