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Stories: Simple Message

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Simple Message 08 May 2003
High in the giant Cieba tree, two parrots stretched awake as the first rays of sunlight cast pink hues on the high clouds. They had spent most of the night perched carefully out of reach of even the most curious cats. Their life was a utopia-like routine filled with graceful melodies and flights on powerful sea breezes. Not far away from the parrots, in a simple chicozapote tree, an iguana waited patiently for the rays that would restore his mobility. And only several meters below, my alarm clock cried out the end of the night. The parrots squawked as they left their protected perch. With a gentle swoop, the first took flight and led the smaller younger bird towards the nearby river. The older bird had lived in these trees for years and was familiar with every possible food source. She was now busy passing her knowledge on to her younger counterpart. They swooped close to my house, and I saw them follow the same path they had taken every day. “Are you ready to go?” I asked my companion already knowing the answer. He had been ready to go for 10 minutes waiting for me to get out of the bathroom. I was recovering from a mild case of amoebas, but I still suffered occasionally. “Yeah, vamanos [let’s go].” We were serving as missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Guatemala. We’d been assigned together as companions for almost two months and had enjoyed being together even though recently, we had spent several days in the house for various illnesses. I had scheduled a doctor’s appointment for that morning, and we were out of the house by 5:30 a.m. The doctor’s office was three and a half hours away in Xela [shay-la], so we needed to get an early start in order to be home by dark. The ride to Xela was uneventful, almost boring. The absence of shocks on the old bus prevented even a brief snooze. However, the view from the window was dazzling as the bus slowly climbed up the 8,000-foot difference between coast and highland. Once in Xela, we donned sweaters that we had hidden in our backpacks. Because of the altitude, the 70-degree night had now been replaced with a 40-degree morning. Our breath, condensed by the cold, was short in the high air and made thin clouds as we walked through the streets. We spent the morning running errands that could only be accomplished in Xela. Several weeks ago I had contracted an eye-infection, now I was back for a simple check-up to see how I was doing. It was tough to make the trip so early in the morning for such a simple thing, I didn’t complain however; I couldn’t pass up the chance to take a trip to Xela. With our village so far away and so isolated, we relished the moment to stretch our legs and relax. The time quickly passed, and soon we were waiting for our bus to take us home. “It’s three o’clock,” I commented to my companion. “We should be home by seven.” He grunted his approval obviously absorbed by other thoughts. “There’s our bus.” “La Golondrina” was one of the fastest buses around. The drivers were experienced and prided themselves on punctuality. The passengers, however, had no concept of any timetable. Their only expectation was to get where they were going. As we boarded the bus, I noticed a Caucasian couple approaching the bus. “Europeans,” I whispered to my companion. I don’t know what it was exactly that distinguished Europeans from Americans, perhaps it was the clothing, the attitude, or the clear difference of ideology. The girl sat up front in one of the last remaining seats while her boyfriend was forced into the back of the bus. He sat across the aisle from us in the third position on a two-person bench. It seemed uncomfortable, but it was better than standing. Even though I thought he was from Europe, I turned and asked, “Are you from the States?” “No, I’m from Norway.” His demeanor mocked my intentions at even a simple conversation. “Where are you headed?” I said, searching for some common bond. “The Mexican border. Do you know where that is?” He seemed interested in my response because he obviously didn’t know. “Yeah, we’re headed in that direction, I’ll let you know when to get off. My name is Elder Huff.” I offered my hand. “I’m Jonas.” “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Our conversation of the next hour ranged from everything from how he learned English to how I learned Spanish. It was a pleasant conversation but, without a purpose, it quickly deteriorated into disconnected comments and vague explanations. “That’ll be 20 quetzales each,” said the bus helper. Jonas strained to understand as he reached for his wallet. But before he could retrieve the money, I interrupted. “20 quetzales? That’s outrageous!” The passengers turned and looked as I questioned the man. “This ride isn’t worth 10!” “That’s how much it costs,” countered the helper. “You just charged me 12 and I’m going 20 miles further. How much did you charge the lady?” Then, fearing another lie, I redirected my question to the lady. “Hey, how much did he charge you?” “25 quetzales each,” she replied. “What are you trying to do?” I was calm but angry. “We’re not dumb gringos. Now go give her money back.” The rest of the passengers smiled as the defeated bus helper picked his way back through the crowded bus and returned the money. “What happened?” Jonas said. “He wanted to overcharge both of you. These people are always trying to take advantage of you.” From there we made our way into the lower elevations and started across the rain forest to Coatepeque. It was much later that I had thought because I realized that my watch was slow. I turned to my companion and mentioned that it may be too late to get home. The buses will only run so late. Once in Coatepeque, however, they emptied the bus and told us it was the end of the line. We were still as least an hour away from the Mexican border. “We should be able to catch a ride from down here.” I motioned to the disoriented Norwegians. They were already frantically searching their maps to plot a course. “We’ll show you the way.” As we crossed the street a truck passed. Then almost as an afterthought I stuck out my thumb . The truck rolled to a stop and the driver yelled back, “You guys can come but not those other ones,” referring to the Norwegian couple. “You’ve got to give them a ride, they’re coming with us,” I pleaded. “Well… alright.” Suddenly we were all on our way to Tecun Uman and the Mexican border. The trees screamed by as we drove between Coatepeque and Tecun Uman. Night had already set in and the warm tropical air was cooled by the speed of the truck. “So what exactly are you doing here?” asked Sheila, Jonas’ girlfriend. “We’re missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” A brief memory of other missionaries passed through her mind. “I remember seeing you guys in Norway. Why do you do it? Why do you leave your homes when so many people reject you?” “Because we believe in what we do. Do you believe in God?” I was probing to find something to build on. “I lost my belief in God when I was a little girl. I used to be Catholic, but so many times when I was a kid I would pray for help and get nothing.” She sounded despondent. “I had so many trials and saw so much heartache that I just couldn’t believe in God anymore.” “You know Sheila,” I replied. “I consider myself an intelligent person. I know God lives. I look around this place, these trees, these stars, everything, and I know God lives. I’ve thought a lot about this. But it wasn’t by thinking that I figured it out. I felt it.” There were a few moments of awkward silence followed by a penetrating stare. “I envy you.” The conversation continued, but she will never know the impact those words had on me. As we arrived at the border, we shared a hug and wished each other well. I only hope that as they crossed the border into familiar territory there was a heartfelt “Thank you, God,” whispered for the first time by grateful lips. Life is a lesson in growing up and we all have different mentors. We all learn from the older and wiser or at times from the young and innocent. We follow their paths. I acted as mentor and student as they taught me about life and I taught them about God. The smaller younger parrot left the other day. He left, not because of competition or lack of support from his mother, but rather, because she had taught him to be self-dependent. She taught him the little things that he needed to know to be able to survive. Now he is off to follow his own paths. I may never know what happened to Jonas and Sheila. They probably passed off the experience as an interesting ride with the Mormons through the Guatemalan lowlands; they may remember it only as someone giving them directions in a foreign country, I think I gave them directions to something greater.
Jarom C Huff Send Email
 
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