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I can still feel the undersides of my bare legs burning from 

contact with the hot leather seats of the school-bus. As we 

lurched along the steep mountain road, making switchback 

after switchback, I nestled into my mom’s loose, relaxed 

body and she rested a hand on my back. It had been a long 

day of travel already, but the sleepiness I had felt on the 

four-hour boat ride was exchanged for deep excitement as 

we neared Holden Village, the Christian camp where my 

parents had lived for three years before my birth. 

Suddenly, up ahead, the forest gave way to a big  

clearing full of tall bunkhouses, green lawns, colorful 

people, and dry, dusty road. The scattered people 

congregated on the side of the road and waved at us, 

welcoming the busload of strangers to their Holden, now 

our Holden. There were barefoot children and men with 

bandannas on their heads; women with tie-dye shirts 

and old men with long beards. It was an eclectic crowd 

that was full of life.

We piled out of the bus and were herded up to the dining hall 

like a road-weary troupe of nomads. The delicious smell of 

freshly-baked bread and spicy lentil soup wafted through the 

air to our greedy noses as we hiked up the hill and into the 

large log dining hall.

Chairs were scattered around circular tables, and a few 

stragglers were still seated from lunch, gulping down orange 

juice, swapping hiking stories, and playing card games. They 

looked at us with friendly eyes as people who were used to the 

practice of welcome. The school-bus’ daily contribution of new 

faces was as expected to them as the morning sunrise. 

We wolfed down the heavy meal, enjoying the flavor 

of home-cooked food in contrast with our travel diet 

of granola bars. My sisters and I went up for more 

bread, marveling at the ancient toaster which moved 

the bread through a little oven and past glowing 

heating coils on a conveyor belt which sped up or 

slowed down with the turn of a magic dial.

As we walked to our room, I soaked in Holden with all 

my senses: The hot smell of dry dusty road, the 

unfamiliar thinness of the mountain air; the sound of 

children shouting and playing; the sight of weary hikers 

emerging from the woods and stabbing the ground with 

their walking poles; the sound of the village bell 

clanging to gather the people. . . I felt like I had found 

heaven on earth. 

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