Dearest Rachel –
A kilo of corn meal, a kilo of sugar, a kilo of milk powder, a kilo of salt. A bag of beans and bouillon cubes. Two bags (as opposed to boxes like we have at home) of spaghetti, and a box of cornflakes. Candles and ketchup, toothpaste and soap.
You pack all this into a bag, and walk a couple of miles up hills and down, and it begins to wear on you. Such is the No Hungry Home walk, done every Thursday that a mission (erm, sorry; “vision”) team is in Siguatepeque. These bags are packed, and teams carry them out on several different routes, considered “easy,” “medium” and “hard.” It’s a subjective description, but certain elements, such as the length of the circuit and the nature of the terrain (especially to a bunch of Midwestern “flatlanders”) do distinguish one route from another.
I’ve done the hard route in the past, the first time I was here. Last time, I decided I hadn’t so much to prove, and joined the team on the medium route – which was cut short due to an oncoming rainstorm (and the roads were already wet and muddy, not that that reason would have stopped us). So I figured I might as well finish that medium route we’d been brought home from this time around.
Unlike in January, the roads were dry and dusty – and this despite the downpour on Wednesday, too. Evidently, the ground was so thirsty for water that it drank up everything that had been poured upon it, and within twenty-four hours, it was as if none of it had ever happened. All of which was fine; it’s much easier to walk on dry ground than mud.
But I hadn’t counted upon the fact that, over time, the bag of groceries and other necessities begins to weigh upon your shoulder. And maybe there were other contributing factors, such as the fact that I wasn’t wearing a hat to keep the sun off my head (it completely slipped my mind to pack one, to be honest) or that I hadn’t brought anything to drink along the way (I figured it was only going to be a couple of miles, which it was), and, from this morning’s vantage point, I may have already let myself get dangerously dehydrated as it was (well, it’s not as if you’re to drink the water around here). In any event, it didn’t take long before I found myself struggling with the burden on my back.
I was also struggling with what to say to whoever I was going to deliver my bundle of goodies to. The idea of talking to any of these folks about their problems, and praying about them – what, really, can I offer? Most of the things I could think of to say sound like platitudes in my ears (and would have to be translated from Christianese to English before being further converted into Spanish); they would sound at best, hollow, and at worst, ridiculous.
But at the same time, I would have to step forward and do it, if I was to be freed from this burden I was lugging around, pulling on my sunburned shoulder as though it wanted to escape from me (not that I could blame it). No matter how absurd or empty the words may sound to me, they would need to be spoken; much like, perhaps, how we need to come to Jesus in the first place to be released from the burdens we carry that weigh us down in our lives.
Of course, those burdens do no one any good; at least in this case, the things we are carrying from house to house are necessities that would be welcomed in any of these households. Even just the fact that they’re being delivered to these somewhat remote and inaccessible homes counts for something; no one would turn them down. What is a burden to each of us becomes a blessing to them to receive. With that being understood, it should be so much easier to talk (through one of the local students walking with us to translate, of course).
As it so happened, the house we stopped at where I finally stepped forward just happened to belong to a relative of the student translator at my side. At first, I understood it to be her grandmother, but it turned out to be her aunt. Her grandmother lives in a house nearby – and it was the house we would visit next – but when she gestured to her grandmother’s place, the only one in the doorway was a girl who looked younger than she was, and I said so. I think it broke the tension; both between us and inside of me.
He requests had only to do with her family as opposed to herself; particularly a son who was working overseas in order to bring home a healthy paycheck to the family. I included a request that he would “sense [God’s] presence” while he was away, and remember whose he was, but I couldn’t think to add much more. It all felt so woefully inadequate.
Upon handing off the bag to her, she responded with “May the Lord reward you for this.” There was that word again. I shouldn’t be doing this for any reward; indeed, if I was, it would negate it entirely. I don’t know how to respond to that.
Somehow, though, the words came, and they were as true as I knew how to say them: “He already has, Ma’am.” After all, He has given salvation to us all (or at least, to all who are willing to take it); what greater… well, not so much a reward at all, since that suggests that we earned it somehow, but at least a blessing… can we ask for? And having received it, what can we do but try to pass the blessing along to others, in hopes that they will be willing to take up His ultimate blessing?
In hindsight, this makes it sound like some moment of sublime insight; it was hardly that, in the moment. It was just the right thing to say at the time. And maybe it was a case of being granted the words by the Spirit, but it didn’t feel like that right then and there. But at the same time, there was that sensation of having this burden I’d been carrying taken off of me, and given to someone who would actually appreciate it. I was grateful to be free of it, and she was grateful to receive it.
At the same time, we still had only traversed maybe a mile of the route, and there were some seven other bags to drop off (including, to be fair, the grandmother’s, which didn’t require a long walk). I was released from my burden, yes, but it had taken something out of me already; I was tired, and falling behind most of the others. Granted, a couple of them were even further behind me, and I teased them about being less than half my age; they had no right to be as tired as I was, especially since they were locals, who should theoretically be accustomed to the hills and mountains of El Soccorro.
It’s weird; we were walking in beautiful weather, on a shorter route than I’d taken the first time around, and yet I was so exhausted that I couldn’t even eat dinner that evening. I don’t know what’s going on with that, but I’m going to have to ask that you keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me well. I think I’m going to need it more than most days.
Letters to Rachel 