A Steady View of Heaven
We were beginning our next project in Costa Rica—a block church in Pocora, which was a tiny village near Siquirres where we would be staying. Fortunately, we wouldn't be sentenced to the Roach Hotel, as I had dubbed the bug-infested building during our previous stint in the small town. Jim had found us a portion of a house to rent so we could have a small kitchen and a bit more privacy than the parish house would have afforded us. We arrived at the advent of the rainy season and were promptly informed by one of the most bizarre people I would ever meet in Costa Rica that we were lucky because it had been exceptionally hot before the monsoonal weather had descended.
His name was Barney and my take on him was a ne'er-do-well, ex-pat American who had landed in the Costa Rican jungle, tasted the Guaro and decided he had no reason to ever leave. He had signs of a heart but so little patience for connection that he seemed incapable of opening himself to nurturing of any kind, especially with the parishioners in Pocora who were so excited about having their own church they were effusive in their thanksgivings. The Jamaican and West Indian women were especially unrestrained, leaving Barney no choice but to shake his head, grumble and retreat to his hut to protect himself from any goodness that might have accidentally spilled over on him!
He must have been terrified of emoting because he'd freeze when the women approached the clearing where the foundation of the church had been poured. Hesitating like a confused child, he would watch with horror as they made their way around the jobsite hugging everyone. Their voluptuous bodies and strong, meaty arms seemed made for enveloping others and it was a bit shocking to suddenly be wrapped in a mountain of an embrace but Barney seemed to take it especially hard. As they would draw closer to him, he would take a few steps back and pause before breaking into a stumbling run that led him into the jungle and out of empathy's way before they could embrace him.
The only time he seemed comfortable in his own skin was when he stood around telling Jim bawdy stories about his military days. I watched as he laughed at his own tale one day, wondering why being hugged and touched by these women, which was nourishing to me, would bother him so much. They were so sincere, and the kindness of their attentions knew no racial, cultural, national, or class boundaries. In fact, if I had believed in the pearly gates, I would have wanted the greeting I received when I arrived to feel similar to these great, fleshy arms opening to welcome me. Since I'd never had a steady view of heaven and its master—an outlook that had become even more clouded during my time in the mission field—I celebrated the fact that having these magnificent women enfolding me was reward enough for my desire to live life with integrity.
I wondered if the matriarchs of the little village were aware that I had a battle raging inside me as they wrapped their arms around me. I was craving home so acutely it physically hurt. More often that not I had to talk myself up from moroseness when I awakened each morning by vowing to do one small thing to make things better just to get myself out of bed. On the successful days, I felt relief. During the less than stellar ones, a sinking feeling ruled while the battle consuming my energy wore on. I was actually succeeding when a painful turning point occurred one day and the veneer of bravado I'd managed to wrap myself in was ripped away.
It happened while we were eating lunch in the cantina in Pocora. I saw a sight that sent me into the deepest grief—a dog so starved it trembled, the sagging skin on its body quivering as it hung slack over its bony frame. It was skittering around sniffing for crumbs on the ground as I looked at it in horror. I glanced at Jim and declared I was going to feed it. He frowned at me, though he didn't argue knowing that I had a stubborn streak about things that touched me so deeply. I rushed to the meat market nearby and bought some raw hamburger, which I place on the ground near the skittish dog. Tears were running down my face as I watched it inhale the meat. I felt better even with everyone sitting in the café laughing at me, but only for a moment because that's how quickly I realized that unless I was going to feed it regularly I'd only prolonged the agony of its life rather than really helping it. This was a lesson I'd have torture me many times as I ached to make things better in the challenged places I found myself inhabiting.
The poor dog's comparison to my Lhasa Apso, Samurai, was extreme. Sam was my surrogate child and I pampered him to no end when I was with him. As a dog lover and owner, I knew how helpless they could become once they were made dependent upon human beings. I couldn't understand a culture that cared nothing for other creatures needing their support. A dark splinter invaded my heart that day and it stayed there festering as I tried make sense of what I was seeing.
Church held no solace for me as the words cascading from the lips of the ordained seemed empty, almost as rote as the Nicene Creed we mouthed every Sunday. There were divine moments but they were always of the mundane variety. The Sunday after I'd tried to help the ailing dog, a half a dozen ladies sat in front of us in church—some petite and shrunken, others ample and buxom. Each one had on a perfectly combed black wig—their heads a rising and falling row of curls framing the napes of chocolaty necks. As I sat there studying their heads, I noticed how they suddenly leaned in the same direction, their heads tilted at exactly the same angle simultaneously. I looked to the front of the church where the lay reader, a tiny black man with glasses turned askew on his small face, was tilting his head sideways in an attempt to read the Epistle. I looked back at the ladies in front of me and had to press my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. It was then I realized I was leaning, too. The lay reader had the entire congregation tilting their heads as they watched him crane his neck into the slant of his lenses.
A visiting priest, Charlie, was preaching that day—his sermon about offering weaknesses up to God so that his power could be made perfect within each one of us leaving me feeling less than inspired. "When you are in a time of weakness, that is when his power is best used," he proclaimed. If only it were this easy, I thought to myself as I looked down at my hands gripping the prayer book in my lap. Was offering my weaknesses up to some ephemeral deity really the best tack to take as I suffered through my struggles, or was M. Scott Peck right when he wrote, "Whenever we seek to avoid the responsibility for our own behavior, we do so by attempting to give that responsibility to some other individual or organization…This means we give away our power to that entity…In attempting to avoid the pain of responsibility, millions and even billions daily attempt to escape from freedom."
Had I been able to grasp the depth of his meaning, I would have seen that taking my own power would have been the best piece of advice I'd ever received but I wasn't ready. Maybe if I could go backwards from the end, everything would start to make sense! I thought. If only that were possible!
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