Found in Translation (23 page)

Anjelita stared at me the whole time.

But before I could get back from dumping my armload, she went to the door, picked up her own armload, and headed toward the bonfire. I watched closely to make sure she didn’t get too close, but I shouldn’t have worried. Rosa must have taught her to be careful of flames.

We returned to the churchyard, taking turns going up the path for a new load and standing aside frequently so others could go inside for water, snacks, and shade. I didn’t think about it much at first, but we wasted a lot of time waiting.

Looking at the churchyard after what seemed like hundreds of trips to the fire, I was sick about the lack of visible results. Even though we’d only begun, I couldn’t help fretting about whether we’d be able to finish before heading home.

And Angel had called this the less important task. Would I still have time for the more important one?

This twister must have had almost supernatural power. Not all of the litter was paper, nor was all of it lightweight or flammable. I could see an old rubber tire protruding ever so slightly from its cover under other pieces of junk.

Did the storm really bring all this stuff here? Had any of it been here before? I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of the villagers using what I considered almost-sacred property as a junkyard. I couldn’t be sure either way, though, so I tried putting it out of my mind.

I wondered how many usable items—perhaps some that were brand-new—the storm had brutally kidnapped in another town or village and savagely dismembered before dumping them in this churchyard grave. Did any of Santa María’s possessions lie buried here, too, or had the twister carried all of them to the next village?

If an actual Devil did this, the next village churchyard—if it had one—would probably be the most severely littered place, too. I considered the so-called butterfly effect: Something as insignificant as the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings can have unforeseen results elsewhere. Even on the other side of the world.

Can that happen with people’s thoughts and feelings, too? Maybe Betsy Jo is praying for me at this very moment, and I’m experiencing its touch. Not necessarily because God has answered her prayer yet, but just because she’s praying.

I’ve heard Christians—especially missionaries serving all over the world—say they sometimes know they’re the object of a current prayer. That idea used to strike me as eerie. But not anymore.

Anjelita was a wonderful little worker. Although she couldn’t carry as much as I could, she moved faster. I envied her boundless energy. Even at eighteen, I didn’t have the pep I’d taken for granted when I was younger.

Whenever we tossed rubbish into the fire, a puff of smoke rose to the sky—a mystical tribute to God, who’d brought me to Santa María instead of Ciudad de Plata.

During our lunch break, Charlie stopped to talk. “Great job, you two. You may think this will take forever, but you’ll see a difference soon. You won’t finish today or tomorrow; but the time will come, and you’ll feel good about it.”

I already felt good about it—good and frustrated—but I didn’t interrupt or argue.

“Kimmy,” he continued, “would you mind changing your mode of operation just a bit?”

Hmm. What can we do differently?
I twisted my eyebrows to express my curiosity and waited for him to explain.

“That path to the church door is quite narrow,” he began. I nodded. “There’s no place to step aside and let someone else by. People frequently have to wait for you or Anjelita— sometimes both of you—to finish gathering your load and head for the fire before they can head for the door. They have similar problems when they come out. We’re wasting precious time.”

I wanted to interrupt and complain about the haphazard way those guys had created the path in the first place. Then I wanted to say something about the time we wasted waiting for everybody else to get by. But something deep inside reminded me of my two ears and one mouth, and I remained quiet. Maybe those original path clearers had rushed so they could get to the more important task of building.

That insight erased the resentment I’d been harboring—not that I could even remember which guys had cleared the path.

“I appreciate your wanting to start by widening the pathway. We need that. What I was wondering, though, couldn’t you work just as effectively from the end of the path furthest from the building and move diagonally toward the sides? That way you’ll clear the walkway by working from where you’ve finished without standing on the path itself.”

I must have looked dazed.

“Here’s what I mean, Kimmy.”

He drew a rough illustration in the dirt and labeled it in a typical male’s almost-illegible handwriting.

“Great idea!” I surprised myself by saying. “Why didn’t I think of that?” God was making major changes in me, and those lessons about flexibility and faithful obedience had begun sinking in and taking root. I spent a lot of my work time pondering how God might try changing me next. I hoped He wouldn’t ask me not to major in music.

I didn’t need to explain to Anjelita that we would work at an angle from the outer end of the pathway toward the sides of the building. Charlie had gestured quite a bit while drawing the diagram, and she appeared to take in his meaning without having to comprehend any of the explanation.

People quickly noticed that Anjelita and I had changed our angle of attack.

“Great job, girls!”

“We won’t be in one another’s way all the time now.”

“It’ll be so much easier to reach the church when we don’t have to tiptoe.”

Anjelita may not have understood the words, but she beamed from ear to ear at hearing other people acknowledge her beneficial efforts. Our efforts.

I imagined I’d feel the same way when I heard the Lord say “well done” at the end of my earthly life. But I hadn’t come close to earning that kind of praise yet. I felt certain of that.

But praise was different from salvation, and my salvation didn’t depend on good works. I would never stop thanking God for that.

The afternoon would have seemed long and tedious except for one small, joyous thing. Anjelita was an excellent whistler. I’d never heard the songs before, though. So much for thinking all Mexican songs sounded like “La Cucaracha” and “Cielito Lindo.”

Her favorite songs—at least the ones she repeated most frequently—had subtle, haunting, beautiful tunes. I couldn’t imagine a mariachi band playing songs like those in the Casa Grande restaurant back home. But I could hear them on a traditional Mexican flute, if such a thing existed.

I went off in space for a while in spite of Anjelita’s music—or perhaps because of it—and worked on autopilot. This cleanup wasn’t the most mentally challenging task we could have taken on, and the less I thought about what my hands were doing, the better.

Anjelita touched my shoulder at one point during mid-afternoon, and I stopped and smiled at her. I resumed my work. But then she shook my arm, obviously excited about something, and pointed toward the opposite side of the yard.

I couldn’t believe what I saw.

I
thought at first we’d gained spectators. But, no. They were helpers.

Back from space now with eyes wide open, I saw a number of people toting armfuls of litter to the bonfire before returning to their construction sites. Although they couldn’t carry two armfuls at a time—they usually had several water bottles under one arm—they often made a second or third trip, and I could already see a tiny bit of progress on that side.

As much as the physically capable villagers surprised me by helping, too, I couldn’t hide my excitement when I saw the senior adults—too old to assist with construction, but still young enough to care—take to the project with enthusiastic smiles. To be sure, they were turtles compared to Anjelita and me and great at getting in one other’s way; but I recognized that their help would play a major part in finishing this project.

I wouldn’t have time to do the task God was preparing me for unless we finished the first one early. But I grew more convinced than ever that the timing was beyond my control. I wasn’t responsible for the results. If I’d tried holding on to the ownership of the litter cleanup, we wouldn’t be nearly as far along.

Why should I be surprised that God could accomplish what I couldn’t?

By the time we stopped for supper, I could see a small but very real dent in each side of the churchyard. The bonfire burned brightly from the various materials we fed it. Although we purposely avoided burning the tire when we got to it, a piece of rubber must have fallen into the fire. It took forever to burn. The column of thick black smoke and the noxious stink made me long for the pleasant smell of mothballs. Momentarily, anyhow. But who could complain about the stink of burning rubber in the midst of such progress?

Anjelita and I were so tired and sore after supper we could barely get up off the ground. If we’d attempted to work another minute or two, our bodies would have rebelled. We compromised by dragging ourselves back to the churchyard to survey the progress.

Ten or twelve team members had jumped in to take our places while we were eating, and others were coming from the mess tent now, apparently intending to help. I didn’t know where they got the strength to do one more lick of physical labor, but they seemed to sense that cleaning the churchyard was as important in its own way as building houses.

The litter cleanup seemed like a good way to witness to the villagers, even if we couldn’t explain why we were doing it. Perhaps God’s big project would allow me to explain, but that would be up to Him.

Finding an out-of-the-way spot fairly close to the bonfire, Anjelita and I crumbled to the ground to watch. I was too tired to notice for several minutes that I’d sat on a pile of small pebbles. But it didn’t matter. I didn’t have the energy to move.

Anjelita leaned against me, and I draped my left arm over her shoulders. I was barely conscious of her slipping silently from my grasp, laying her head on my lap, and falling asleep. I was too busy dreaming about crawling into my own sleeping bag and dying.

I expected to sleep more soundly tonight than any time since our arrival. Well, not counting the night the codeine put me out.

After twenty minutes of wondering how much longer I could stay awake, I saw Rosa coming. From the way she smiled when she spotted Anjelita, she must have been looking for us. I waved her over.

Careful not to awaken Anjelita, Rosa stooped down and gathered her up awkwardly. I was afraid she might drop her daughter, but she didn’t.

Rosa’s smile expressed the approval and appreciation she couldn’t verbalize, and I smiled back before kissing Anjelita on the forehead. Rosa’s ability to get to her feet carrying a dead weight shocked me. Maybe she’d done that often over the years.

Then something touched my heart and said, “Now is the time.”

I didn’t resist or make excuses but scrambled to my feet—I’d never do it as gracefully as Anjelita, even when my arm mended—and hugged Rosa as she turned to carry Anjelita to their sleepsite. Although she couldn’t hug me without dropping Anjelita, she smiled.

Thank You, Lord, for this small sign of progress in becoming Rosa’s friend.

As she walked away with Anjelita draped over her shoulder, I wondered about the fact I’d never seen her with a man. But I didn’t have any way to inquire.

A
gainst my better judgment, I sat down again after Rosa took Anjelita. Team members carrying rubbish to the bonfire had drifted away by twos and threes to prepare for bed. The sunset was no longer visible, but darkness hadn’t fallen.

After praying awhile, I felt emotionally refreshed. I almost fell asleep, though. Had my eyes been open to see darkness approaching, I would have been on the way to my sleepsite.

I yawned a couple of times. Was I dreaming, or had someone just said, “Nice hair”?

“Nice hair, I said,” Geoff said loudly and with unmistakable irritation.

That brought me out of my half-prayerful, half-sleepy trance, and I opened my eyes. I didn’t feel like having him or anyone else intrude into my private devotional time, but since I’d picked a public place to pray, I couldn’t blame him for interrupting. I’d do my best to be pleasant.

But Geoff’s attitude had already begun showing, and I wasn’t sure I was up to the challenge—not even with God’s help. My loss of respect for Geoff didn’t make it any easier, either. His Prince Charming allure had evaporated—poof. If anything, he’d changed from a prince back into a frog. He might not have been Rhett Butler at his worst, but I couldn’t imagine his ever becoming Rhett at his best, either.

I started gushing as nervously as if Rhett were listening rather than Geoff. “My hair? Thanks, Geoff. Aleesha did it this morning. She really tricked me, though. It was so funny. She made me think she was putting it in cornrows, if you can imagine that. I didn’t find out until she finished that she’d done a regular french braid like I’d wanted in the first place.” My nervousness started disappearing. Slowly.

Geoff looked at me with a “what a dumb girl” expression. “Oh.”

Not exactly every girl’s idea of the perfect compliment. He hadn’t shown the tiniest tidbit of interest in what I’d said. He looked thoroughly disgusted. Maybe even angry. But why?

I hadn’t seen Geoff all day. I hadn’t missed him, either. Yet now he stood looking down at me—staring, actually; and his gaping made me so self-conscious, I buttoned the top button of my modest work shirt.

“Geoff, if you don’t sit down soon, you’re going to make my neck stiff from looking up. You can sit here on the ground if you like or if you don’t like. It’s all equally hard and all equally dry, drier, and driest, not to mention being very dirty.” I made myself giggle once in a nervous effort to sound cute and nonchalant; but my cheerlessness, awkwardness, and insincerity must have been as obvious as his attitude toward me.

I pointed to a spot several very-safe feet away. He sat down. Much closer than I wanted. Although he didn’t scare me, I had serious concerns about his intentions. I still remembered those unbrotherly hugs.