There has been much talk for some time about running in the mornings here. Since we had to leave early yesterday, today was to be the day that it all started. I awoke at 6:35 (since we were meeting at 6:45 and I wanted to have plenty of time to get ready) and upon stepping into the hall, I found only Courtney.
We figured the boys (all of whom wished to run) were not awake, so we went up and knocked. Jeremy opened the door, looking much as we had left him last night. A few minutes later, determining it would be just the three of us, we set off towards the Malacon.
Now, I know that you all think I am a giant mass of muscle and fitness and physical power, but I would like to clear something up for you: I am not. Jogging from the hotel, across the Malacon, and to the bottom of the hill, I felt great. However, less than 100 steps up, I simply could not run anymore. Courtney and I fell behind, walking, persevering. When we got to the top of the 430 steps, we decided we missed walking up stairs and ascended the lighthouse on top of the hill.
From up there, we could see the whole city. We saw the Malacon, the airport, the buildings, the river, the schoolchildren assembled like you see in documentaries about the Chinese education system.
Like it did first in New Orleans four years ago, later in Alejuelita, and always in Fishers, my heart sings and prays and cries out "Greater things are yet to come, greater things are still to be done in this city."
We went over to a little chapel to pray over the city and noted a stain glass progression of the gospel story. I was crushed to find that in all that art, in all that effort, they had missed the best part. They left my Savior in a tomb! My God is not dead. My God is NOT dead. He is not powerless or wounded.
My God is here. My God is in Guayaquil. My God is in me.
Most productive morning of my life,