Aqui Esta

I was cautious about getting into his truck, being that we'd only passed handshakes across the table, and that it went against my expectation that his church was at the bottom of the hill. Fear awaits eagerly for those who must trust the direction of another. But when he motioned hesitatingly to the bed of his truck, I knew he'd sensed my lack of trust, and so I compensated, not with a positive assurance, but with an ever greater fear of offending or disappointing.

I shut the door of his truck, and held the hinges in tact, using my arm through the open window, to brace the outside of the door, as we first geared down the stone paved ally-way, and seconded around the sharp left bend, now unfamiliar with the shop sings.

"Yo necesito apprender mas espanol," I chided, loud enough to compete with the pot-holes and fifteen plus year old transmission.

We pulled up to the gate, and the dust clouds spraying from the ends of their brooms spelt out why Alfredo and Antonio had left the comedor early. I imagined they didn't typically wipe down their rusted metal fold-down chairs, but every polishing sweep of their rags added cushion to its flat metal frame, as I ambled through a series of hand shakes and 'mucho-gustos' to a second-row seat against the far right wall.

Across the aisle, a young boy crunched Latin-American Cheetos as a prelude to the service; as two fell from his mouth, and skirted, like dice, into and against the door frame, landing snake eyes out of his vision, but square into mine. We, the Cheetos and I, locked stares seven times during the service, as if checking on them would somehow remove the irritation I considered, if those cheesy puff balls were to take the mold of the soles on my shoes.

Six:thirty struck, as it always does in El Salvador, tragically early, as if time were always on our side; except for those with wrist watches and places to be. My three friends, met at dinner, paced the entrance way, alternating expressions between welcoming visitors and that focused swinging arm clap, people typically perform prior to performing. I was busy scribbling in my robotoc journal, pretending not the hear the word ingles (English) from the chairs directly behind me. As if my cave would actually guard me from the obvious conclusion that I was an outsider, I stood timidly as the pastor brought the the attention of the congregation that I was from the United States, and that we had met at dinner, and had told him I thought a church service in Spanish would be extremely difficult. I had said that, but more so because the idea of joining folks, I'd only known long enough to shake hands with, seemed impulsive.

The tambourines started, almost as quickly as the two girls had emerged from the front-row seats, and we were singing. I didn't know a word, nor the melody to their song, so I clapped with my head down, smiling at the floor, praying for a Pentecost. Three-quarters through the first song, the band showed up, and fumbled their two guitars to the front, entering the chorus mid strum, impervious to the fact that their guitars hadn't been tuned since the early 90's.

We prayed, for a lady in the back row, for Pastor Antonio, and for Michael.

The pastor, extremely sensitive to my processing speed with numbers, gave me time to flip to Romans five:four for his opening passage, "For whatever was written in earlier times was written for our instruction, so that through perseverance and the encouragement of the Scriptures, we might have hope." I did my best to follow his facial expressions, but spent most of my mind wandering through the corridors of why I had felt so defeated inside; like I'd been spotlighted in a crowd and come up empty; and why the idea of a church service in Spanish on a Wednesday evening wasn't all that inconvenient to the three things I still yet have to prepare for; but was rather inviting.

John twenty:thirty-one "but these have been written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God; and that believing you may have life in his name."

"Aqui esta," was all I heard as he interrupted the fluid figments, of noble letters declaring my resolve, and personal determination to love like I hadn't before; nearly glossing my eyeballs; holding out his 'La Palabras de Dios', or Bible.

He might as well have embraced me, saying it again, "here it is."

The answers I seek, or the relief and reconciliation I covet, will never be found in my resolve, regardless of the persuasiveness in my feelings or present willingness to change, or love better. They are found in the gospel, and if the Holy Spirit can use three strangers and a Salvadoran pastor of a max, thirty person church to communicate that to me, I sincerely hope he can use an ex-pat blogger to do the same for you...aqui esta.