Found in Translation

by Roger Bruner

  And—bless Anjelita’s heart!—she’d become the acknowledged team leader of the children, who spent hours of their daily playtime helping.

  She may have lacked Charlie and Rob’s finesse in guiding rather than bossing her team, but she could bark orders as deftly and relentlessly as any drill sergeant I’d ever seen on TV. She kept her troops alert, on the move, and on target. She even made them march like soldiers. I couldn’t imagine where she learned anything like that.

  Her constant watch care over her volunteers moved me. If she noticed someone lagging from thirst or fatigue, she made the child sit down and rest while she went to get him water or food. Then she made her soldier rest a few more minutes before allowing him to return to the battle. She sent more than one child home on R & R for the remainder of the day when she saw it was in the child’s best interest. She seemed to realize instinctively that what was best for each child was also best for the team and for the project.

  She would make a fine mother someday, if she could find someone among this handful of children to marry when the time came. She was one of four village girls. Only the two youngest children were boys.

  I discovered a new aspect of Anjelita’s ingenuity that morning.

  She’d been to my campsite so often she knew nobody used the mothball blanket. It lay where Aleesha threw it. She hadn’t bothered folding it.

  But upon arriving at the churchyard, I saw the blanket spread out on the ground. A moment passed before I realized Anjelita had brought it from my sleepsite.

  When she saw my eyes open wide in surprise, her mouth curved into a mischievous smile. I’d never seen her look so impish.

  “Transportación,” she said in her simple, childish manner.

  “Transportación?” That word was too close to its English equivalent to mistake for anything else. “Are we pretending this blanket is an automobile? And where will we drive it?”

  If God wasn’t in charge of my word choices at that moment, I don’t know who was. Automobile always seemed like an old-fashioned word. I never used it. Why say four syllables when the one-syllable car worked?

  But car wouldn’t have done the trick with Anjelita. If I’d said “car,” our communication would have died like a car running out of gas. But—I’ll always believe it was divine intervention—automobile had come out of my mouth instead of car.

  “Automóvil?” she said.

  “Sí, automóvil.”

  I was almost delirious at hearing another Spanish word that was enough like English to recognize. I jotted transportación and automóvil on my memo pad as Anjelita talked.

  “No, no! No es un automóvil!” She pointed to the blanket and laughed, and I couldn’t help but laugh, too.

  Okay, so she didn’t think of the blanket as a car. Not even a make-believe one.

  “Transportación,” she repeated. In some other part of the world, she might have pretended that the blanket was a flying carpet. But what kind of transportation did she intend to use it for here and why was it so important?

  Anjelita wrinkled her eyebrows at my inability to follow her. But she soon made herself clear. She picked up a handful of rubbish and dropped it on the blanket. She kept throwing on more. She didn’t seem to expect my help. I wasn’t sure she wanted it. She must have hoped this demonstration would break through my denseness.

  When the blanket was perhaps three-fifths covered with rubbish—that didn’t take long to do—she picked up one corner and dragged it toward the bonfire.

  Then I caught on. The blanket was a litter for litter.

  I ran to catch up with her and helped pull her load to the fire. Although we had to throw a few larger items into the fire by hand, we were soon able to flap the blanket and empty the remaining contents into the flames. I couldn’t imagine how many trips carrying that much at one time might save us.

  We jumped back from the fire when larger-than-usual flames shot up from burning a larger-than-usual load. While I stood there admiring the blaze, Anjelita dragged the blanket back to the churchyard and started loading it again. I ran back and helped this time. Amazingly soon, we were on our way to the fire again.

  At first I was concerned about wearing holes in the blanket until it became unusable. But Anjelita had apparently instructed her troops to clear the sharpest rocks from the pathway.

  God knew what He was doing when He sent this blanket to Santa María. The mothballs had done their job, and the material was remarkably intact in spite of the shabbiness of age.

  I thanked God for this special gift and its unknown donor—someone I’d recently blasted for using mothballs rather than aromatic cedar. But the scent of her gift was a sweet perfume of love. One that was more powerful than mothballs.

  Geoff was watching. He was alone, and I’d never seen him look lonelier. I caught his eye and waved. He looked like he wanted to wave back but couldn’t allow himself to. He hadn’t spoken to me since the conversation Rob overheard. I didn’t know how to make Geoff speak to me, but—now that I knew about his background—I was more anxious than ever to have a good talk with him.

  Or for me just to listen. Two ears, Kim. One mouth. “Geoff? Geoff!” I waved again and motioned him over. He turned his back but remained where he was.

  “Geoff! I promised to talk with you several days ago. Is this a good time for you?”

  He turned toward me. Anjelita paused for a moment. The blanket was full, but she started dragging it by herself when she saw I was too preoccupied with Geoff to do my part.

  He opened his mouth as if he might respond but closed it again. He rushed away, presumably to his worksite. I tried not thinking about him. His problems were beyond my ability to do anything about, or so it seemed.

  Or was Geoff my next project—the one I couldn’t possibly handle on my own?

  chapter forty-five

  Anjelita and I made phenomenal progress that afternoon, and I thought we would complete our cleanup by the end of the next day. She must have been extra tired, though. No sooner did we finish our supper than Rosa came to get her. Anjelita was already asleep on the ground.

  I marveled that Rosa could do construction all day and still have enough energy to pick Anjelita up and hoist her over one shoulder. Maybe motherhood supplied that kind of strength.

  But before Rosa stooped to pick her daughter up, she and I smiled at one another, and she hugged me first. I was elated at this sign of progress in our developing friendship. Maybe affection and not friendship, for we barely knew one another.

  We had nothing in common but Anjelita, who undoubtedly shared details about my day-to-day life with her mom. I could imagine the two of them chattering and laughing together as they tried to figure out what made this petite, black-haired eighteen-year-old tick.

  Yet Rosa wasn’t just an acquaintance, either. We were somehow part of the same family—relatives who’ve recently met and become fond of one another despite their inability to communicate verbally. She had progressed from uncertainty about me to a willing acceptance to a feeling of genuine affection.

  I couldn’t have accomplished that on my own. And I couldn’t share God’s Good News with Rosa without God’s help, either. Not any more than I could get Geoff to remove his mask.

  Night hadn’t fallen yet. Although I probably had an hour of daylight left, I felt like I was walking down a dark road on a moonless night. I’d had it—physically, mentally, and emotionally.

  I was also spiritually dry. I’d gotten so caught up in my concerns about Geoff and the villagers that I’d lost the vision. That’s the only way I could describe it. I couldn’t tell whether I was on the roadway or on the shoulder, perhaps ready to tumble down a steep hillside.

  That wasn’t the only problem, though. Visions of the migrant children I couldn’t help this summer still haunted me. I was experiencing a similar hopelessness about everything I wanted to accomplish in Santa María.

  Lord, are You sure You can use me? I’m no good for anything.

  In need of refre
shing. I closed my eyes to pray. Before I completed the first sentence, I realized what was wrong. I’d been in Santa María for a week now without even opening my Bible. Praying more faithfully than I’d ever done before was important, but it didn’t take the place of Bible study. I opened my eyes and got to my feet.

  I picked my way through the campsite maze to my sleeping bag. I seldom opened my suitcase, but I’d left my dual-language Bible inside where it would be safe.

  I got it out, laid it on my sleeping bag, and closed and latched the suitcase. Most of the other things in the suitcase didn’t look familiar. They’d belonged to a different Kim Hartlinger in a different world, and I didn’t know if the new Kim would ever need them again.

  I carried the Bible to the area near the mess tent where I’d tried praying a few minutes earlier. I wasn’t alone, but people rarely interrupted one another while enjoying their private times with God.

  I hunkered down against my favorite rock. The position may have been miserable, but it was better than sitting upright without any support.

  I opened the Bible—Santa Biblia, it said on the outside cover—and asked God to lead me to the passage He wanted me to focus on.

  But something wasn’t right.

  The middle-aged salesclerk who’d sold Betsy Jo and me our Bibles at the religious bookstore back home had trouble understanding what we wanted. But we thought she’d finally gotten it straight.

  Now the message Betsy Jo sent care of my parents made sense: “I hope you won’t be too disappointed with your Bible.”

  Disappointment was a mild word to describe what I felt upon discovering that my side-by-side Spanish-English Bible was in Spanish. Only in Spanish.

  I didn’t know if unilingual was a word or not, but this revelation of our clerk’s stupid mistake led to a loud drat and two doggones. A mistake that serious deserved stronger language, but I’d been super-conscientious about what I said since breaking Anjelita of her innocent cursing.

  How dumb had that salesclerk been? We told her we were coming on an evangelistic mission trip to Mexico and needed a single Bible that was printed side by side in both languages.

  Yes, ma’am, both languages—Spanish and English.

  What part of that hadn’t she understood? She might as well not have been listening. I thought adults her age were required to listen more carefully to teens than teens listen to adults of any age.

  Kim, do you always listen to Me? a small voice asked gently and patiently.

  Lord, I responded, don’t expect patience now. Please.

  Oh, but I do. I’ve been processing your prayer requests, Kim. You have the answer to Santa María’s needs right there in your hands.

  I’d been a professing Christian for several years. Because my conversion took place over a period of months, I couldn’t be sure of the exact date. But no matter when it took place, I’d never had such a personal experience with God before.

  Yet this encounter was as mysterious and undecipherable as God Himself. Although He’d preached a personal sermon during my intended Bible reading time, He might as well have been speaking in tongues. I could relate better than usual to Jesus’ disciples, who usually followed up His parables by pleading, “So what’s that really mean?”

  I’ve been processing your prayer requests, Kim. You have the answer to Santa María’s needs right there in your hands. He’d spoken those exact words. Nice simple words. Although I understood the meaning of each one, I didn’t understand His answer one bit better.

  Use your head, I thought. This is like doing a math problem, except the rules for solving it are in my Spanish Bible. But this problem had too many unknowns, and the answer wasn’t in the back of the book. The book was the answer.

  Godly insight struck like a powerful summer thunderstorm that drenches the thirsty fields after a devastating drought. He understood the process. I didn’t need to. God’s Holy Spirit could use this Bible—so useless looking in my hands—to sow and reap a bountiful harvest.

  Here I am, Lord. Send me. As I echoed Isaiah’s words, they swirled around in my head to the tune of the MercyMe song. But I’d already responded to the call. I’d come to Mexico. I was in Santa María instead of Ciudad de Plata. God led me here—where He apparently planned to use me.

  Thinking of flexibility, faithfulness, and obedience, I should have responded, “Lord, You’ve sent me. I’ve come. I’m here. Now use me, and don’t let me get in Your way.”

  But why was I so hesitant to say that? My mind quit whirring for the briefest of moments. Then I exploded in laughter—pure, honest, mirthful laughter.

  Lord, this is silliness. Pure craziness. Everyone will know I’ve lost my mind. They’ll think I’m Noah building the ark when nobody knows what rain is, much less a flood. Isn’t there some better way? Some more … conventional way?

  Just do it, a little voice answered back. Do it if you meant what you said.

  Just do it and they will come? I couldn’t believe He was serious about this.

  Godly silence.

  I must have fallen asleep then. I dreamed I was sitting on the home bench during the final part of Field of Dreams. Daylight couldn’t have been brighter than the lighted ball field and the miles and miles of approaching car headlights. A baseball game was in progress, but God alone was seated in the stands. Seated in? His omnipresence supported, surrounded, and hovered over the stands and the playing field.

  But God wasn’t just the sole spectator. He was also the coach for the home team, which consisted of Charlie, Rob, Neil, Aleesha, and several other team members I couldn’t identify because of the light in my eyes. They were short several players, though, and I kept whining from the bench, “Let me play. I want to play. I’m on this team. Don’t keep me out of the game.”

  God’s voice answered, “Kim, don’t you think you’d look silly trying to play baseball with a broken arm? What could you do? You’re not that good a player using both arms.”

  “Lord, I looked silly clearing rubbish off the playing field, too, but I got it done, didn’t I?”

  “You, Kim?”

  “Anjelita and me, I mean.” I didn’t mean to sound like I’d done it single-handedly. “And all the others who helped.”

  “And what had to happen before I gave you enough helpers to get the job done?”

  “I had to acknowledge that the project was Yours.” I thought for a moment. “I had to be obedient. I had to depend on You.”

  “You’re ready, Kim. Head out to the mound.”

  I felt like hugging God but fell to the ground instead. He raised me to my feet.

  “By the way, Kim, you’ll only need one hand and one arm out there.”

  I started to protest. “But, Lord, sometimes the ball is hit to the pitcher ….”

  “Do you trust Me, Kim?”

  “Of course I do. But don’t you want Anjelita to stand beside me and help?”

  “You’ll need helpers, and Anjelita will be one of them. But she won’t play such an important role this time.”

  “Any way You want to do it, Lord. Just let us win this game … for Your glory.”

  The dream ended, and I realized I was still praying. Lord, I’ll do what You want, but You’re the only One who can make it work. I mouthed those words silently as I accepted God’s challenge to do the impossible and depend on His promise of help.

  I felt peaceful and yet excited at receiving my real assignment. God had commissioned me to do what I was dying to do from the beginning. But He wanted me to do it in a way I wouldn’t have thought of or attempted on my own. I couldn’t back out if I’d wanted to. I’d made the commitment.

  I couldn’t keep from adding a postscript to my prayer, though. “Please don’t expect me not to laugh about this.”

  chapter forty-six

  Day 9

  We had more helpers than usual, and we could see additional ground with each passing hour. We would complete the litter cleanup today. Competition for the honor of removing the final handfu
l of trash was ferocious—in a good-natured way.

  The composition of each snowtrash drift had been a mystery when we started. But unlike snowdrifts, made of flakes that bond together as a mass, small bits of visible space separated the objects in the churchyard.

  Anjelita and I had made a game of looking for items of interest as we worked. Whenever one of us discovered a cup handle or half an ink pen or the bill of a baseball cap, the finder held it high and paraded back and forth in front of the church to the cheers of the current helpers.

  If the finder could make the object wearable, she ended the parade by putting it on and returning to work. It was a finders, keepers game, and I wasn’t too old to enjoy anticipating the reaction at church when I came home with some trinket of unknown origin.

  But a toothbrush stamped MADE IN USA on the handle had been my best find so far. The storm had battered it so badly I couldn’t guess at its original color. I was thinking about taking it home as a joke.

  Anjelita had been slightly more successful than I. But only another child would consider a ragged shirtsleeve a treasure.

  At least our little game kept both of us alert as we searched in vain for a treasure of immense value. We hadn’t found one yet, and I couldn’t imagine succeeding on the final day of our cleanup.

  I wondered if everything in the yard had come from elsewhere. Or did the tornado bury some of the villagers’ possessions here, too? It didn’t matter. Nothing was intact. Even the dilapidated toothbrush was bald. The twister made sure of that.

  We spotted another rotting tire but couldn’t reach it yet. Hiding unsuccessfully behind it was a glittery object I assumed to be just another piece of broken glass. Those fragments required the most time and care in disposing of safely. I wouldn’t let Anjelita handle them, and I was super-careful. I didn’t particularly relish the thought of slicing and dicing any of my body parts.