Found in Translation (40 page)

Miss Kim, I’ve accepted that living water. The past no longer haunts me. I do not fear the future. I don’t know everything I want to know about this new life, and I don’t understand everything I want to understand. I would give up everything I own to possess a copy of the Bible, but I have nothing left after the storm to offer in exchange for yours.

Please come back to Santa María as soon as you can. Bring the others—as many of your friends as you can—and teach us more about Jesus. We can never learn enough. If you bring a Bible for us to keep, I’ll be grateful beyond words. I have no right to ask that, though. Bring yours when you return, and I will stay up late every night—all night if I can—reading and memorizing Jesus’ words while you sleep.

I will ask you many questions then, but I will also answer your questions. I’m sure you have been curious about things you could not ask about. How I wish I could tell you more, but this much writing has already taken many hours of many nights, copying some of it from a journal I began keeping years ago.

Perhaps I’ll turn it into a book someday. I will call it
Rosa No-Name
because I grew up as an orphan who did not learn her mother’s name and identity until adulthood.

I want you to be the first to read it.

By the way, Anjelita has been talking about giving you the necklace that belonged to her sister. It was originally her great-grandmother’s. I fully approve, however. You are her sister now, and she thinks you should have it. She may find it hard to part with since it’s the only physical reminder of Alazne other than the photograph. But if she offers it to you, please accept it. It will symbolize your relationship as sisters.

I’ll keep sharing the Good News with Anjelita until she becomes a sister of Jesus, too. She is close to making that decision, but I do not want to push her. I understand that this decision must be hers.

May you have a blessed life until we meet again, whether it’s on earth or in heaven.
Blessed
is a much nicer word than
cursed.

Your sister in Christ, Rosa

A
cloud came over Aleesha, Neil, and me. Not a dark, gloomy cloud, but a mystical, spiritual one. Perhaps the Holy Spirit Himself.

I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t. Neil of the genius-sized vocabulary couldn’t find a single appropriate word to speak, and even Aleesha the Outspoken was unspoken.

What can I say, Lord? Sarah laughed at the idea of old-age pregnancy and I reacted similarly to Your reading plan for the Bible. I couldn’t imagine anyone understanding what I was reading, but I couldn’t see the whole picture.

You did, though. It was Your picture.

How You must have shaken Your head at my skeptical obedience. Yet You accomplished more through me—through Neil and me—than I’d ever dreamed of or hoped for.

Thank You for Rosa’s conversion. That makes this trip worth everything that’s gone wrong. Help her to grow in her relationship with You. Give her patience, courage, and wisdom as she continues witnessing to Anjelita and the other villagers. Lord, may they all become Your children.

Only after praying did I realize Neil had grasped my left hand and Aleesha was holding the fingertips of my right hand. We were one in a more special bond of love than ever.

Although I’d reveled in the gorgeous yellow flowers on the cacti of Santa María, I’d overlooked one significant characteristic until that morning. The blooms lasted only for a day. Although the special feeling I’d experienced that morning would wither and die, too, I’d do my best to remember and cherish it.

I buried my face in Neil’s shoulder to hide my tears. No matter how scrawny I’d thought of him as being, his shoulder seemed bigger now. Big enough, anyhow.

Oblivious of everyone else, I let go of my emotions. My teammates probably couldn’t tell if I was laughing or crying, but I was actually doing both.

I was barely conscious of Neil releasing my hand and placing his right arm over my shoulder. Although many boys had done that, Neil did it in a way that made me feel safe, protected, and cared about.

I remembered a story Dad told me about a flight from Cincinnati to Atlanta. “I was already in my window seat when a very attractive girl in her early twenties sat down in the aisle seat. An empty seat separated us.

“She confided that, after a lifetime of avoiding flying, she was petrified. She would’ve gotten off the plane, but she was on her way to visit her fiancé and meet his parents. She had to make this flight regardless of the terror that ate at her insides.

“She wasn’t exaggerating. She shook like someone with a muscular disease that affects control of the body.

“ ‘I know this is asking a lot,’ she said with a shy smile, ‘but would you hold my hand during the flight?’”

Despite his hesitance to hold hands with a nice-looking young woman, he felt sorry for her. She still had a viselike grip on his hand when they landed in Atlanta.

“The girl thanked me graciously—over and over again. How could I deny my pleasure—not from holding hands with a beautiful young woman, but from knowing I’d helped her endure her pain by taking some of it upon myself?”

That story—I’d heard it often enough to remember every detail—revealed a Christlike side of my dad I’d rarely seen any hint of in my relationship with him. Maybe God brought that event to mind because I needed to develop a similar sensitivity. One that might help Dad and me connect better.

I needed him to hold my hand sometimes. And I’d make him understand I was available to hold his, too.

I was vaguely conscious of Neil’s left hand reaching across his lap to take my left hand. I didn’t notice at first that he’d extended his right arm to touch Aleesha’s shoulder. She put one hand on top of his and hummed so softly I couldn’t recognize the song.

But it was God’s music. Nothing else would have done.

I realized then how much Neil had aged—no, how much he’d matured—during our two weeks in Mexico. No longer conscious of his youthfulness, I squeezed his hand to thank him for what he meant to me now.

I
fell asleep again after that and began dreaming. But this dream seemed more vivid and exciting than any vision I’d ever had, and I let it sweep me along. I didn’t want to wake up until I had to. I bathed in the details and soaked up as many of them as I could. Although I usually dream in drab generalities and nondescript colors, this dream was rich in such unique, brilliant hues of detail I couldn’t have assigned names to them.

Upon waking, most of the details would be beyond my ability to verbalize. Nonetheless, I would never cease being awestruck at what my awesome God revealed during that snooze.

The mission team was in heaven surrounding God’s throne. Most of them, anyhow. They were holding hands and singing praise songs in English. But when I looked at their lips more closely, I realized that each person was singing his own song with its own unique melody, rhythm, and lyrics. Yet I didn’t hear them separately; they were well-integrated parts of a rich, harmonic whole.

Aleesha’s voice suddenly boomed out, “Hey, girl, where you been? Eternity is half over!” Then she giggled and asked, “Guess who else is here?”

Before I could respond, she pointed at the villagers of Santa María.

I counted to be sure, naming each person as I went along. Most of the villagers were present, and they sang in Spanish at the top of their lungs, barely able to take their eyes off Jesus long enough to look my way, smile, and wave. Their faces seemed to question why I’d taken so long arriving. I shrugged.

Maybe I’d lived longer. I hoped that’s why several of the villagers and other team members were missing.

Although I’d never met Alazne, recognizing her was easy. She and Anjelita still looked very much alike, although they had an ageless appearance that characterized everyone I saw. I couldn’t remember how old I was, and I didn’t care.

I was here for … eternity.

Alazne, Rosa, and Anjelita stood together hand in hand. Caught up in joyous songs that never ended, they glanced in my direction, smiled broadly upon recognizing me, and motioned with their heads for me to join them. My joy at seeing the three of them together—a family united for eternity—was inexpressible.

I couldn’t walk fast enough. The crowds parted to let me through, raising joined hands so I could pass underneath, and I heard myself singing, too.

My heavenly brothers and sisters sang in every conceivable earth tongue. Many of them used unfamiliar musical scales. Yet the diversity of languages and styles enriched the quality of the music.

I hugged Rosa and the girls, and Anjelita and Alazne made room for me between them. Seeing Anjelita’s whole right arm, I took their hands in mine and added a loud whoop of praise to the Great Physician who’d waited until heaven to heal Anjelita. Then I whooped again at Alazne’s lack of crutches. The villagers echoed my joyful exclamations, which they added to their everlasting songs.

Together we sang, each of us voicing a different song—a song that detailed everything we were personally thankful to God for. Our songs had no end, for we never ran out of blessings to be grateful for.

I caught Anjelita looking at me and trying to suppress a giggle. I twisted my eyebrows, and she said with a tone of playfulness I’d never heard her use before, “You’re singing in perfect Spanish now. It was good you could speak our language so well when you came back.”

I awoke from my dream with the awareness I’d spent such a tiny part of my life in Santa María—a mere one million, two hundred and nine thousand seconds—give or take a few. But how that time had changed me.

I knew now what God wanted me to do with my life. At least for the short term. Under His leadership, my plans would always be subject to change.

God’s dream for Santa María took such deep root that it became my waking desire, too. Fulfilling that dream would require me to return to Santa María at the earliest possible opportunity.

Now that God had lit that kind of fire in my heart, I knew He wanted me to prepare by majoring in Spanish—not music—and becoming as fluent as possible. And maybe I could work with the migrant children again and practice my Spanish on them.

R
OGER
B
RUNER
worked as a teacher, job counselor, and programmer analyst before retiring to pursue his dream of writing Christian fiction full-time. A guitarist and songwriter, he is active in his church’s choir, praise team, and nursing home ministry. Roger also enjoys reading, Web design, mission trips, and spending time with his wonderful wife, Kathleen.

K
RISTI
R
AE
B
RUNER
is pursuing a career in management and trying hard to fit college into her busy schedule. Living in the Orlando area, she’s a typical twenty-four-year-old who enjoys reading, watching DVDs, playing video games, hanging out with friends, and cooking. During her teen years, she went on a life-changing mission trip to Mexico.