Cesar

Early last Sunday morning I got a text from a student, Cesar. His father had died over the weekend. Cesar is 18 years old. I’ve told you about him before. His text said, “I am parentless”. Death is all too common here. Women often wait weeks to name their newborn babies, to make sure they are going to live. Living here has made me a little numb. I put up walls.  I am so far away from my own family and the people that I love. I disconnect myself a little. Of course I have love to give, I hug and laugh and share all day but I keep that deep space for a very few and I keep it roped off. I don’t want to get too close to anyone so I put up walls to protect my heart from hurting when it is broken. Cesar is slowing crawling over. I love this boy. I love his heart and his kindness and his insight and discernment and his patience. He is a beautiful person and I am honored God has brought him into my life. I am heart broken that he feels so alone in this world and no longer has an earthly father to advise him. I see my own earthly father as an absolutely genius who knows everything and is the most wise man on earth. Even though I don’t always seek his counsel, I rest in knowing that he is there. I cannot fathom young Cesar’s loss. On Thursday, I see Cesar walking along the side of the road. I know him by his pink jacket he always wears. It is a knock off Adidas girls track suit jacket, polyester. It is, as always, hot as blue blazes and I never have known why he always wears that, but he does. I screeched to a halt and pull over on the side of the road. Cesar runs and falls into my arms. I hold him for a long time. I am immediately aware of the culture mores of physical affection between a man and woman but I cannot push him away. I cannot side hug or shake hands with a grieving boy. We talk a little and he begins to cry again and buries his face on my shoulder. He doesn’t want to cry and is trying to be strong. Other students of mine walk by and ask what is the matter, I tell them and they all, individually, shake hands with Cesar and express their condolences. I love this about their culture. They all know pain and loss and tragedy and they can all empathize with Cesar on a level I cannot. I put my hand on his chest and pray for him. I pray for him as if he were my own son, faced to live life alone. I pray for protection and favor and comfort and strategy and friends and hope. We part awkwardly and I try not to look back. I do and I see a boy in a girl’s jacket, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, walking along the street. I feel so helpless. I feel his uncertainty and fear of the unknown. I’ve let him over the wall and now I don’t know what to do. I put on my helmet and scoot away and pray another prayer. 

I drive to town twice to try to get money from the ATM. But both times the lines are really long. On the third day, I have no choice and I wait in line for an hour or more. I take my wad of cash and stuff it in my wallet. I pull a few small bills for my pockets. I run into two of my students. We greet and stop and talk. They practice their English and I, my Portuguese. We shake hands and nod heads and all three go our separate ways. I go to the sidewalk where men are selling fruit and vegetables. The yell incessantly and offer up all that they have for my inspection. A good missionary would accept this part of their culture and their way of “advertising”. I tell them in the nicest way I know how to please don’t bombard me with their assortments and selections but simply allow me to peruse and if I see something I want or need I will buy it. I know! I am not a good missionary. It is so rude and I am so Western, but I cannot think straight with bananas and mcel credit and plastic scales and sacks of green vegetables and bags of cashews in my face. Let the woman shop. It’s way worse than the department store perfume counter. Relentless, they are. I tame them down a little with my speech of “let a woman shop” and my pseudo polite requests to back off. I leave with a sack of roma-size tomatoes, three huge avocado, limes and two varieties of greens, all for about $8. 

I was invited to go to one of the islands for the weekend but had made three other commitments that I really didn’t want to break. So I stayed home for the weekend. Saturday I went snorkeling and got bitten all over by jellyfish. It happens most every time and each time I forget what the stings feel like and every time I go again and come back with oozing whelps all over my body. I didn’t sleep Saturday night. The whelps and the barraca music kept me up. Even as I write this the barraca is playing really loud Mexican music, guitar strumming. So so so loud. It’ll drive you crazy. I don’t, for the life of me, understand why they have to play it 24/7 and so loudly. Two new barracas have moved in just outside our bedroom windows, one for me, one for Carola. It is not funny. It used to be a joke but now it is a painful reality of our lives. We have even made them a point of prayer. We pray, “bless them Lord. bless them so much that they have to move to a different location” or “bless them so much they get doors and windows”.