Found in Translation (22 page)

Anjelita’s face flamed into a brilliant red. At first, I thought she was angry, but I’d witnessed her anger the day before, and her reaction to Aleesha was quite different. More likely, Aleesha’s apparent rejection caught her so off guard it embarrassed her.

Before things could get further out of hand, I made signs of eating. That distracted Anjelita enough to clear some of the hurt from her face. But not all of it.

Aleesha’s face revealed every bit of the anguish she felt over her harsh-sounding miscommunication. She could be blustery on the outside, but she was as warm and gooey inside as a campfire-roasted marshmallow. She’d undoubtedly threaten to preach a never-ending sermon to the first person who accused her of that, though.

Aleesha led the way to the mess tent, and Anjelita walked with me several steps behind. She looked like she might start crying any second. When Aleesha stopped abruptly, Anjelita and I came within two millimeters of rear-ending her.

“Your taillights aren’t working,” I teased.

But Aleesha solemnly ignored my quip. Turning around and looking into Anjelita’s eyes, she pulled the hair away from both sides of the little girl’s head and smiled.

“Mañana—tomorrow,” she said.

Everyone knows mañana, but Aleesha had been trying so hard to say “not today” that she’d overlooked the obvious. And so had I.

Anjelita wrapped her arm-and-a-half around Aleesha, and the events of the past ten minutes became history.

A
leesha must have thought my addiction to beef jerky was crazy. I ate more of it than she did. If I had some other meat for my entree, I gnawed on jerky for dessert.

I may have been crazy, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew I’d be as sick of jerky by the time I got home as I was of pizza now.

I caught Rosa’s eye across the mess tent, smiled at her, and waved. This time she smiled back, though ever so slightly and still with a bit of hesitation. Although the bunch of loud extroverts from North of the Border may have overwhelmed her, she looked lonelier than shy—like she needed someone to talk with. I wished like crazy I could have been that someone.

She sauntered across the mess tent and smiled at me again as she got closer. She spoke a few words to Anjelita, who followed her without arguing, perhaps to their sleepsite. The location was one of my many unanswered questions.

Anjelita didn’t say anything before leaving. I hoped her absence would be brief. And temporary.

After brushing my teeth, I checked the mess tent and returned to the construction area. Nobody had seen Anjelita. I approached the leader of the first team and offered my help. I explained that when and if Anjelita came back, I would need to leave my task incomplete.

She understood. But she couldn’t see how I was fretting inside.

Lord, if Anjelita doesn’t help me today, I can’t begin my cleanup project. Angel said You’d permit me to do it. But how can I prepare for the more difficult task if I don’t get to do the less important one?

Praying didn’t help. I’d just resumed my fretting when I heard a voice ….

“Peace to you, Kim.”

Was that Angel’s voice? I looked around, but no one was close by. Had I fallen asleep standing up? I instinctively sat down and closed my eyes.

“Angel? I just finished praying, and then you spoke. Does God let you eavesdrop on my private times with Him?”

I was curious, not upset.

“No, but He passed this along to me as a follow-up to last night’s discussion.”

“So you’re God’s ambassador to me the way the team members try to be His ambassadors to Santa María?”

So help me, I heard Angel smiling at my question. That made me smile, too.

“Kim, the problem isn’t just your lack of preparedness for the big project. You aren’t even properly prepared for the litter-cleanup campaign.”

I opened my mouth to protest—mentally at least—but Angel kept going.

“Kim, did you listen to yourself when you were praying?”

I nodded.

“God doesn’t think so.”

Huh?

“You referred to this project as yours. Yes, you came up with the litter cleanup and you want to do it for the best of reasons. You don’t know if the Passover Church was ever a church, but you want to teach the villagers to respect it in the hopes they will become Christians and use it as a church someday. But you won’t succeed unless you view this as God’s project.”

I couldn’t speak.

“You also said you can’t do the cleanup campaign without Anjelita. You think the Creator of the Universe is incapable of helping you do this project without Anjelita? Don’t forget He can also do it without you.”

Oh, man. Was I about to start this project on the wrong foot or what?

“Kim, God’s not upset with you. But you reminded Him of Moses asking for Aaron’s help. Moses didn’t need Aaron, but God agreed to the request as a personal favor.”

I nodded.

“Get to work, girl.”

When I opened my eyes, Anjelita was looking down at me. She wore clothes that were more appropriate for work than the flimsy attire she’d had on earlier. Elated at being able to start my pet project—no, God’s project—I gave Anjelita such a tight hug that she had to push me away to loosen my hold.

“Jayne,” I said to the leader of team 1. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to get those boards for you.”

“No problem, Kimmy. Keeping that kid safe is more important.”

I nodded.

“So what’s your plan?”

After explaining that it was God’s plan and not mine, I told her about the litter cleanup. She responded with a hug, a smile, and an enthusiastic, “Go for it!”

Then I went looking for Rob and Charlie. Anjelita tagged along behind me, her posture straight and tall—as if yesterday’s improved relations with the other children had infused her with all the confidence in the world.
Thank You, Lord.

I found Rob and Charlie together—a rare circumstance.

“Great idea, Kimmy!” They said almost in unison after I outlined my plan.
Grrr
. When would I quit thinking of it as mine?

“Although the villagers don’t seem to have any notion what a church is, clearing the yard may touch them in some unexpected way.”

When I expressed concern about the time and energy we’d waste carting away rubbish, Charlie offered to build a bonfire adjacent to the churchyard. He noted that the area contained enough cacti to fuel fires for a thousand years without affecting the local ecology.

Once the three of us finished talking—Anjelita looked like she understood and approved of everything—she scampered off toward the construction area.

I called her name and followed it up with a soft-spoken no, hoping it wouldn’t resemble the harsh no she’d used on the other children or the one Aleesha had said to her earlier. Then I took the stub of her right arm and led her toward the tiny Passover Church.

“Anjelita,” I said as if she could understand me, “all this debris in the churchyard looks pathetic. I can’t believe it doesn’t bother the villagers, but they’re too busy rebuilding their homes to do anything about it. But you and I, Anjelita, you and I have the time and the freedom to do what they can’t do. I don’t care if it takes every bit of the time I have left here ….”

I hesitated. How long would God’s more important project take?

“We’re going to make the yard of this so-called church look respectable.”

She smiled as if every word was intelligible.

As often as I’d looked at the building, I’d never realized how tiny it was. The wooden shed in my backyard was 10 × 15—a meager but sufficient one hundred fifty square feet. The church was probably somewhere between twenty-five and forty feet wide and fifteen to thirty-five feet deep. I’ve never been good at estimating distances.

The area of the churchyard was more important than the size of the church, though. Tracking our progress would be easy if we could figure out the square footage.

Anjelita never ceased to amaze me. She seemed to understand what I was doing. My bottom lip almost hit the trashy ground when she took measured steps across the front of the yard and wrote “26” in the dirt.

I nodded. That sounded reasonable.

After pacing the pathway to the church door, she scribbled “17” below the 26. Seconds later, she wrote “442”—the approximate number of square feet we needed to clear. I couldn’t have done that math in my head; yet she’d done it faster than somebody using a calculator. An unusually good school must have once occupied the area of the mess tent.

Where to start, where to start …

When I did a once-over of the yard, I didn’t spot a thing worth salvaging. I might have been looking at the bottom layer of a sewer that had dried out before it finished draining—but this was a million times worse. The storm had carried off most of the big pieces of trash, and I didn’t see any sign of waste products—for that I was grateful!—but the sheer quantity of solid trash was overwhelming. Not to mention the stench.

If a major blizzard’s worth of snow had fallen in the churchyard, digging out would have seemed less daunting. In a few spots, the pile was just a foot high, while others were closer to three. I used two feet as an average to calculate that we faced 884 cubic feet of—I couldn’t let myself think the vulgarity that would have best described it—snow drifts. Rubbish drifts.

Both were products of the wind. Snow would have melted, but the rubbish was here to stay unless we disposed of it. Moderate breezes were slowly clearing our campground and other parts of the landscape—even the sides of the church—a little more each night, leaving the ground increasingly visible.

The churchyard stayed the same, though.

Not a square millimeter of churchyard had been visible the evening we arrived. Not a square millimeter was visible now. Although the yard contained thousands of pieces of loose trash, I had a feeling time and climate would solidify them like concrete, making future removal impossible.

I used to resist thinking about the Devil as a literal being. I thought of “him” as a concept—a symbol God placed in the Bible to help us better understand the nature of sin and evil. Considering the task before us, however, I wondered if the Devil himself hadn’t dumped this trash in the churchyard in anger over God’s protection of the building.

I muttered an obscenity under my breath. I hadn’t cursed aloud since that first night in Santa María, and I was proud of my progress. I didn’t realize what I’d said, though. Neither did I realize a pair of small ears had heard me all too clearly.

I heard Anjelita repeat that word back to me a few minutes later. At first, I didn’t realize what she said. I was too preoccupied. I looked gratefully at Rob’s bonfire and finished my assessment of the rubbish. If I was right, most of it was flammable.

Then I did a double take. “What did you just say, Anjelita?”

It had just dawned on me that not only had she said the same word I’d used, she’d said it with my tone of voice. She couldn’t have picked that up anywhere else. I must have said it without realizing it.

Of course, she had no idea what she was saying. Even though the word I’d used was probably an appropriate description of the mess we were getting ready to dispose of, Mom’s sermon about my language was more relevant now than ever.

Mom and Dad often described me as irresponsible. I had to agree this time. My face felt hotter than the bonfire.
Lord, please forgive me.
I knew He would before I asked—I knew He had afterward—but I needed to undo the damage before it got worse.

I kept my cool. Getting upset with Anjelita would be counterproductive. The fault was mine, but I had to keep her from using that word again. If this incident didn’t make me clean up my language for good, nothing would.

I tried saying the vulgar word we’d both said and then crossing my index fingers in front of my mouth, but I guess Anjelita had never seen a “no smoking” or “no swearing” sign.

Then I shook my head from side to side and said, “Kim, no”; but because I forgot to say the word first, she didn’t know what I was referring to. Next I said it as clinically as I could, added, “No,” and forced my lips together with my thumb, forefinger, and middle finger.

Anjelita was cracking up.

So was I. My teaching methods were not only ineffective, but silly.

So I tried a different tack. I spoke the offending word and then slapped myself lightly on the mouth and cheek. Although the sound was barely audible, Anjelita caught on immediately. Her mouth drooped, and she closed her eyes for a few seconds. I guess she didn’t want to see me watching her.

I was ready to move past my own faux pas and its temporary effect on Anjelita. I hugged her and smiled, and she smiled back, secure in the assurance that all was well.

T
he walkway to the church door was only wide enough for putting one foot in front of the other, so I decided to begin by widening it. But unlike those guys who’d created the path by piling rubbish on each side as they went along, Anjelita and I would have to pick it up handful by handful and tote it to the fire.

Only after Rob brought Anjelita and me work gloves did I realize what a health hazard the debris would have become. I was thankful to eliminate—or at least minimize—the risks the villagers would have to endure. This project was truly God’s, for He’d known all along how important it was.

Although Anjelita’s glove—she only needed one—was way too big for her, I used my remaining safety pins to resize it so it wouldn’t fall off. Her little fingers probably felt lost inside, but at least she wouldn’t have to thread a needle, play the piano, or perform surgery while wearing it. I couldn’t see any point in fastening its mate to the stump of her arm, although it might have fit.

Despite my inability to use the hand of my broken arm, I put a glove on it. There was no telling what it might come in contact with.

Now that we were ready to begin, Anjelita looked at me curiously. Leaving her at the outer perimeter of the churchyard for a moment, I tightrope-walked my way to the doorway and picked up as much as I could in my usable hand, cradling it against my shirt to try carrying more than one handful. When I came back, I carried my load to the fire— perhaps a twenty-foot trek.