by Roger Bruner
Once more, she couldn’t understand the rest of my words, but she understood my praise perfectly, and her smile grew bolder.
“Keem,” she repeated. “Señorita Keem.”
Señorita? I knew that meant “Miss.” Everyone knows that. Even people who study French for four years in high school and don’t have one Hispanic friend know that. Using it with my name showed that she’d made a logical connection.
I was so excited I could barely sit still. I pointed at myself once more and said, “Señorita Kim.” Then I pointed at her and said, “And you are …?”
She looked unsure of herself at first, but then her eyes brightened.
“Mey YAH-mah Ahn-heh-LEE-tah.”
She pointed to herself before gently pulling the stick from my hand and writing Anjelita in the dirt beneath Kim. Then she pointed to me again and said, “Señorita Keem.”
Ah! So J in Spanish is pronounced like H in English. What other differences are there? Good thing I’ll never need to pronounce any Spanish. I’d never catch on.
Anxious to keep this learning activity going, I went through the same routine myself. “Anjelita.” I pointed to her. “Señorita Kim.” I pointed to myself.
We took turns doing that for several minutes. I’d never experienced such a joyous learning breakthrough before, no matter how minor it might have seemed to someone else.
I decided to try something more daring. Anjelita seemed bright enough. Maybe I could make one more connection in this language lesson before returning to work.
“Amigo,” I said, unaware that I was using the masculine word form. I pointed in the direction Aleesha had gone. Anjelita looked like she might be catching on, but I must’ve confused her when I said, “Aleesha. My amigo.”
Although she looked unsure of herself for a moment, Anjelita didn’t strike me as a child who’d let a puzzle stump her long. “Oh! Amiga … Aleesha.”
Was this pretty, young lady correcting me—me her elder, me the high school graduate, me the American who looked slightly Latina—on one of those Spanish words everyone knows? I would hope so. She was the Spanish speaker here, not me. At least I knew now that the word pronounced oh means the same thing in both languages.
“Uh, sí, amiga. Aleesha.”
“Aleesha es tu amiga.” Her smile was radiant.
I wasn’t sure what she’d said, but I felt terrific that we’d connected again.
I looked at my wristwatch for the first time in quite a while—that same cheapie watch that had caused such problems at DFW. An hour and a half had passed since I stopped for lunch. The time had passed too quickly, especially since meeting Anjelita.
Although I didn’t want to stop talking—“wording”—with Anjelita, I needed to return to work. Learning as much as I could from Anjelita would be great fun, but I couldn’t master enough Spanish between now and the end of next week to share the gospel with the villagers, and that was bugging the … blazes out of me.
Once I’d taken the orientation lesson about faith, obedience, and flexibility to heart, I accepted construction as my official role in Santa María. We had to provide for the villagers’ physical needs first.
But evangelism was still my passion. God had to want these villagers in His family, and I couldn’t believe He’d bring a team like ours to Santa María without providing some way to share His Good News. But how?
I sat with my legs stretched out in front of me. To get up, I would have to lean on my good arm and maneuver onto my knees, being careful not to land on a rock. Although I didn’t see her that time, Anjelita was so nimble she made it to her feet before I could roll to my knees.
Ah, sweet youth.
“Adiós, Anjelita,” I said with a smile, assuming she’d go off somewhere to play. Adult company had to be boring by now.
Although I’d seen other children playing together that morning, I couldn’t remember seeing Anjelita with them. Had she been doing something else at the time or was she avoiding them?
Would they have been avoiding her? Surely not.
Anjelita didn’t run off. She followed me to the area where the materials stood in neat, efficient stacks. I started grabbing an eight-foot 2 × 2, one I should have known better than to try lifting by myself. Before I knew what was happening, Anjelita took the other end and somehow tucked it beneath her good arm. Grateful for her help, I motioned with my head in the direction we needed to go, and together we bore our burden toward its destination.
We’d gone only a few yards when Geoff appeared out of nowhere.
“You’ve already got a kid here, Kim? You need to be more careful about who you have fun with.” Although he smiled and spoke in a pleasant enough tone, I didn’t care for the implications. The more I saw of Geoff and the more he said to me, the less certain I was about his goals or his motivation. He didn’t scare me, but I wouldn’t be surprised if such a time eventually came.
I found it curious that he didn’t offer to help this time. It was the first time he didn’t.
chapter thirty-three
After delivering the 2 × 2 to the team that requested it, I motioned to Anjelita to follow me to the girls’ field. She hadn’t been to our campsite before. I changed into the work clothes I’d received that morning. I meant to do it during lunchtime, but forgot in the excitement of meeting Anjelita.
Because the guys were supposed to stay far from the girls’ field and no one—no one but Rob, that is—had dared to break the rule, I didn’t feel self-conscious about changing clothes in an open field in broad daylight. Who could see through the ring of tall cacti, anyhow?
Nonetheless, I kept an almost-constant eye on the “doorway” that led back toward the church.
I must have turned beet red when I noticed Anjelita watching me. Watching? She was staring. Intently. I don’t know what kind of underwear the women of Santa María wore, but Anjelita had apparently never seen any like mine. I finished dressing as fast as I could.
Because of my petiteness, the offer of safety pins had proven fortunate. Those jeans wouldn’t have stayed up without help—lots of it. I could’ve worn the shirt by itself as a modest dress. Someone had loaned me a pair of cheapie sneakers. They were several sizes too big, but I cut some cloth off the pants I’d ruined the first night and padded the inside of the shoes. Not regulation preppy footwear.
And not adequate, either.
I finally tried wearing three pairs of heavy socks at the same time. My feet stayed sweaty—in Santa María, all of everybody stayed sweaty—but between the socks and the super-efficient Velcro fasteners on the sneakers, I managed to keep them on my feet.
I stuck an ink pen and small notepad in the shirt pocket so I could jot down my assignments rather than risk trusting anything—no matter how small—to my too-often leaky memory.
Even though I felt more strongly than ever that I should evangelize the villagers in some way only God knew about, I took my minor role in construction seriously. I would be faithful and do whatever my teammates needed me to do. Dependability was the best way to thank them for accepting me now.
Anjelita and I wound our way through the girls’ field. Although pieces of loose trash had begun blowing away from the lanes between the sleeping bags, we still had to be careful making our way toward the door for fear of tripping. At least we wouldn’t fall on anyone in broad daylight. Everyone was busy at work, and no one would have attempted to siesta in the afternoon sun.
I could hardly wait to see the look on my parents’ faces when I arrived home and began demonstrating my dependability. Maybe that would be just one part of a brand-new me. I smiled, knowing how much this trip had already changed me. And this was still just the third day.
I fell into silent prayer as we walked.
Lord, You’ve blessed me in so many ways. Thank You for Mom and Dad and the way they’ve kept after me to grow up and especially for letting me come on this trip. Help Dad to quit being so uptight, and help me to understand him better. Thank You for Betsy Jo and Aleesha, th
e two best friends a girl could ever hope for. Thank You for Rob and Charlie and their lessons about faith, obedience, and flexibility. Thank You for making Rob my substitute father and for his wonderful examples of forgiveness. Thank You for all of the other team members, and please forgive me for judging them so harshly.
Also, forgive me for my unloving attitude toward Millie Q. and for this horrid cursing habit. Keep me aware that others may judge You by how I act and what I say. Thank You especially for bringing Anjelita into my life. Help me to be the best example I can be. Lord, You know how impatient I am about doing evangelism. I want all of the villagers to become Your children, yet I can’t see any way that’s going to happen. Help me to wait patiently. Help me to be more faithful, flexible, and obedient. In Your most loving name, I pray. Amen.
I didn’t realize I’d said amen aloud until I saw Anjelita’s eyes scrunch up in a puzzled look. But then she said it, too. I couldn’t tell whether she was mimicking me to learn another English word or if amen was the same in both languages and she said it because it was familiar.
Then again, Rob and Charlie had said they didn’t think the villagers knew anything about prayer. They’d even crossed themselves before praying only to see blank looks on the villagers’ faces. I had no reason to think them wrong.
I sighed and took out my pad and ink pen. I scribbled some of the Spanish words Anjelita had taught me. Especially the names of the villagers she’d begun pointing out to me.
I didn’t spell anything correctly. I didn’t try to. Using a well-practiced system of phonetic spelling I’d developed in high school, I could write down any word the way I heard it and practice saying it until I had it down cold. Even if I’d had access to a Spanish dictionary, I never would have found the words on my list, for I had no idea how Spanish spelling and pronunciation worked. Except for the letter J, that is.
Even though French and Spanish are vaguely similar—they’re both Romance languages—their differences frustrated me as much as their similarities fascinated me.
Anjelita and I formed a unique team that afternoon, each of us doing half a person’s work to accomplish a whole person’s task. If I carried the bucket of nails, she brought the hammer. If I brought extra water for a team, she carried some snacks. If a board or tool was too heavy for one of us, we picked it up together.
She was a high-output dynamo—I could barely keep up with her at times—and as cheerful and cooperative as any child could have been. Although she couldn’t complain in words I understood, I would’ve recognized whining.
She didn’t whine, though, and I didn’t expect her to. After all, she was more of a volunteer than I was. She could stop working anytime she wanted, say adiós, and go play or take a siesta. She had to know of a shady spot somewhere.
But she didn’t stop. She offered help freely and never attempted to withhold it.
“Anjelita, where have you been all my life? I’ve always wanted a kid sister. Now I have one. You’re sweet and adorable—not spoiled rotten like me—and I thank God for bringing you into my life.”
She looked up at me and smiled as if she understood every word. Her unconditional love melted me. She probably wasn’t a Christian, yet she acted more like one than a couple of the kids in the youth group back home.
God couldn’t have matched the two of us any better. Anjelita was quiet when I was quiet. She chattered away when I was more talkative, even though our conversations were exchanges of nonsense. She laughed when I laughed, and she whistled, hummed, or sang whenever I did. If one of us wiped the sweat from the other’s face, the recipient returned the favor.
She would be my shadow as long and as often as her parents permitted her to be. That thought thrilled me. Would God somehow use her in witnessing to the other villagers?
As much as I hoped so, I couldn’t imagine it.
chapter thirty-four
During midafternoon, the other five children of Santa María approached us. They scooted in where we could almost touch them and scampered away again as if making a game of escaping before we could catch them. Although they looked apprehensive when they came near, they giggled loudly once they got safely out of reach.
Their game didn’t puzzle me as much as their apparent lack of interest in joining us.
While regrouping for another “attack,” they stared at us. Although I couldn’t interpret their looks, I wondered if the sisterly relationship between Anjelita and me had somehow elevated their opinion of her.
But no, that interpretation didn’t fit the uneasiness in their glances.
Something had heightened their interest in Anjelita, though. Perhaps the fact she had gained the affection of this American stranger and not them. Although they continued their mock raids, curious looks came to replace apprehensive ones.
Anjelita set her load down, and her eyes urged me to do the same. After I complied, she patted my cast lovingly with her only hand. Then she touched the stub of her missing arm. She seemed to want the five “normal” kids to notice what the two of us had in common. And maybe recognize that physical problems didn’t limit our need for acceptance.
None of the villagers—children or adults—could have missed seeing the team’s acceptance of me. My broken arm didn’t bother them. If anything, it had become a symbol of faithful determination.
I thought we were making some progress with the kids. But then Anjelita and I caught the oldest girl—she looked like she might have been eleven or twelve—staring at her while we took a water break at the church later that afternoon. Like a child with a dare she couldn’t refuse, the youngster came closer and shouted, “Maldita!” at Anjelita. She tripped over her own feet trying to back away to safety and fell to the ground.
She trembled from head to toe. Although I wondered at first if she was having a seizure, I concluded that terror had overwhelmed her and left her powerless to escape.
Anjelita approached her. I thought she was going to help the fallen child up.
But she snapped at the older girl with such rage that the other children ran off, leaving their friend behind. “Crista, no soy maldita!” Anjelita screamed those words repeatedly as if she couldn’t get them out of her system: “No soy maldita!”
The strength and depth of her venom shocked and terrified me. When she quieted down again, I held her close and wiped the tears away with my shirtsleeve. She’d never seemed quite as small and vulnerable before.
I remembered that she’d preceded her first “No soy maldita!” with another word, one that sounded like KREES-tuh. I was afraid she’d used Jesus’ name in vain until I remembered my lesson about amigo and amiga. KREES-tuh had a feminine ending, so she wasn’t saying Christ.
Maybe KREES-tuh was the name of the girl who’d angered Anjelita and still lay cowering on the ground.
Mahl-DEE-tuh. What is mahl-DEE-tuh? That word—or was it several short words grouped together?—sounded vaguely familiar, yet I couldn’t place it. Not unless … wait. It sounded ever so vaguely like maudite, which was French for … for what? I’d learned hundreds, maybe thousands of French words in high school. How could I make myself remember this one?
Instead of frustrating myself further, I let my mind go blank for a moment, and the answer came almost immediately.
Cursed! Maudite meant “cursed”! Maybe mahl-DEE-tuh did, too. That made sense. If that bratty Crista had accused Anjelita of being cursed, then … of course. “No soy maldita”—Anjelita must have told her, “No, I’m not cursed!”
Where would a child get the idea that someone as precious as Anjelita was cursed, anyhow? That question required amazingly little thought.
As limited as my past contact with kids was, I knew American children tend to repeat what they hear at home. Whether that was also true in Santa María’s culture, I didn’t know, but where would a child acquire such cruel attitudes except from the most important adults in her life?
Or from other children who’re quoting their most important adults.
If I wa
s right about parental prejudices infecting their children’s attitudes toward Anjelita, why did they feel that way?
She was just a child—a normal child, as far as I could tell, in every way but one. Surely the villagers didn’t think her missing arm was a sign of being cursed. Such a barbaric idea belonged in biblical times, not now.
And yet—as Pastor Ron had pointed out on numerous occasions—the world was probably no less barbaric now than in Jesus’ day.
So why should I be shocked to discover that people still equated misfortune with punishment? Punishment can affect the innocent as much as it does the guilty. Sometimes more. What sin did the villagers think little Anjelita was being punished for? Who had committed it, and when?
And if they didn’t believe in the God I knew, loved, and served, who did they think was doing the punishing?
Once more, I fretted about the villagers’ spiritual needs. My heart ached for them to know and love my God. But without any knowledge of Spanish, reaching them would require a miracle equivalent to the parting of the Red Sea. God hadn’t provided a Spanish-speaking Aaron to translate for me, and I didn’t think He would.
Although I would keep looking for a way to witness to the villagers, the immediate need was changing the children’s attitude toward Anjelita. If I could reach them, they might reach their parents. If my theories were correct, that is.
I reached into my jeans pocket for a small container of acetaminophen. I’d browbeaten myself into a medium-sized headache dwelling on deeper issues than I normally think about. I looked at the ground where Crista was still cowering. She hadn’t moved. Petrified by fear, she hadn’t attempted to escape. My angry glare bound her as securely as a ship’s rope.
Crista couldn’t take her eyes off my cast. Maybe she thought I was permanently disabled, too. She probably had vivid images of horrendous injuries beneath my cast, or maybe she thought the cast itself was the injury. Covered with vivid purple and written all over, it must have looked horrible to someone who didn’t know what it was.
