Esperanza’s Witness
by Lyndsey Parsons
ESPERANZA’S WITNESS
The small boat slowly approaches the dock. Excitement and exhaustion wash over the group as we approach our final destination, after a 15-hour car ride and a 30-minute boat excursion to reach the shores of Esperanza.
Bodies scramble off the boat with backpacks and hoodies in hand. The boys are instructed to grab all the duffels and supplies while the girls run up the dock to claim their cabins.
The smell of moist dirt and pine finds my nostrils as I trudge up the path in an attempt to claim the best bed. In reality, everyone has the same thin mattress on a wooden bunk. Comfort is solely dependent on the quality of sleeping bags and pillows.
With my backpack and pillow declaring my place, I step outside and gaze around the forest, taking in the sight of ancient trees and banana slugs that overrun the small clearing in the woods.
As night falls, a fire blazes in the middle of camp. The strum of a guitar brings us all to the circle. Wrapping my arms around myself to conserve my body heat, I gaze into the fire as the first lyrics are sung.
“I lift my eyes to the hills;
Where does my help come from? “
My eyes peel away from the fire to gaze at the outline of the giant before me. I greet the mountain with starry eyes. A gentle breeze washes over my face, a response of sorts. Contentment settles in my body. And though this is our first visit to this small fishing island with the largest mountains I have ever seen, familiarity settles in my heart.
Dusk and firelight. Strums and singing. The first time Esperanza and I bear witness to one another, my heart grows tender.
Soon, the freezing water of the sound laps against my bare feet, and its gentle waves cover my sobs. The black waters beyond the shore are both a comfort and a mockery. How could something so beautiful as the sea take her away?
The golden sun is beginning to set behind the mountain top, casting a giant shadow over the water. Esperanza. That’s what the locals call her—this vast mountain on a small fishing island.
Her name means hope. As her shadow covers the spot on this shore, I beg for that hope to catch my fall into anguish.
I reach down, looking for the largest rock that I can throw. Clinging to the stone, a little larger than my hand, I look out to the mountain range across the sound, hoping God can see me standing here. A biting breeze blows blonde strands in my face.
I hate you for taking her, I think. But then my heart rearranges, knowing it wasn’t God who took her life, but that he allowed it.
Channeling all my anger and tears into the rock in my palm, I chuck it as far as my arm will allow.
Plop. Splash. Ripple.
My tears echo the rhythm of the stone.
Esperanza’s shadow continues to grow over me and the sound. This is the first time she has witnessed my grief.
In the four summers that followed, Esperanza became the spectator of my youth:
She witnessed the exhilaration of flying off the cliffside and plunging into the ice-cold ocean. The belly laughter of teenage girls after they steal the boys' shoes and hide them in the rocky sand. The tears of confession as souls are set free by the maker of mountains and oceans and laughter.
My sandals sit at the top of the trail. Pebbles poke the bottoms of my feet as I trek to the secret tire swing near the beach. Threading my feet through the large hole, I push hard enough to keep myself swaying for a while. Closing my eyes, I listen to the waves bringing in the evening tide and the breeze rustling the branches. I feel the coldness tingle my arms and legs as Esperanza’s shadow indicates the closing of another day.
Then, my last sunset on this little fishing island came:
My eyes opened to gaze at the peak of Esperanza, her name meaning hope. I prayed for that hope to seal the end of my youth and ease the start of the next chapter.
Even now, I know these experiences are precious. What this place has given will live with me all my days. As Esperanza stands, mighty and strong, she bears witness to the human and divine: the groans of nature and the laughter of children, an escape and a sanctuary. I pray that the parts of me left here would seep into the soil and grow with the ancient trees of this small fishing island, my place of hope.
LYNDSEY PARSONS
Lyndsey is an aspiring writer, mom of 3, and lover of a good coffee. She's inspired by the idea of exploring what it means to be a creative through the lens of faith and spirituality. The purpose of her writing is to keep her in a place of awe and wonder in a world full of distractions. Writing is her rebellion against losing her soul to stuff and status.
She writes on Substack at Craving Creation.