Juxtapose

It seemed like a slow afternoon on the rez. The missions team was rather tired, having been on the field for six days already. Six days of nearly no sleep and jet lag combined. Yet, it was seemingly an empty afternoon. We had finished the VBS session by twelve, and many of us were surprised to learn (by decree of the leaders of the group) that we were going to have to sacrifice our few hours of mid-afternoon power napping to go sing and give testimonies at the houses of some Indians who were normally not able to make it out to church. I don't think anyone was upset or complained about the fact, it was just a bit of a lug to get ourselves all in nice clothes, prepare a few songs, and load ourselves (cowdedly) into a van to drive for a half an hour in the Arizona heat.

Nevertheless, we got ready to go, and I confess that I was not being optimistic. I was trying to be the realist that I am, and so I was wondering whether these Indians really truly wanted to have an entire missions tean group of twelve people, (not including the four people in the pastor's family), come into their house and sing to them. Sure, it could be a blessing, but it could also be a burden. The Indians live in small, very modest, and, more often than not, very poor homes. It's easy to feel as if going to invite yourself to their small home would be a burden. But I prayed, we prayed, that the Lord would bless our time with these people.

Our home to visit was that of an older woman and her son. The woman, Reina, had a time-worn face of wrinkles made from the beating desert sun, her hair was white, and she sat in a chair with a walker by her side. Her son, Wayne, also had a time-worn face. He was fifty-something, and clean shaven, save for a patch of beard on his chin that was a scraggly six inches long and a pair of glasses over his eyes. We all sat down on the floor, fold-up metal chairs, and couches, squashed sweetly together in a 15x15 foot room filled with people, chairs, and the general clutter of Reina and Wayne's house, and sang hymns and gave testimonies. Reina listened and sang along quietly to herself as we all sang, and smiled as I gave my testimony. Wayne sat quietly next to her on a folding chair, half in the doorway to the kitchen, his head bowed nearly to his chest, where we could not see his eyes. The pastor, Pastor Garcia, asked Reina if she wanted to say anything. Her eyes filled with tears as she cried, tears running down the crevices of her face, and she spoke with a soft voice as she told us that she didn't get out to church much anymore.. Her legs didn't work so well, she didn't know why. Her hands didn't quiver, and her voice didn't shake, and she didn't sob, but the tears just kept flowing and flowing, like a faucet, until she said, "Thank you all very much for coming" and sat silently wiping tears from her face. Our missions team was shaken. The pastor's children, Cornelius (who is 24), Miah (who is 20), and Naomi (who is 17), sat with their eyes to the floor, not daring to look up for fear of crying. My eyes welled up, but the tears didn't fall just then. Pastor Garcia spoke for a few minutes, then invited Wayne to speak as well. I was slightly taken aback. For a moment I had forgotten totally about Wayne, supposing he was probably not even interested in what we were singing or saying. "He's probably not even a Christian," my subconcious rudely and foolishly declared.

But Wayne lifted his head, and to my surprise, I saw a tear hanging from the tip of his beaked nose. His eyes, nearly slitted by the folds of wrinkles that so many of the Indians have, were full of sorrow, and from my first look at his face, his eyes, my own heart broke. The tears did not stop. He spoke with a low, almost mumbled, hoarse voice, and he said this, "Yesterday I cursed God." He heaved deep breaths, and spoke of how he had been so angry with God, he said that as a child, he and his cousin, Pastor Gordon Garcia, were best of friends. But as they grew, they chose different paths, and Pastor Garcia followed the Lord. Wayne said he had not. And he cried tears that only a full-grown man with a deep sorrow could cry, and they wet his beard and his cheeks and his hands shook. We craned our necks and strained our ears to hear the words that he uttered in ragged sadness. He said that he had cursed God, and there was never any going back.

He said, "Yesterday, I cursed God. I was so angry at Him for the troubles He has let into my life. I get angry with Him, and I tell Him. I knew that I had cursed God, that I could never take that back, I could never go back from that. And then I said, I wish I could talk to Gordon. I wish I could. And then, this morning, Gordon called and asked if you people could come. And the Lord answered my prayers."

The tears just kept falling as we watched God change someone's heart in front of our very eyes.