The Least of These

    "Martha," my friend laughed, "It's like you suddenly don't know that the rest of the world exists.  All you talk about is how you're going to go back to your little tribe.  It's 17,000 people, Martha.  Don't you think that your efforts would be more worthwhile somewhere else?"
    I feel my face flush hot as I struggle not to answer with anger.  This person just doesn't know.  How can I expect them to understand when they have never seen the tribe? I think.  But then it makes me wonder, even if they saw the tribe, would they understand?
    We have this skewed perspective on missions that puts everything in numbers and amounts and measures success by how many people "gave their heart to Jesus."  I applaud the salvation stories, and I'm excited for that.  But it can be difficult to answer when people ask me about it.  Honestly, I spent an entire summer there, and I never prayed for salvation with anyone, nor did I try.  Most of the people I came in contact with were either already Christian or else vehemently opposed to it.
    People get this disappointed look as if there was no "fruit" to my trip.  Maybe it was not the kind that can easily be measured, but there were things that happened.  1. I know a lot more of the language and can use that when I return.  2. I built relationships and trust with the people.  3. I learned from the people how to live in the mountains.  4.  One tribe had their first Christian meeting.  5. One literacy project was launched for fifteen children.
    But there were so many other things.  Rene got to fall asleep in loving arms.  The teachers of the small school were encouraged.  Everyone seemed to find a new joy in their language as they experienced teaching it to me.  I was there to be a friend to the women who needed a listening ear.  I was there to assist, learn, and most of all, love.
    Sometimes I look back on my summer and realize that it was in all honesty one of the hardest things I've ever done.  I was tired and sore a lot of times.  My brain was fried from trying to understand a new language.  I gave up privacy and decision-making rights.  I got laughed at and teased about my lack of speaking skill.  But I can honestly say that it was ok.  It didn't really seem hard.
    Yes, there were days when I wanted to escape from my constant following of little children, when I sang songs in English to myself just to hear the familiar sounds of my own language for a moment.  There were days when thought that I would scream if I saw another spider in my room.  There were days when I dreamed of eating just one slice of bread.  But did I want to go home?  No.  I was exactly where God wanted me to be, and I knew that.  I found out that it really is true that in the presence of God, even the greatest trial becomes a joy.  I could honestly laugh at the strange predicaments and new experiences, because I knew that God had put me there for a reason, and the reason was the people I was with.
    I think back on the people I met and the children I taught and I wish so bad that I could hike up that trail right now and see them all again.  I remember watching some children play soccer, barefoot in the dirt outside the church, their black hair flying in the wind that their white tunics stained and ragged.  I watched them and thought, "God, I don't have a whole ton to offer.  Just my life.  But if you are asking me to give it here, in these mountains, to these people.  Give me love for them, even deeper than what I have now."  And he did.  They became my small, brown family.  I love them dearly and long to be with them again.
    Then my friends here in America ask me if I couldn't find somewhere more worthwhile than there, with the people God gave me...
 
People always talk about reaching out to the "least of these" with loving them right where they are.  It's true, but there is something that needs to happen first.  Each one of us has to realize that we are the least of these. People ask me how I could stand to have the kids climbing all over me, knowing that their hair was full of lice.  But is my hair really more important than showing love to a little child?  No.  Are my hands so important that I can't wash my clothes out on the rocks of the stream bed?  Is my comfort so important that I can't give it up for the people of a tiny tribe in the mountains who need to know my Father's love?
    No, I am the least of these.  And in being the least, I can find joy in being filled with the presence of the Greatest and seeing His face in each face around me.

El Payaso de Dios

Había en una vez hace mucho tiempo un niño que se  llamaba Giovanni.  Él vivía en las calles de la ciudad de Sorrento en Italia.  Giovanni no tenía madre ni padre y entonces pidió limosnas y se durmió bajo de los puentes.  Cada día fue a la frutería del Señor Baptisto y allí hizo juegos malabares.  Él hizo juegos malabares con manzanas, bananas y naranjas.  La gente se juntaron a mirar Giovanni.   Aplaudieron, se rieron, y después compraron la fruta del Señor Baptisto, y en la noche el Señor le dio a Giovanni una sopa.  Fue un buen acuerdo.

Un día llegó a la ciudad un grupo de payasos y Giovanni se acercó a ver.  Ellos estaban vestidos en ropa de muchos hermosos colores.  Ellos cantaban y danzaban y la gente aclamaban, se rieron y aplaudieron.  Giovanni miró y dijo, “¡Esa es la vida para mí!”

Despues del espectáculo, Javier se acercó al director del grupo.  “Por favor, Señor.  Quiero viajar con ustedes!”

“No tenemos espacio para un niño en el grupo!” Dijo el Director.

“Pero Señor, Yo puedo manejar los burros y ayudar a alimentarlos.  Y también, Señor, ¡puedo hacer algo maravilloso!  ¡Puedo hacer juegos malabares!”  Giovanni dijo y le mostró como podía hacer los juegos.

“Hmm… bueno.  No eres tan mal.  Pero sin sueldo!  Solo comida y la compañía de los mejores payasos es todo.”

“Gracias, Señor!” Dijo Giovanni

En tiempo, Giovanni creció y mejoró.  En poco tiempo él se fue del grupo para hacer su propio espectáculo.  En cada pueblo, él hizo igual.  Primero, hacía juegos malabares con palos, después con platos y después con antorchas.  Al fin él cogió la pelota roja, la pelota verde, la pelota azul, púrpura, anaranjada y blanca.  Las tiró, rápido y mas rápido hasta que parecía a un arco iris!  Al fin, gritando “Ahora el sol en los cielos!” Giovanni, todavía tirando las pelotas, cogió la pelota de color de oro.  La pelota de oro volaba  alto y mas alto con las otras pelotas!  Y la gente le aclamó y aplaudió.  Los años pasaban y Giovanni llegó a ser viejito.  La gente no le prestó atención en la calle cuando hizo juegos malabares.   Dijeron, “ Solo es el payaso viejo.  Hemos visto a él antes.”

Los tiempos fueron duros y su traje se hizo trapos.  Hasta que un día, se le cayó la pelota de oro.  Y la gente se rieron, pero no fue con felicidad.  Y ellos hicieron algo terrible!  Cogieron palos y piedras y los tiraron a Giovanni hasta que tuvo que correr para salvar su vida!

Afuera de la ciudad, Giovanni se descansó a lado de un arroyo.  Se lavó la cara del maquillaje de payaso.  Guardó los palos, platos y pelotas en su maleta y se quitó el traje.  Giovanni dejó de hacer juegos malabares para siempre.

Giovanni empezó a pedir limosnas y dormir bajo de los puentes como antes.  “Es tiempo volver a casa.” Dijo y se fue a Sorrento. 

Una noche, cuando estaba en camino, Giovanni llegó a una iglesia oscura y se durmió en el piso, agradecido calentarse un poco.  Pero poco después se despertó con música.  La iglesia estaba llena de personas cantando y llevando regalos a poner en frente de una estatua de una mujer con un niño.  Giovanni tocó el brazo del hombre más cerca y preguntó “¿Qué es esto?  ¿Qué están haciendo?”

“¿Qué te pasa, viejo? No sabes que hoy es la Navidad?  Es el cumpleaños de ese niño en la estatua allá!  Estos son los regalos para él.”

Giovanni esperaba hasta que todos se fueron y la iglesia estaba vacía para acercarse a la estatua de la mujer con el niño en su regazo.  Pero la cara del niño se vio triste y severa.   “Niño santo,” dijo el hombre viejo. “¿Por qué estás tan triste cuando ya tienes todos estos hermosos regalos?  Me gustaría darte algo para hacerte sonreír.  ¡Pero, espera!  Antes, yo podía hacer a la gente reír.”

Giovanni abrió su maleta y se puso su traje de payaso y su maquillaje.  “Primero,” el dijo, sonriendo “los palos, después los platos…”

El diácono estaba pasando por el santuario, para cerrar con llave la puerta y vio al payaso.  “Padre!  Ven!  Una herejía!” gritó

Pero Giovanni cogió la pelota roja y la pelota verde, azul, amarilla, púrpura, anaranjada y blanca.  Las tiró rápido y mas rápido!  “Ahora el sol en los cielos!” Gritó.  Y la pelota de oro voló alto y mas alto hasta que pareció un arco iris!  Nunca había hecho juegos malabares tan maravillosos así en toda la vida!  “¡Para ti, dulce niño!” Gritó Giovanni, “ ¡Es para ti!

Pero de repente, su viejo corazón dejó de latir y Giovanni se cayó, muerto, al piso. 

Llegaron el pastor y diácono.  “Pues, mira.  El pobre payaso está muerto.” Dijo el pastor, agachándose a mirar.

Pero el diácono tomó pasos para detrás, temblándose.  “Pastor, mira por alla!”

Porque el estatua del niño sonrió y tenía en la mano la pelota de oro. 

Un Sueño de la Noche

Vi  a Jesús en un sueño de la noche.  Tenía las manos puesto junto a su corazón, cuidando algo especial.

¿Señor, qué llevas allá junto a tu corazón?  Lo cuidas como tu tesoro más amado.  Déjame ver que es.

Jesús se paró y me sonrió.  Mira pues, mi hija.  Te quiero compartir. 

Él abrió sus manos heridas y me mostró el tesoro más precioso del mundo, la niña de sus ojos:  fue la gente desconocida.  La gente que no han escuchado las buenas noticias.   Jesús me miró y vi en sus ojos los profundos de su corazón.  Mi hija, dijiste que querías conocer mi corazón.  Si quieres escuchar el latir de mi corazón, vas a escuchar el clamor de mi pueblo, porque lo llevo siempre en mi corazón.  He estado pensando en ellos desde la creación del mundo  ¿lo puedes llevar a este pueblo?  ¿Sabes cuantas lágrimas he derramado por ellos?  ¿Sabes tanto me duele?  ¿Cómo me pueden conocer, si nadie los lleva en el oración?  Estoy luchando alcanzarlos porque ellos también son hijos perdidos en la oscuridad.  Hoy te doy el regalo sentir lo que siento por este pueblo.

Cuando vi el amor, el anhelo de su corazón, tomé un paso para atrás.  No, Señor, no puedo.  No merezco eso.  Te voy a fallar.

Mi hija, siempre fue mi anhelo compartir con mis hijos todo que yo haga.  Te los doy hoy.  Llévalos al trono de Dios, pelea en oración por ellos, y pide el padre que los obreros vayan al campo.  Y deja que fuye mi amor a ellos por medio de ti.

Se fue el Señor de mi visto.  Y me dejo con la cara ese pueblo guardado en mi corazon  ¡Señor!  ¡Escuche mi clamor!  Rompe las cadenas que están sobre sus corazones.  Oh, tanto les amas!  Puedo sentir tu amor para este pueblo y se está quebrantando mi corazón…

Llegaron mis amigos y me rodearon.  ¿Que llevas, amiga?  ¿Por qué lloras?

Les mostré el tesoro que yo llevaba junto a mi corazón, pero se rieron.  ¿Por qué te importa ese pequeño pueblo?  ¡Están lejos, amiga!  Deja esas locuras.  Ven con nosotros.  Ríete, sonríe y olvida ese pueblito desconocido.

Pero cerré mis ojos y otra vez vi la cara de mi Salvador, con los ojos llenos del amor que le llevó a la cruz.  Señor.  Los guardo en mi corazón.  Quiero sentir tu corazón por las almas perdidos.  Los pueblos del mundo no están lejos de ti, pues tú los llevas junto a tu corazón.

Mi Todo

Aqui esta una copia del poema "My Everything" en Español para los que lo quieren ver.

Como te puedo merecer, mi Rey?

Tu, mi Dios, mi todo

Me dicen "No fuiste tan mala

Tal vez mentiste, tal vez enganiaste

Un poco aqui, un poco alla

Por que vale?  Por que te importa?

No mataste a nadie, nunca fuiste rebelde

Solo, como todos cayiste

Pero tu mi Dios, me entiendes

Veias mi vida desde el primer hilo

(o mas bien principio? es dificil traducir "starting strand")

Veias el vacio que me pusó en sombra

Y la oscuridad que en mi luchó

Un rayo de luz, rompiste mi mundo

Tu mano alcanzó a esta niña

Esperanza tan brillante, tu esperanza tan verdadera

Esperanza que me llamó "Quiero a TI"

No eres demasiado joven, ni tonta, ni loca

Eres mia, te compre, Eres MI hija"

Tu veias mis lagrimas cuando estaba sola

Me llamaste "Ven!"

Con tu alegria tan grande me llenaste

Tu amor rebosa de mi copa

Amor que crezca, se rie, y se extende

Mi pregunta, O Dios, esta no mas

Como yo podia viver antes?

Como odia pensaar que eso fue vida?

Cuando nada valia y todo lucho

Pero me haces completo en cada esquina

En ti, encuentro alegria cuando te sirvo

No puedo merecerte, mi Rey

Tu, mi Dios, Tu eres mi todo

My Everything

How could I deserve You, my King?

You, my God, my everything

So I wasn't so bad that's what they say

Maybe you lied, cheated some days

A little here, a little there

What does it matter? Why do you care?

You didn't kill anyone. You weren't a rebel

Just, like everyone you fell

But You, my God, You understand

You've seen my life from the starting strand

You saw the emptiness that overshadowed

And the darkness that I embattled

A shaft of light, You broke my world

Your hand reaching to this one girl

Hope so bright, You hope so true

Hope that called, "I want YOU.

"Your not too young, nor too stupid or wild

Your mine, I bought you, Your MY child."

You saw my tears when I was alone

You beckoned me to you to come

With your huge joy you filled me up

Your love runs from my cup

Love that swells and laughs and grows

Love that reaches out and flows

My question, Oh God, this one no more

How in the world did I live before?

How could I have that that was life?

When there was nothing worth the strife

But You fulfill in me every crevice

In You, I find my joy in Your service

I could never deserve You, my King.

You, my God, Yourself my everything.

Seven Years

What a rotten day. Nothing had gone right. Someone had drawn a caricature of him, calling him a pothead, and posted it on several bulletin boards. Now his girlfriend was mad and refusing to talk to him. He kicked at a pebble and sent it careening under a car. If he found out who did that, he’d break their windshield – forget that, he’d break their face. His friends were still offish since the brush with the police last week – huh, as if he could call them real friends. He reached his truck in the middle of the high school parking lot and gave the tire a vicious kick. Even his truck was old and rarely started with the first crank. It had been his dad’s before him. He pushed the thought away quickly and opened the door. A flutter of paper caught his eye. Someone had stuck something under his wiper blade. He walked around the truck, grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket without looking at it. It was probably another copy of the caricature. It wasn’t until he was climbing out of the truck in his driveway that he paused to unfold it. His face suddenly went pale. It was Dad’s handwriting.

Marc –

I heard you were going to this school now. I’m glad to see the old truck is still running. But, that’s not why I’m writing.

Marc, you might hate me. I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But, I’ve changed. I want to try to right the wrongs as best I can. I was so stupid to give you and your mother up for nothing.

If you forgive me, Marcus, write and tell me at this address: 2561 Azalea Trail, West Point, TX 72758

Love, Your Dad, Shawn Cullen

He leaned his head back against the truck and closed his eyes, his heart racing. His hands crumpling the letter into a wad.

“Dad?” It was his own voice, from years ago, high-pitched and childish. He was nine years old and shaking. “Dad? Where are you going?”

Dad didn’t look up from shoving his things into the suitcase. “Ask your mom.” His voice was bitter and filled with barely contained rage.

Marc’s hands were shaking as he grabbed at his father’s coat. “Dad, what’s going on?” He shook him off roughly. Marcus looked to his mother, but she was just looking on with sad, silent eyes.

Desperation took over. Marcus took hold of the suitcase and jerked with all his might, sending it to the floor. The contents scattered across the floor. Quickly he grabbed them and threw them across the room. “Don’t leave, Dad, don’t –“

There was a sudden blow to his mouth and he sat down hard, his lip bleeding. “Leave my stuff be, brat!” Dad roared, furious.

Marcus saw the booted foot lift and tried to dodge, but it hit him in ribs and sent him spinning. He lay there crying and gasping for air and he clutched at his side as his father grabbed his stuff and walked out.

Seven years. Seven years of silence, anger, pain. Seven years of hatred. Marcus was sixteen now, with a criminal record full of drug-related offenses. Sixteen with his wrists scarred from cutting. Suddenly Marcus whirled and jumped back into the truck. The engine gunned on the third try and he backed quickly out of the driveway.

The town was three hours away, but he seemed to arrive in no time at all. He pulled up in front of a row of duplexes. Jumping out, he ran, stumbling, to the door marked 2561. He knocked and waited, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, resting his chin on his chest. His blonde hair curtained his face. The door opened slowly, “Marc?”

Marcus didn’t move.

“Marc, does your mother know you’re here?”

“What do you think?” His tone was sarcastic. He shifted his weight to the other foot. “Dad? Why didn’t you care?”

His Dad looked a little taken aback. He had been prepared for questions on why he left, but not this. “Marc –“

“Was I not important to you at all? I’ve struggled with drugs, cutting, even suicide. Now I’m asking, Dad, did you care?” As he finished, he finally looked up to see tears flowing down his father’s face.

His father reached out and wrapped his arms around him. “I’ve not done right by you, but now I’ve found a Father in heaven that you need more than you need me.”

You Are in America Now

“Seven fifty is your change. Thank you, ma’am.” The cashier says in a slightly bored tone, dropping the change into my palm. I grab the pack of beef jerky and turn to leave the convenience store, but a sign catches my eye and I pause. You are in America now. Speak English it reads. Above the words is a picture of Old Glory waving proudly. For an instant I imagine my friend Elisabet reading the sign. She has been here for six years and still struggles to understand the simplest English. She tries -- she tries hard, but almost all of the people she knows are Salvadorian like her, so she has little chance to practice. I wish I could say in a near-quote of Charles Dickens: Man, if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you know who the Hispanics are and where they are.

I’m not Hispanic. But sometimes I feel like I am. I work in a Hispanic restaurant, eat their food, and speak Spanish all day, four days a week. I don’t know how many times the people there have asked me in Spanish where I’m from; I guess they can’t pinpoint my accent. “I’m American.” I tell them in Spanish, “Born in Texas.”

They look at me in surprise, “But your parents are from Mexico or Honduras or something, right?”

“No, they are from here in Arkansas.”

“What? You mean they’re white?”

“Well… Yeah.” I say, not exactly sure of the term.

“How did you learn Spanish?”

“I studied it from books, from a teacher, and over the internet.”

It never fails to completely blow them away that I learned Spanish so well, even though I technically have no connection with anyone or anything south of the border. One question is always in their faces, though they rarely ask it: “Why did you care enough to learn good Spanish?”

In their minds white people in Arkansas are the ones who put up signs that say You are in America now. Speak English. White people are the policemen who don’t care enough to work bilingually, the nurse who has to communicate through the six year old, and the teacher who can’t tell them about their child’s education needs. But, the ones who have been to the restaurant several times and watched me, sometimes comment about something else. “You always start in Spanish, even if the person is very likely to know English as well as Spanish. If English is the language you are fluent in, why don’t you speak that?”

I usually just shrug and say, “I like Spanish.” But there is a whole lot more to my reason than that. I do it because I watch the people that come in. I see their homesickness for El Salvador or Mexico or Honduras or wherever. I watch them run a finger over the map of Central America, buy a calling card and call family back home, stare longingly at the Salvadorian Flag on the wall. I hear them talking quietly in Spanish about Abuelita back home who made wonderful Atol de Elote and Tio Carlos that raised the tallest Maiz. How could I mess that up by making them speak English to me? I’d rather struggle in Spanish than make them struggle in English in the one oasis they have of home. Everyone has a right to create a piece of home. I used to frequent American Restaurants overseas, now I watch the Salvadorians frequent their Salvadorian Restaurant here. It’s a piece of home that connects them with the family they left behind.

Besides, shouldn’t we be telling them You are in America now, so feel free to speak any language you want? After all, most of my ancestors were immigrants. We can’t turn around and say “Well, my great-grandparents were fine if they wanted to speak German, but you and your Spanish can take a hike back to Mexico.” That would be completely dumb.

I love the people who come into the restaurant. I love it when they think I’m one of them. I love it when they know I’m not Hispanic and still include me as part of the happy group. I love hearing tales of El Salvador and the life they hope to make here. I mourn with them when they tell me of family they left behind, friends that were deported, relatives caught in gang life, or neighbors who are mistreated at work. So, convenience store owner, try learning Spanish – then you’ll see America.