"Allie, that letter reminds me of some questions I have about the beach trip ..."
"Ask 'em," she said, not looking up.
"You remember all those readers in their beach chairs?"
"The ones you numbered? Most of 'em were friends of mine."
"What was Number Eleven's real name?"
"Anne."
"And Number Twelve?"
"Sheri," she whispered, still reading, squirming to get comfortable.
We shifted to where we sat back-to-back, for support.
"Much better," she said.
Kids zigzagged across the field, giggling and snatching at bugs. The soccer game was now chaos. Minutes passed before we spoke again. Finally she stuffed her letter in the envelope, set it on the grass beside me.
"Thought any more about your plans?" she asked.
"Spanish lessons, certainly."
"The mission agency sends everyone to a school for that. There's one in Quito and another in Costa Rica. It's an intense four months, believe you me."
"Can't be more intense than my former profession."
"And eventually you'll have to raise support. Quite a pain these days finding folks with money."
"Then I'll start with the elderly."
"What elderly?"
"Former clients, old ladies with great market timing."
I felt Allie's weight firm against my back, like she was napping.
In silence now, I contemplated the fruit, pausing at each piece to gauge the relative ripeness. After a few minutes she tilted her head back until it gently knocked against mine.
"Whatcha thinking about, Mr. Jarvis?"
"The fruit."
"Which piece?"
"Patience."
"So give me a definition of patience."
"Okay. Patience: Across the arc of a life lived in faith, it allows the Almighty to be all-mighty."
"Goodness, Mr. Oblong learns fast. Remind me to write that one down."
Earthy whiffs of fruit and flower glided by in the breeze, and as I pondered what I'd given up and what I'd now gained, I compared the scents quite favorably to the hot, acrid exhaust of yellow taxicabs.
Still sitting back-to-back, I felt her lean into me. "Jay, if you do go through the program, God could send you somewhere else besides our wacky little village ... although we can definitely use you."
"Would you like it if he did that?"
"Sent you somewhere else?"
"That's what I'm asking ..."
"No, I wouldn't like it. But you'll need to listen, regardless of my feelings."
I didn't answer immediately, just stared out at the green canopy, losing myself in thought. "Okay, Allie, I'll listen. But I need to ask you something."
She elbowed my rib. "Ask it."
"Today, doing stuff like this, just hanging out, are these dates?"
"We don't call it dating out here, remember? We don't call it anything."
Jungle grass clung to our legs and ankles. I nearly tumbled backward when, for a third time, she turned to pick up the letter. Face-to-face again, I watched as she pulled a pen from her pocket and began writing furiously on the back of Darcy's lime green envelope.
"Sudden inspiration?" I asked.
"Take a look at this," she said, still writing, not looking up. "I've been trying to chronicle the experiences of my life ... to write a story about walking with God, the known and the unknown. I may use these words as the beginning."
And she handed me the envelope. There are potholes on the road less traveled. Some deep, some not so deep, some you dig yourself. Most are filled with mud. Many contain rocks. Once in a while, however, you'll be walking along and step in one a bit more accommodating ... shabby, green, and pulsing with life.
It'll tickle your feet, like clover.
I read the words twice, pausing to compare them to my own journey, a journey I no longer cared to control. "Good stuff, Allie."
With mock pride, she tilted her head back. "Yeah, I think that's a keeper."
"Final draft?"
"Final draft," she said, taking back the envelope.
"Would you mind at some point if I borrowed those first two lines?"
Gently, she bit her lip, considering my request. I didn't think she was going to answer at all until, finally, she tucked the envelope in her shirt pocket. "I think not, Jay. Considering what you carved in that sandbar, you have very little talent for verse."
"But what about my ad response, the shiny armoire, my brave white horse?"
She rose from the grass to check on the children. "I still think someone helped you with that."
I reached up and took her hand. "So, Allie, if we don't call it dating out here, how would two people get past where we are?"
She pulled away slowly-palm, fingers, fingertips. Then she leaned down to pluck a weed, turned and tossed it, spearlike, at my head. Another bull's-eye. "They'd let the Almighty be all-mighty."
Angling down from behind her-across the elephant ears and a jungle in mid-yawn-a glaring Ecuadorian sun backlit the brunette hair just below her shoulder.
With a wave and a whistle, Allie had the children in single file. Little bronze hands brushed dark hair from glistening foreheads. They had begun the long walk back to the village when she stopped and turned into the sun to face me. "There's still one more surprise waiting for you, Jay ... after sundown."
"I won't even guess."
Squinting now, she quieted the children. "Once every quarter our entire village has a kind of battle. Twenty dozen bananas per team. We peel 'em and squish 'em into balls."
Somehow this seemed not the least bit shocking, but twenty dozen? "Twenty dozen?"
"We call it Gettysburg for Latinos. Juan and the others are picking ammo as we speak."
I sat up, shooed a fly. "And just how long has this been tradition?"
She reached out to hold Isabel's hand. "Ever since I started serving here."
"And y'all do this in the dark?"
"We border the soccer field with bamboo torches and have at it. It's one awesome night of conflict, kids red-faced and delirious; might be your first look at Amazonian conniption. Wanna captain a team?"
That sure beat beading. "How many teams will the village have?"
`Just two. So do you wanna be a captain? Plaid-over-Stripes usually leads the second team, but as you know, she's pregnant."
"And you lead the opposition?"
"Of course. You wanna be Ulysses S. Grant or Robert E. Lee?"
I didn't hesitate. "I'll be Lee."
"Then you'll probably lose."
She regathered the kids, and they strolled away, slow, like beachcombers. Meanwhile, I was trying to figure out what Robert E. Lee would do if ammo were limited to bananas.
I'd figure it out ... and I would make the South proud.
No white flags. No Appomattox.
But again she quieted the children and turned to face me, her face sunlit, her voice raised. "How about an early dinner in the bird tower again? Just the two of us."
My stomach growled, reminding me-even though I was with Plan A-not to call this a date. "It is Friday, isn't it? You cooking?"
"I cooked last week."
"Okay, I'll cook."
She and the kids marched onward up the dirt road, dust hovering behind them. I leaned back on my elbows. I'd catch up shortly.
Summer was stretching across the grass when I looked up and saw Allie in a familiar posture. She had a stick in her hand, and with the kids behind her, she was sideways in the road, leaning over and carving words in the dirt, writing east-west in a road that also ran east-west. They moved backward together, forty-eight little feet backpedaling from one side of the road to the other as Allie and her stick began each new line. I watched this earthy composition from a distance, then she stood and waved me over, and I got up and jogged toward them.
I arrived panting.
She and the kids were all facing me, though I was separated from them by seven lines of poetry
that must have covered twenty feet.
"What?" I inquired, all sweaty from my jog. "More inspiration?"
She flung her stick into the jungle, smiled, and said, "Nope, that there is my first high school poem."
I stood at the seventh line and read the thing. Twice. "Allie Kyle, that sounds nothing at all like the words of a missionary."
"But you like it?" She had that half-child, half-woman look again.
"It's not as complex as your sandy, antimaterialistic verse, but not bad. Not bad at all."
I walked between the fourth and fifth lines, then the whole group of us continued on toward the village, Allie holding Isabel's hand, me with my arm around Eduardo and his Zulu beads.
She spoke over her shoulder. "I only carved that one, Jay, to show you that God often has very different plans than what our earthly brains think is best for us."
I was about to agree with her when the drum sounded.
He was way back behind us, just coming out of the jungle and onto the dirt road, his bass drum strapped to his neck and back and wobbling left and right in front of him.
Raul was no fashion god either; his daily garb was a green-and-yellow rugby shirt with the sleeves cut out, plus a baggy pair of brown army fatigues that were much too big for his slender frame. I didn't know if he had suddenly lost his shyness or just felt like joining in, but he was hurrying toward us with that oversized drum. Then he saw the poem. He stopped in his tracks.
This opportunity was not going to get away from me. I quickly motioned for Eduardo to continue on with the others. "Allie, I've just got to have me a turn at that drum."
She turned and waved left-handed at Raul. "You can ask, Jay. But he's pretty attached to it."
So I jogged back down the road, wiping sweat from my forehead every few seconds before stopping again between lines four and five.
Raul was standing over the poem with his head cocked to the side, looking around his drum at the dirt. I was pretty sure he couldn't read.
"You like it, Raul?" I asked.
He didn't answer, just kept staring at the strange words hogging the center of his roadway. I motioned to him that I would very much like to beat his drum. He glanced at me briefly, stuffed his drum sticks in his army pants, then stared at the words again.
I repeated my wish, and after a moment of hesitation he kneeled and pulled the straps over his head. I also kneeled, and when I stood up, I was a bass drummer.
Lighter now, Raul pulled a mango from his baggy back pocket, peeled a layer, and took a bite. Then he pointed at the poem with his fruit.
Allie's first high school poem read thusly:
The irony was pure and immediate-anticipating one's adulthood in the South but ending up content in the jungles of Ecuador.
But with the drum blocking my vision, I walked right through the fifth line, end to front, then turned to see that my feet had smudged South, ripe, old, soul, and Let.
Raul walked beside me toward the village, peeling away, mango juice covering his chin. Allie and the kids were now a hundred yards ahead, the whole lot of them trying to do cartwheels in the road.
As the newest member of the circus, I beat that drum for all I was worth, using deep strokes of percussion to signal to the jungle that I was sticking around, that I'd be the white man among its greenery, the stranger in its bird tower.
I considered stopping just so I could ask Raul if he wanted his soul to grow old and ripe in the South. But I was certain he would not answer. He was slow of mind and short of speech, a young man content to be an odd spice in a village stew that nourished everyone regardless of pedigreeslow, fast, plaid, striped, mismatched, or North American.
So I just kept pounding away, trying to find some semblance of melody. Raul walked along, eating his fruit, occasionally glancing over at the drum when I lost the rhythm. It was my guess that Raul never gave a second thought to where his soul might grow old.
Me? Why, I did not know if my soul would grow old somewhere south of Colombia, South America, or Columbia, South Carolina. Like that drum, I really just wanted to stay tight-tight to the south of God, right there in his shadow. Because outside of God's shadow I was just a gaudy plastic float filled with stubborn air, drifting off like a blind Jonah in search of Plan B, manipulating circumstances and wondering why I kept waking up in my very own Tarshish. But in God's shadow I had been dazzled by the detour, amazed at the fraternity, and flabbergasted by the depth that comes from simplicity, from serving in a village that was shabby, green, and pulsing with life.
Raul had finished his snack when we got within a stone's throw of the village. Everyone else had already gone inside their huts. I gave the drum back to Raul, and after he stopped grinning he launched into a beat worthy of a collegiate halftime show.
It was right then that the urge to carve overwhelmed me. I stepped off the road and into the rainforest to find a stick. I carved quickly, limiting myself to two lines because it was my turn to cook. And though it was plagiarism, what I wrote was to affirm to Allie in writing what I had signaled to the jungle with drumming-that I would be sticking around. I knew that in one hour we would walk right by my verse on our way to the bird tower, and it just seemed like something a missionary poet might appreciate.
What I wrote in the dirt road I wrote in big, beach-sized letters.
Then I went and picked three mangos and used them to dot the is and the j.
This book could not have been written without a day-long journey with Dan Osterhus, a Mission Aviation Fellowship pilot stationed in Shell, Ecuador. Dan flew me and a buddy, Tal Groce, over and into the jungle, including a visit to the awe-inspiring site where Jim Elliott and four other missionaries were martyred by Waodani Indians in 1956. We landed on a grass strip and were met by the natives, who paddled our MRPC mission team to that sandbar in a dugout canoe. To Dan the Man I dedicate the last chapters of this book. He and two other men died September 14, 1997, while attempting a rescue mission in the mountainous Banos Pass, in Ecuador. He left behind a young wife and an eight-month-old daughter. All blessings to his family.
Also, much appreciation to the Principe de Pas orphanage in Guayaquil, Ecuador. The kids there had few of the advantages we enjoy in America, but, shockingly, seemed to be happier ... go figure. And they could really play soccer! Our hosts were Ron and Lizanne Johnson.
Attending the Urbana Missions Conference, put on tri-annually by IVCF, fostered my friendship with three missionary girls. Each one is a model of humor, faith, and compassion, and their examples of servanthood make for the presiding spirit of this book. Their names are Mary, Terri, and Rachel. Their last names and locations are confidential.
Next, a tip of the hat to the Metro singles group and the Focus Class, for all the memories and adventures. Who were those rebels who stayed out on the beach all night?
The scenic South Carolina coast was made available to us by Sloan Smith and her hospitable gang at James W. Smith Real Estate (www.jw smithrealestate.com) in Pawleys Island, S.C. And yes, they do rent a few beach houses with crow's nests.
Special thanks to Holly Branyon Grant, a Greenville, S.C., poet and French teacher who read and critiqued chapter after chapter. Her input was invaluable. Holly also loaned Allie her poem of the South, "Unseasonable Warmth," in May of 2002. Merci, HG!
Jeanette Thomason and Kristin Kornoelje from Baker Book House walked me carefully through the editing process. Their input was thorough, sensitive, and crucial to the book's final shape.
My dad, Charles, built me a way-cool writing table one spring Saturday in Carolina. (And confirmed on that same day that God had gifted me for words, not power tools.) Many prayers were offered on my behalf by Brian and Debi Ponder, Roger Throckmorton, Ken Harris, Sandy "Stokes" Covington, and Stan and Connie Beasley, among others. Appalachian State info came courtesy of two gregarious ASU roommates, Laura Jarrard and Marla Mclean. Flower info came courtesy of an enthusiastic Master Gardener, Phoebe, who happens to be my mom. Bird info came courtesy of an elev
en-year-old ornithologist wannabe named Jonathan, who happens to be my nephew.
The original, shorter version of Maurice's "flour story" was told by fellow South Carolinian Pokey Reese, the fleet-footed second baseman of the Pittsburgh Pirates. Go Pokey!
Nancy Koesy Parker, a talented freelance editor in Greenville, helped me with first chapter motivation.
Jim "3-Green" Hamlett flew our writers group to a conference in a sleek, twin-engine Barron.
Roger Throckmorton and his magic graphic arts machine developed the original lime green Caddy convertible. If this book sells, I am planning to get me a real one.
The jungle beads worn by Allie and the kids are available through ddp designs: www.ddpdesigns.com.
The beach music on the drive home with Plan B was from "Summertime's Calling Me" by The Catalinas.
Stock market lingo courtesy of the hedge fund managers at Real money.com.
Offshore boat knowledge courtesy of Bruce Braynard at Georgetown Landing and Marina.
The bum and his blue-tinted water jug were last seen on Michigan Avenue, downtown Chicago, during January of 2002. 1 am not kidding.
Joey Schooler and family are dear friends. Thanks, Bobby C, for Cooper River Bridge info!
Sidney at the Laurens Rd. Post Office rushed my manuscripts out the door.
Kwame Dawes at the University of South Carolina Graduate School offered advice on book contracts.
Ditto for real-estate attorney Brian Ponder. (Hey, I take what I can get.)
A preacher/friend loves the Waffle House, but he's still learning to give rhythm to the gospel.
Frequenting North Litchfield Beach with Jay, Steve, and Ransom have been the following people.
In the guys house: Mike Bell, Scott Teague, my brother, Ted, Mike Armor, George Champlin, Walter Moore, Danny from Trinidad, plus the guy who came in at midnight through the screened window.
In the overcrowded womens house with Darcy, Allie, and Lydia: Becky Brandon King, Marie Gardner, Karen Hartney, Cheryl Hutcheson, Amy Bell, Sheri Forehand, Ann Vaughn, Nell Kennedy, Ruth Ann Kennedy, Jane Brice, Melanie Champlin, Beth Blackston, and my groovy sister, Dana. Plus a few stragglers who just showed up at the last minute.
Flabbergasted: A Novel Page 29
