by Roger Bruner
A grumble came from Aleesha’s seat. “You’re kidding me.” She didn’t open her eyes. How long she’d been awake was beyond me, but I doubted that she’d missed one word of this conversation. I would’ve done the same thing in her place.
Aleesha hadn’t finished, though—talking or listening. “Go on, Neil. You were saying, ‘Kim … ‘ before you both started chasing that ugly rabbit.”
“Uh, right.” He peeked around me at Aleesha and then looked at me again. “I really admire your ability to learn Spanish pronunciation the way you did.”
“ ‘Uh’ is right, Neil,” I said, smiling. I didn’t want to chance scaring the poor boy any more today. “And thanks.”
“Your intensive course was great. I learned to speak the best Spanish anyone can learn in high school, but you learned to pronounce it the way native speakers do. I’ll bet God uses that talent of yours again someday.”
I buried that seed of encouragement somewhere deep inside my brain, where it might take root and grow.
“Maybe so,” I said. “Neil, you know what was so frustrating in Santa María?”
“What?”
I got serious again. “I prayed hard that God would use my reading for His purposes, and I believe He did. But I wanted to see results, and I haven’t. Not except maybe the look on Rosa’s face when I gave her my Spanish Bible.” I sighed and got quiet.
“Kim, God used you in ways you wouldn’t believe, and I’m the only one who can tell you the specifics.”
The only one? What in the world …? “Tell me! Please.”
“The day you started reading, the village men—the women, too, although they were shier—asked what you were doing and why you were doing it. Once you no longer needed constant correcting, the villagers asked more about the content of your reading. They were determined to understand what Lucas was all about. They asked how the Santa Biblia differed from other books they were familiar with, and you’d be amazed at the variety of books they named. Everything from Mexican history to recent secular novels.
“I’m no theologian, but between a lifetime of Sunday school and several online seminary courses I’ve taken recently, I answered most of their questions. While my pastor might not agree with every detail, I don’t think I misled anyone.
“God used you to lead them in some real, honest-to-goodness soul-searching. I’m not saying everyone became a Christian, no matter how much both of us wish—”
“All three of us,” Aleesha said, her eyes still closed.
“The seed you planted fell on soil that was more fertile than you could ever imagine.”
As anxious as I was to hear the rest of Neil’s story, a strange and seemingly unrelated question popped into my head. I wouldn’t be satisfied until I got the answer.
“Why did you need to ‘confess’ your reason for not using your Spanish expertise to help me? I mean, since God told you not to help, it’s not like you sinned against me. The whole thing was between you and God. You didn’t need to tell me anything about it.”
“Interesting you should say that, Kim. I understood how anxious you were to find out whether your reading of Lucas had done any good, but I couldn’t reveal that without telling you the whole story.”
While I stumbled over my words fishing for a response, Neil reached into his backpack and pulled out a stack of papers—twenty sheets of mix-and-match paper, maybe more, covered front and back with smallish, gently flowing, feminine longhand in a garish shade of red ink.
I’d seen them once before. On top of Rosa’s blanket. Before I could say anything, Neil explained.
“Rosa wrote this letter and asked me to translate it for you. I’ve looked through it hurriedly. It’s lengthy—you can see that—and it’s quite personal in places. I have a packet of tissues here somewhere … all three of us will need them.”
Neil was serious about the tissues. He took a couple and handed me the packet. I was already misting in anticipation. “Reading this to you feels weird.”
“It shouldn’t, Neil. This is between you and me … ”—I glanced at Aleesha, who was still pretending to sleep—“and old sleepyhead over there.”
Aleesha amazed me by remaining silent.
“Go on, Neil.”
He apologized for not being able to do a thorough translation without his laptop. After Rosa used up all of his paper, he’d gotten more for her from Geoff. Since she hadn’t given him the letter until that morning, he’d only gotten to look over it briefly and would have to translate most of it on the fly.
I assured him that I—Aleesha and I, that is—would be patient and understanding.
“You’ll want to take the original home with you,” he said, “but we’ll find a copier at the airport so I can have a copy to translate properly. I’ll e-mail it to you early tomorrow if I have to stay up half of tonight to do it.”
“Don’t. At your convenience is soon enough.” I hoped I sounded sincere, but we both probably knew I hadn’t meant it. I wanted it as soon as possible.
His translation on the bus was rough, but comprehensible, and the tissues disappeared faster than either of us had expected.
chapter sixty-one
My dear sister Kim, let me tell you about the horrifying storm that led to your coming. Then you’ll better understand why your time here has meant so much to all of us.
I’ve never seen a windstorm as violent as the one that demolished the village a month ago. Village legends tell of such storms; so from the instant we spotted it heading toward us—it was visible for miles across the flat countryside—we knew we had little hope of survival unless it veered in a different direction before reaching Santa María.
The black wind shocked us by going over—over and around—the building I’ve heard you refer to as a “church,” whatever that is. In the yard, it spewed filthy remnants of trash from far away to make room in its belly for our houses and possessions. You’ve seen and helped to clean up that rubbish.
We didn’t remain in our homes waiting for the funnel to attack, however. At the first sighting of the black spiral, we ran hither and thither with no sense of purpose. No one knew what to do or where to go.
You poor people …
Observing the chaos, my older daughter, Alazne—Alazne means “miracle”—yelled so everyone could hear, “Go to the caves! Take your families and go to the little caves.”
Everyone knew what she was referring to. Numerous small, underground caves abound in the area behind the church. Everyone who heard Alazne’s cry began running toward them.
Her dependence on crutches—she was born with spina bifida—didn’t keep her from rushing from house to house to make sure each family heard her warning. I saw her help several older people.
That wasn’t safe, though, was it? The twister had to be awfully close by then ….
Although I feared for her safety and urged her to hurry to our cave, I couldn’t ask her not to help the people of her village. I didn’t try to. She seemed far older—more mature and more responsible—than her twelve years.
More mature than me at eighteen …
I remained outside our cave watching and waiting for Alazne as long as I could. She still hadn’t come to the refuge we would soon claim as our only home. In my heart of hearts, I believed—or at least I tried to convince myself—she was safe in another cave.
We couldn’t delay going inside any longer. We cowered at the bottom of the cave as broken pieces of housing flew by at speeds we couldn’t comprehend. Some debris fell inside, and the ground vibrated with such intensity I was sure our rocky ceiling would cave in and crush us. If the bowels of the earth didn’t open up and swallow us first.
Anjelita and I screamed words we couldn’t hear and shivered with a cold terror nothing could calm.
Why didn’t you pray? Duh. And how would you have known to …?
Although I would have given anything to make sure my Alazne was safe, I had no one to place my hope in. I’d heard the word prayer and had a vague und
erstanding of its meaning, but I didn’t know how to do it or who to pray to.
As quickly as the black storm came, it departed in an easterly direction, staggering with the intoxication of consuming Santa María. Anjelita and I had to clear away enough debris to reach the mouth of the cave before we could exit.
Other villagers came out of their caves. They wept aloud, imagining what the wind would have done to them and their loved ones if they hadn’t found shelter.
Anjelita and I began looking for Alazne. No one had seen her since the twisting funnel struck the first house. Person after person told us they would have died if Alazne hadn’t routed them to the caves.
When our cave-to-cave search proved fruitless, our panic level went sky-high. If the storm had carried Alazne off, we wouldn’t find her. And we wouldn’t know whether she had died quickly but painlessly, suffered a lingering death, or was still alive somewhere, waiting for help that would never come.
From the ground above the caves, we could see that the ancient building you call a church was still standing. Village legends claim that it was the only building to survive a similar storm a century earlier; that’s why the villagers were superstitious about it.
Anjelita and I trudged toward it, hand in hand, picking our way carefully among the rubble. We hoped to find some clue regarding Alazne’s whereabouts.
Lord, please …
Anjelita broke free and ran toward the front of the building, swaying this way and that to keep her balance as she slipped on loose pieces of trash. A moment later I heard her normally small, timid voice cry out in the most piercing and hideous scream I’d ever heard.
Neil, stop! No more! I don’t want to hear ….
As I turned the corner, I saw Alazne’s storm-battered body lying motionless near the door. She must have been unable to open the door because of the debris that blocked the way. She probably would have survived if she’d been able to get inside.
I screamed and ran toward her. The great depth of the rubble made it nearly impossible to reach her. But we persisted. Once we were close enough, I dropped to my knees and tried to turn her over. She lay face down, her arms wrapped around something I couldn’t see. It anchored her so securely I couldn’t move her.
She wasn’t dead … was she?
Now that we’d found Alazne, I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—give up hope. Not yet. Why should she die because she cared more for others than for herself?
She had no heartbeat, no pulse. No! No! This wasn’t true! I couldn’t accept what my eyes and my brain tried to tell me. My heart refused to surrender hope.
She had to be unconscious—nothing worse than that. She would regain consciousness any minute.
Suddenly the horrible truth took root in my head and my heart, and I began wailing. A woman in childbirth could not have wept more hysterically.
Anjelita looked up at me with tears in her eyes.
My dear little one, I thought, how selfish I am. I’ve ignored your loss. No one can take your sister’s place, but I still have you. But you have lost your only sister.
After pulling her close, we rocked and swayed together on top of the rubble, our cheeks touching and our tears mingling.
Once the village men removed Alazne’s body, they discovered the cross Alazne apparently tried anchoring herself to. The one you’ve seen fastened to my doorway.
Funerals may be different elsewhere, but we usually burn the body to prevent the spread of disease. No one dared to suggest that we cremate Alazne, however. We do not treat our heroes that way.
The concept of one person dying voluntarily for the sake of many was beyond my ability to grasp. But I thought about it during your reading of Lucas.
Anjelita brought me out of my daze by grabbing my arm and shaking it until she had my attention. “The necklace!” she cried. “Your grandmama’s necklace! It’s not there!”
I looked at the body again. She was right. The necklace Alazne always wore, the one I’d promised Anjelita she could wear sometimes, too, was missing. I’d watched Alazne put it on earlier that morning ….
No one had seen it. Perhaps it had broken off and fallen through gaps in the rubbish to the ground below.
Finding the necklace was not as important as staying alive, however. We couldn’t look for it without clearing the churchyard of debris, and no one would have done that just to look for a necklace, no matter how precious. So I didn’t tell Anjelita about its probable whereabouts, and she didn’t mention the necklace again until the day you found it.
Lord, why did You let an inanimate object survive the storm when precious Alazne didn’t?
In the rubble, someone discovered a broken shovel—a dented blade attached to perhaps two feet of a badly splintered wooden handle. It didn’t belong to any of us. Someone else found one of Alazne’s crutches in the debris. An older man brought out a piece of light rope he had salvaged, and a fourth person fashioned the three materials into an awkward, but usable, shovel.
Each of the village men took his turn at the backbreaking job of digging a grave in the dry, hard earth. Although the men got sweaty and thirsty, none of them complained.
They dug the grave several inches longer and wider than Alazne’s slender frame and deep enough to put a layer of pebbles, broken glass, and larger stones over the body to deter predators from digging it up.
Tears filled every eye that afternoon.
I couldn’t watch my neighbors throw dirt over Alazne’s body, but when I saw them cover her with the layer of stones, I almost passed out. I imagined Alazne trying to breathe with dirt and rocks covering her face like that, and I could barely breathe, either.
But that’s not the end of it, Rosa. What has Lucas been trying to tell you?
Anjelita seemed to know what I was thinking, though, for she said in her simple, childlike way, “Alazne is dead. She doesn’t need to breathe any longer. But she is dead only here. She is alive somewhere else. I know it.”
Although Anjelita spoke with a precious hope that had no foundation in fact or logic, her words—her mysterious faith—moved me profoundly. Dead here, yet alive elsewhere? Where did she think Alazne was now? How could I prove her right or wrong? How could I be sure?
One moment, I thought my heart would stop beating. The next, it beat out of control. So great was my desire to believe Anjelita was right.
Lucas gave you the answer. Do you believe …?
The events I have described took place several weeks before you and your friends arrived in Santa María. I still cry frequently over my loss, but fighting to survive took precedence over grieving.
We returned to our cave each night to sleep, for it kept out some of the chilly night air, but the ground was hard and uncomfortable. We couldn’t find anything to eat at first and knew we would starve if we didn’t die of dehydration first.
Surviving the storm didn’t guarantee ultimate
survival. Many infants, young children, and elderly villagers died the first week after the storm. Whether from starvation or pollution of the only water they could find, they died. Whether from inescapable exposure to the daytime heat or fatigue that zapped all of their strength, they died. Whether from hopelessness that made them quit trying or the paralysis of depression, they died.
Although we noted their deaths with regret, we took them in stride. What choice did we have?
But where will they spend eternity …?
Miss Kim, when you and your friends came, you brought our first real hope of survival. You delivered bedding and clothes, and you helped us build new homes. You brought food, and we regained our strength. You brought water, and we reveled in the pure, fresh taste that assuaged our thirst without causing more deaths.
You brought something else, though. Love. Unconditional love. I knew you were different when I first saw you and Anjelita together, but—because you look so much like Alazne—I couldn’t stand being close to you. Seeing you give your all with an unselfishness that reminded me of Alazne was difficult, too.
If only I’d known …
But when Anjelita started gaining new confidence and taking greater pride in herself—no longer tormented about the arm she’d been born without—I couldn’t turn my back on you any longer.
When I showed you Alazne’s photograph, my inability to explain who she was and why I loved you like a new daughter frustrated me. You obviously recognized the similarities in your appearances. I recognized the similarities in your attitudes and actions.
Miss Kim, your reading from the Bible has meant so much to Anjelita and me. To the whole village. You demonstrated great courage and determination reading in our heart language without knowing how. Learning to pronounce our words in the rote fashion the villagers employed must have seemed like a black storm of challenge.
The villagers noticed how much you and your friends differed from us. In such remarkable ways that we realized our lives lacked something more important than the most valuable of our lost belongings. As you read from the writings of Luke day in and day out, getting badly sunburned, almost losing your voice, and yet always eager to begin again the next day, we appreciated the difference even more.
And I wondered if I was doing any good ….
We knew nothing about God before you began reading to us, although I’d tried for years to find out whether somebody like God existed. But if our ancestors ever knew about the God of the Bible, they abandoned Him—perhaps after that storm a century ago—and declined to pass the Good News down to us.
So we had no idea of God’s existence—not who He is or what He is like. Neither did we know how much He loves us, what He wants to give us, or what He expects of us. Although we’ve often said and done things that seemed wrong, we didn’t possess a standard of goodness or a guide for right living.
