Hope Wasn't Abstract Here

Hope Wasn't Abstract Here

“So, tell me about this school we’re visiting tomorrow?” 

I had been in Indonesia for four days and had been gently teasing my colleague, Sole, that he didn’t need to handle me with “soft gloves.” I’d lived in Nigeria for seven years – I figured I’d seen it all and could handle a trip into the bush to visit some remote Reformasi school. 

“We’ll be travelling to Lanu,” Sole said. “It’s a very remote community. And traditionally, the people are thieves.” 

 Wait…what?! Thieves – as in, their main industry is robbing people? 

 Sole explained that Lanu sits deep in the mountains of West Timor. The land is green but steep, rocky, and unforgiving…beautiful, yet almost impossible to farm. Eventually, the villagers had turned to raiding nearby communities just to survive. 

 It’s a strange feeling packing your passport and cash into your overnight bag knowing you’re heading to a place shaped by that kind of desperation. Your fingers linger on the zipper a little longer. 

The next morning, we set out early. As we wove across the island, West Timor unfolded around us – rolling mountains wrapped in mist…sharp drops into valleys thick with tropical green…and wide-open views of the Timor Sea shimmering in the distance. Hours later we turned off the main road onto a washed-out track. The vehicle lurched and groaned as its tires slipped over exposed stones. Our climb to Lanu had begun. 

At the top, three young men waited beside their motorcycles. They grinned and motioned for us to hop on. We would finish our journey on the backs of these rattling, coughing machines. 

We arrived in the late afternoon sun, heat pressing on our shoulders – and to my surprise, around 100 people were gathered, nearly the entire community. Leaders greeted us with smiles and a traditional “nose-on-nose” welcome. I quickly noticed the deep red stain on their teeth and the earthy scent of betel nut in the air. When I was offered a leaf to chew, I understood their crimson smiles. After a few bitter bites, an audible murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. 

Behind us, children kicked off an impromptu volleyball match on the only flat patch of ground. Dust rose in soft clouds around their bare feet. Meanwhile, I met the teachers and leaders. They shared that the nearest government school sat at the top of a distant mountain – simply too far a trek for most children. For generations, education had been out of reach. 

For all except for one woman. 

Years ago, her parents had moved from Lanu to a larger town, where she attended a Reformasi school. There she discovered not just reading and writing, but a Christ-shaped calling for her life. When she returned home, she carried something Lanu had never had before: a vision of what could be. 

The lead teacher proudly showed me their school. Cut into the mountainside was a single rectangular building, roughly 75 feet by 25. Branches were lashed together to form the walls…sheets of tin made the roof…and the floor was packed dirt. I ducked into the first classroom and was greeted by students eager to show me their notebooks and schoolwork.  

We stepped through the remaining rooms – another classroom and a tiny library sparsely filled with worn books and student projects proudly displayed on a shelf. Primitive as it was, the school pulsed with something unmistakable: the community’s hope, their pride, their belief that change had already begun. 

Outside, at the end of the school building, fresh trenches cut into the earth told the rest of the story … convinced of the school’s impact, they had already started laying the foundations for a permanent two-classroom block. 

That evening, I was blessed to stay in the home of one of the village elders. The house was simple – four rooms made from scraps of tin, the entire back wall was removed…open to the cool mountain air so the cooking smoke could escape. 

 Over a small meal of chicken, vegetables, and local salad, the room filled with laughter. Not polite laughter – but real, familiar, neighbourly laughter. 

 Later, lying on the plywood bed they’d offered me, I listened to the chorus of insects and the distant rumble of a motorbike drifting up the valley. Breathing in woodsmoke and cool night air, a quiet certainty settled over me.  

This community – once known for taking – was now learning to give its children a future shaped by Christ. 

 In the dark, I pictured the trenches waiting for concrete, the dust rising behind running feet, the fierce determination in the teachers’ eyes. 

Hope wasn’t abstract here. It was right outside the door. 

And with that, I drifted to sleep.