by Roger Bruner
What marvelous teachings this Bible contained! The villagers had been superstitious before, but the truths in this book revealed how silly and shallow many of their superstitions had been.
We bandied questions back and forth, wishing Neil could have been with us every evening.
“How could a woman become pregnant without being intimate with a man?” one person asked.
“Apparently this God can do anything,” someone responded.
“How did John the Baptizer recognize Jesus at the river when he had never seen him before?”
“They were relatives, but—even if they met as children—how could John have known that Jesus was the Son of God?”
“God told him.”
“What are angels? What is a choir?”
No one had an answer to either of those questions.
“How could someone who was God be tempted by the Devil?”
“Jesus was perfect. Do you suppose he really felt tempted?”
“Just how human was Jesus?”
Several issues drew us back repeatedly. Why would God send Jesus to earth to be killed by his enemies? How could Jesus perform such wonderful and amazing miracles? Why would he select such a group of losers as his followers? How did he always know the right things to say to put his enemies in their place? Why did people refuse to accept him when he was obviously who he claimed to be? And why did they hate someone who was so good, so loving?
“Jesus sounds like he would be the perfect leader for this village,” one man commented in all sincerity. “He would protect us and provide for our needs just as he did for others. We would be the flores de su campo—the flowers of his field. He would clothe and care for us. We wouldn’t have to do anything.”
“We would grow so fat and lazy he wouldn’t be able to use us for anything,” someone else responded just as sincerely.
The other villagers hooted derisively until he turned red. They didn’t want to hear that kind of comment.
“What good would we be, anyhow?” another person asked. “We are as bad as his disciples. But in different ways.”
Murmurs of agreement ran through our gathering.
Some of Jesus’s teachings were difficult to understand and others nearly impossible to accept. “Love your enemies” proved to be the hardest to grasp, so we agreed to limit our discussion to things we had a better chance of dealing with.
Anjelita had memorized the prayer Jesus taught his disciples, and she taught it to all of us. We couldn’t fully comprehend the concept of prayer, but some of us—I did this myself—began saying that prayer at the beginning of each day.
We also used it to begin our nightly discussions. Although we couldn’t understand why, praying seemed to set the stage for improved comprehension.
Keem was nearing the end of Lucas, and the danger Jesus and his disciples faced on their return to Jerusalem worried us. As much as we felt like yelling at the disciples for falling asleep in the garden, we might have done the same thing ourselves.
Jesus deserved better helpers. Worthier ones.
Yet he had chosen those friends himself. Would he choose us as friends if we followed his teachings? If he could forgive his enemies, he could surely forgive his friends, too. Hadn’t he taught his friends the importance of loving and forgiving one another?
Those of us who had been wondering about becoming Jesus’ friends gave up hope along with his disciples when the Roman soldiers crucified him. The faith we had begun placing in this man who was also God crashed to the ground.
We understood to some degree how his disciples must have felt. We didn’t have enemies to fear, but the feeling of letdown was just as real.
Then when the women discovered that Jesus was alive—not “still alive,” but “alive again” after being dead three days—we couldn’t keep from cheering in relief. How foolish we had been to believe that even the most evil of men had more power than God, the father of Jesus. And if God was that powerful, why should we fear or worry about anything?
We shouldn’t, we decided. Not if we became his children.
Some of the villagers took the story of Jesus to heart. Others were more skeptical.
Several people thought we revered the Jesus story too much. “This Bible is a storybook,” one of them said. “No more, no less than Don Quixote or the other books of fiction we used to read before the black storm. We shouldn’t take this story as fact.”
“But what if it’s true?” someone said. “Did we believe in the reality of the black funnel? We’d heard about it in the legends of our ancestors, yet how many of us believed that story?”
“We all believe it now,” came cries of agreement.
“Can we afford to ignore the story of Jesus then?”
“Keem probably selected this story because she thinks it’s important,” someone else added. “She hasn’t simply been trying to entertain us.”
“Anyhow, this story has been more disturbing at times than entertaining. Very serious, despite its happy ending.”
“If Miss Keem had selected a different story from the Bible book, perhaps something would have contradicted the writings of this man, Lucas.”
“I can’t believe that,” one woman said.
“Me, either!” several others said in unison.
“But can you prove it?”
“How can we be sure?”
Although the villagers disagreed about how seriously to take the story of Jesus, they continued to meet and discuss Keem’s reading.
Anjelita gave me something to think about the first time she addressed the group. “I’m only eight years old, and you may laugh at me for speaking out. Close your ears if you want to, but I have something to say.”
No one expressed disapproval or opposition to her addressing the adults. Every eye turned toward her. “We are overlooking something important.” She paused.
“Go on. We’re listening.”
I looked around. It was true. Everyone was waiting for Anjelita to continue.
“Suppose Miss Keem believes this writing. Perhaps that’s why she has shared it with us.”
“Possible,” one of the younger men said. “But how can we be sure? It’s not like she can tell us.”
When the laughter settled, Anjelita continued. “That’s my point, Señor. She and her friends have already told us they believe the story of Jesus.”
“What? The Holy Bible hasn’t said anything about the miracle of Miss Keem learning to understand and speak Spanish as expertly as she has learned to read it aloud.”
The laughter was more boisterous than before, but Anjelita seemed undaunted. Her courage and wisdom brought silent tears to my eyes. “Señor, telling us her beliefs in our language isn’t important.”
Everyone quieted down then. Did they have the same slight premonition I had about what Anjelita would say next?
“They showed us from the time of their arrival how much they love one another. Keem had problems with her friends at first, yet after less than a day, they forgave one another and acted as if there had never been a problem.” Murmurs of assent.
“Think about what Lucas said about Jesus and his followers and you’ll see how much Keem and her friends are like them. They even came from far away to help us without knowing us or expecting anything in return.”
Heads nodded.
“If that isn’t doing something for Jesus by doing it for others, what is?”
I hadn’t seen such intense looks since we started holding these Bible studies. Anjelita’s speech had made an impression.
I wasn’t sure what I believed, but Anjelita’s point was too poignant to take lightly.
From one side of the group, a single voice began reciting the Lord’s Prayer. The rest of us joined in. We had simply repeated it before, but now we seemed to feel we might actually be talking to someone real. Someone who was listening to each one of us.
I stayed up quite late that night thinking about it. I doubt that I was the only one.
45<
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I had begun writing a letter to Keem the first week she was here.
I wanted to tell her about the black storm, about Alazne, and about the village’s experiences prior to her group’s arrival. Although the special book I used for my journal—intact because of Alazne’s unselfishness—contained unused pages, I couldn’t bear to tear any of them out. My journal was incomplete, and I had many things to add.
So I asked Neil for paper. He also found a red pencil for me to use. My letter grew so long he had to scout around for additional paper.
Telling Miss Keem about our recent past had been both easy and painful. The words had flowed like a river unhindered by a dam. But I didn’t know how to finish.
~*~
Neil had alerted us that he and his friends would be returning home in another two days.
I hadn’t read the part of the Bible where a man wrestled with God, but when I read that story later, I remembered my uneasiness the last two nights Miss Keem was here.
The doubters had made good points in questioning the story of Jesus, but the more open-minded villagers had made equally valid points.
I had no idea where the truth lay. But the decision to make Jesus my friend would be life-changing. So would the decision to reject his friendship. The God I had spent so many years of my life searching for had offered me his most wonderful gift. Why was I so scared to accept it? Was I afraid of the ways it might change me?
Perhaps I could accept Jesus’s teachings without believing he was God’s son. That would be easy. I could live a morally good life that way. A far better life than I had lived so far.
But Jesus was more than just a good teacher, and becoming his friend required a genuine commitment, not conditional pick-and-choose acceptance.
Hadn’t the Bible said that even the devils believed in Jesus? And they were definitely not his friends.
How it tore me up knowing that Keem would take her Bible when she left. I needed to read more. To delve more deeply into the truth of God’s Word. To reach a point of absolute certainty.
~*~
Anjelita came to me in the midst of my spiritual dilemma.
“Momma! Momma! Did you know? Miss Keem is leaving the day after tomorrow. She’s going home.”
Are those the tears you couldn’t cry at your own sister’s funeral? How wretched I felt. It had never occurred to me that Anjelita might expect Keem and her friends to remain in Santa María forever.
“Someone told me that, yes,” I said as I held her against me and felt her tears drenching my blouse.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her words pummeled my heart, just as Tomás’s fists had once pounded my face and body. I wanted to defend myself by saying I had just found out. But that wasn’t true, and I couldn’t lie to avoid Anjelita’s anger. I had always taught my girls to tell the truth—regardless.
This Jesus I was wrestling with expected the same of me.
Although the friendship between Keem and Anjelita had thoroughly delighted me, I had been at fault for letting them grow so close. But how could I have prevented it? What could I have said or done to keep them from becoming sisters?
I could hear myself now…
Yes, Miss Keem is quite nice and looks very much like your sister. She seems to be fond of you. But you mustn’t become good friends—you mustn’t develop any kinship with her. Especially a relationship that will help you adjust to life without Alazne. Bad things will happen if you don’t distance yourself from her emotionally.
No, such a warning would have been ridiculous. Worthless. Even if I had recognized the potential dangers in time.
But I could’ve reminded Anjelita daily—I should have reminded her more often than that—that Keem was only a visitor to Santa María, no matter how she had worked her way into the depths of both our hearts.
I had failed to do that, however, and Anjelita was heartsick. If losing her actual sister had been the worst experience of her life until now, how would she react to the loss of Miss Keem?
“Momma, why…?”
I had to answer her—somehow. Jesus, do you have words I can use?
“I couldn’t tell you, little one. I didn’t want to hurt you sooner than necessary.” She burrowed into me tighter than ever, and my teardrops fell into her hair. “I will miss her, too, Anjelita. How I wish we could stay in touch, but without a telephone, a computer, or mail delivery, it will be impossible.”
She looked into my face, but said nothing. She didn’t understand what I was talking about. Alazne had lived for a time in San Diego, but Anjelita hadn’t. She had never experienced the good or bad of civilization except through books.
My words appeared to be sinking in. “Once the buses carry Miss Keem and her friends away,” she said, “she will become only a…a pleasant memory. Like Alazne.”
“A vivid and a very pleasant one. We won’t forget her, and she won’t forget us, either.” I couldn’t get her hopes up by suggesting that Keem might come back again someday. Yet in my heart of hearts I was already hoping that would happen.
“I won’t let her go.” Never had I seen Anjelita’s mouth twist in such a stubborn and determined way.
~*~
I failed to take Anjelita’s statement seriously enough.
When the time came for me to take her home the last night of the Americans’ visit, I couldn’t pry her away from Keem. She could be fiercely assertive at times, but never had she resisted me the way she did that evening.
Keem motioned for me not to worry. She would bring Anjelita home once she fell asleep. I smiled. She seemed to understand what Anjelita and I were both going through.
I wrestled with God until Keem brought Anjelita home later that night, and I struggled for many hours afterwards. I kept looking at the crucifix I had hung beside my doorway as a pretty decoration.
Although it had served as an anchor during the black windstorm, preventing Alazne from being taken away, it hadn’t meant anything to me otherwise.
Now I realized the man on the cross was Jesus—and I knew why he looked so distressed: He was worried about me. I needed to make a decision. Failing to accept him was the same as denying him, and that thought made me tremble in fear.
The image of Jesus on the cross tore at my heart. But why?
The answer came in a flash. Jesus was just as real now—just as alive—as he had been during his earthly lifetime. He had suffered and died on the cross for my sake. But his story didn’t end there. God had brought him to life again and that was more important.
He had once been dead. Just as dead as Mother Chalina. As dead as Alazne. And Tomás.
But Jesus wasn’t dead now. He was alive again.
I couldn’t deny the realities of Jesus any longer. I had seen him living in the actions and attitudes of Keem and her friends.
Moving quietly to keep from awakening Anjelita, I took the crucifix down from the wall and stepped outside. The moon was visible, although clouds shaded its light. I walked toward the church, holding the crucifix against me as if I didn’t want to be seen with it.
I considered using the front yard of the church, clean and beautiful with flowers even in moonlight, but I couldn’t. It didn’t seem right.
I slipped silently to the backyard and found a place where the earth was soft enough to dig with my hands and fingernails. Several inches down, however, the soil grew so rocky my fingers began bleeding.
Jesus’s hands bled for me. Let mine bleed for him.
I smiled and continued to dig.
Perfect. The hole was big enough. I picked up the crucifix, but something kept me from placing it in the hole.
What, Jesus? Am I doing something wrong?
Then I heard it…for the first time in years. The voice of the wind. “I understand why you want to bury the crucifix. You are correct that my rising from the dead is more important than my suffering on the cross.
“You yourself have suffered, and you will suffer more. That is part of living in a si
nful world.
“Take your crucifix home. Keep it safe. Get it out when you need to remind yourself that I suffered, too. My Spirit will always guide and watch over you.”
After setting the crucifix down gently…reverently—I had come frighteningly close to digging with it moments earlier—I used my still-bloody hands to fill the hole with the same dirt and rocks I had dug out of it.
I couldn’t leave behind any evidence of the horrible mistake I had almost made.
I began praying quietly—not that I cared whether the whole village heard me—“My Father in heaven, your name is so holy. I want your will to be done and your kingdom to come on earth as it is in heaven. Give me each day what you know I need, and forgive my sins. And help me to forgive others. Don’t let me give in to temptation, and keep me away from evil…”
When tears clouded my vision, I paused momentarily. I realized how much I had changed the words. I had made the Lord’s Prayer my own. A real prayer.
I had more to say to Him. “Lord Jesus, I believe you are everything Lucas said you are. I believe you want me to be your friend. I want you to be my friend, too. An even closer friend than Nikki. I want to please you in everything I say and do. Once again, I ask your forgiveness…”
I don’t recall everything else I prayed, but I became a friend and follower of Jesus that night.
When I looked up at the sky upon completing my prayer, the moon had grown much brighter. The clouds had moved away.
I had made the right decision. The most important decision I would ever make.
~*~
I purposely let Anjelita sleep later than usual the next morning. Although I would be in trouble if she missed the chance to tell Keem goodbye, her new sister needed time to pack.
I dreaded the possibility of Anjelita’s misbehaving today the way she had last night. She had been very tired and more emotionally drained than at any time since Alazne’s death. No wonder she’d acted the way she had.
Since Jesus is my best friend now, I will ask him to help Anjelita this morning. That’s what I did, and he heard me. Anjelita slept late for the first time since…I don’t know when.
