by Roger Bruner
chapter six
Rob and Charlie started giving statistics in tandem about how many states our team members represented (22); the total frequent-flier miles our flights to San Diego would add up to (I missed that number); the ratio of boys to girls (2.24:1—that threw me for a loop since it meant algebraically that the team included 44.44 girls, and I’d always believed that people existed only in integer quantities); the number of different high schools represented (121); the average GPA of the team members (3.25, although I suspected a few people had overactive imaginations); the total and average weights of the participants (some must have actually lied on that one); and the total years team members had been Christians (578). This exercise was supposed to be good, wholesome, attention-grabbing, team-building stuff.
It worked. I was more comfortable than at any time since Rob first mentioned my tardiness.
But my mind—my attention, anyhow—was already slipping backward into first gear, and I was in danger of having it land in neutral. Because Mom and Dad had economized instead of sending me to San Diego nonstop, I’d already had a super-long day. I left home at 3:00 a.m. to be at the Atlanta airport by 5:00, and my flight to Dallas/Fort Worth left at 6:45.
It was 5:38 Pacific time now. At least I was pretty sure it was.
Since I’d slept very little on my first flight and none at all on the second one, I’d be tired now, anyhow. But anxiety about reaching San Diego had gone the second and third miles in frazzling me.
Now I just wanted to reach Ciudad de Plata and settle down for a good night’s sleep. Of course, no one had explained our exact sleeping arrangements, just that the cost of the trip included a place to sleep. Although I still thought we were to stay in the homes of Silver City church members, my memory of details—especially when I was this worn-out—could be as bottomless and one-directional as quicksand.
I didn’t really care where I slept, though—not as long as my mattress was soft. I hated hard, lumpy mattresses. They reminded me of camping out and sleeping on the ground when I was a kid. I hated it then, and—as a persnickety teen—I refused to go camping anymore.
Any place I couldn’t get a good signal on my cell phone was too far from civilization. I’d already made sure Silver City provided roaming coverage, even if international rates applied.
As exhausted as I was, Rob and Charlie’s endless statistics were like counting an infinite number of sleep—uh, sheep.
I opened my eyes and perked up again when they started talking about the importance of flexibility in doing mission work, though. As great as Pastor Ron was—and as mission-minded—he’d never said anything like this.
“No matter what a person expects to do on a volunteer trip, surprises occur,” Rob and Charlie pointed out. “We’ve experienced a few of our own today.”
Like having to deal with me?
“Things change, and someone may be asked to do something she doesn’t feel qualified to do.”
Talking about me again? But you couldn’t be. I’m well prepared for evangelism in Silver City.
“How we respond to those challenges—the extent to which we’re willing to say yes to God no matter what—reveals the depth of our faith. Or the shallowness.”
Not bad lay preaching, guys.
“The request to lead this new trip just ten days ago has brought both of us far out of our comfort zones.”
New trip? You said you’d been pulled into this at the last minute, but this project had been planned for months. Betsy Jo and I heard about it as long ago as March or April.
“We could’ve given good excuses—legitimate reasons, actually—for saying no, but we realized God had uniquely qualified us for this project. Probably more than anyone else who might have been available. Well, we were partially qualified, anyhow. We’ll depend on Him even more to make up for our deficiencies.”
Uniquely qualified? What qualifications do you need except for being a believer who’s sincere about evangelizing the people of Ciudad de Plata?
“Pulling everything together in such a short time has taken all the prayer and faith we could muster. The challenges of this project have kept us on our knees constantly. Wisdom in watching over 144 young adults and keeping them safe will require ongoing prayer.”
Keeping us safe? Is Silver City less civilized than they told us? Did Betsy Jo’s mom do the right thing in yanking her off this project?
“Because you’re adults now—well, all but one of you—you don’t need chaperoning.”
I sighed. Wouldn’t he ever tire of talking about me?
“Expect us to treat you like adults. But anyone failing to live up to our conservative standards will go home. This warning is your last one.”
Although I was still chewing on my questions about the safety issue, I noticed Rob narrowing his eyebrows at someone in the crowd. I couldn’t keep from smiling. He wasn’t looking at me this time.
I forgot about my minor concerns when Rob and Charlie continued. They couldn’t have gotten my attention more completely if they’d thrown me in shark-infested water and rung a dinner bell. They answered questions I didn’t know to ask. Thrust into complete wakefulness and gasping for sanity like a mountain climber sucking air at a high altitude, I knew I wouldn’t sleep again. Not until I was home.
chapter seven
As you already know,” Rob said in a “but I’m going to tell you again, anyhow” tone of voice, “your project changed significantly two weeks ago. Each of you originally signed up for evangelistic outreach under a different pair of project leaders. You were going to Ciudad de Plata, a fair-sized Mexican city just two hours south of San Diego. It has the McDonald’s you heard about and plenty of places to buy souvenirs. And, yes, Silver City is a dark, sin-ridden place in bad need of God’s light. You were to work with a local Protestant church, and they were looking forward to your coming to help with outreach.”
Our project changed significantly? We “were going” to Ciudad de Plata? The church “was looking forward” to our coming? Why not “we are” and “they are”? What’s happened, Rob? Why are you speaking in the past tense?
Everyone nodded. Everyone but me. This information wasn’t news to them.
Shortly after Charlie reached for the microphone, I was glad I was sitting down. I might have collapsed.
“Then a freak windstorm—probably a twister—roared through the tiny village of Santa María de los Campos, destroying or severely damaging every tiny residence.”
“Every residence, yes,” Rob said. “But the village contains one small building the twister didn’t touch. Because of its miraculous survival, Charlie and I have begun referring to it as the “Passover” Church, even though it doesn’t resemble a church and doesn’t look like it’s been used in ages.
“We have no idea what it is. It’s far too ancient to have been built by the current villagers. The residences were apparently left over from an earlier generation as well. That’s the report we’ve received from the anonymous person who reported Santa María’s needs.”
“We don’t know how many people died,” Charlie said, “but the villagers lost everything except the proverbial clothes on their backs.
“You already know Santa María is smaller than Ciudad de Plata. What you probably don’t realize, young people, is how tiny it is. Tiny and immeasurably less civilized than Ciudad de Plata. It has no McDonald’s. No malls. It has no goods to sell, no goods to buy. Even before the storm, it didn’t have electricity, plumbing, or running water.
“Santa María has no resources for housing you. The villagers themselves don’t have anyplace indoors to sleep.”
A number of selfish grumbles resounded throughout the room, but the quiet sounds of unselfish shushing calmed them down.
“Santa María is so far in the boonies that regional maps show it only as an unlabeled pinprick that could place it anywhere in a fifty-mile radius. After knowing about Santa María for centuries, the authorities still don’t take it seriously enough to send cen
sus workers to count the decreasing population, which we believe may be down now to forty or fifty.
“Census takers couldn’t find the village, anyhow, but we have what they don’t—a detailed, hand-drawn map, complete with directions and GPS coordinates. Without those, we’d never find it, either.
“Nobody knows what the villagers did for a living before the storm or how or if their children received schooling. We don’t know the spiritual condition of the villagers, either. The fact that someone discovered and reported Santa María’s desperate situation is a miracle, and we don’t have a clue about who he is or how he knew.
“Heavy rains drench the area every year, beginning around this time next month, so they need homes ASAP. The villagers are equally desperate for food and water, clothes, and bedding.
“Rob and I have collected a semi full of those supplies—donations from a number of generous and caring people, not all of them Christians. That truck has gone ahead of us today. We’ve also obtained a remarkable quantity of construction materials by challenging our subcontractors and even our competitors to match or exceed our contributions. Trucks bringing everything necessary for rebuilding Santa María from the ground up will follow our buses. We hope to have enough leftover material for the villagers’ future use.
“But the one thing nobody donated was grunt construction workers to put everything together. Not skilled workers, you understand, but folks who’ll do their best to follow simple directions. That’s you.
“Each of you has come in faith, believing God wants you here—to help the people of Santa María survive. Not one of you opposed the project change. That’s required quite a leap of faith and obedience—”
“What?” I hadn’t exploded that loudly at Millie Q. “I sure as …” A curse word was headed for the tip of my tongue, but I quickly threw up a successful roadblock. “I sure as blue blazes didn’t hear about any such change. You’ve kept saying ‘you already know,’ but this is all news to me.”
“Young lady, calm down, please.” Charlie studied the legal pad on his clipboard as if God had just jotted down detailed instructions for pacifying a crazed female. In Greek, Aramaic, or preferably the original King James English. Rob whispered something in his ear, and he looked up again.
“So you’re Kimberly—Kimberly Hartlinger?”
I nodded, no longer concerned about whether every eye in the ballroom was watching me. I was hot—too hot to worry about disfluencing. If I didn’t think about it, I wouldn’t do it.
“I’m Kim, please! Kimberly was my great-aunt ….”
I couldn’t believe I’d brought that up in the midst of my turmoil, but stress reveals itself in strange ways.
“Uh, Kim, we sent e-mail to everyone scheduled for Ciudad de Plata. We explained the situation, although not in the detail we’ve just presented, and we asked for honest feedback ….”
“I … I never received such a message.”
Maybe no one could blame me for not receiving a message, but voice after voice clobbered my ears with assurances that they had gotten it.
“I did,” one girl said from the other side of the room.
“So did I.”
“I got it about two weeks ago and responded immediately.”
“Me, too.”
“I received mine.”
The last voice belonged to the African American girl sitting behind me. But unlike the other responses, hers sounded factual and straightforward. Unlike them, her tone didn’t say, “I got my message, so why didn’t you?”
Group consensus grew so loud and unruly that Charlie had to shout into the microphone. “Quiet, please!” I crumpled at the realization I was the only person present who didn’t know about the project change before now.
And I still didn’t know the details.
“Kim …?”
“Uh, I’m sorry. I … what else did this message say? I would have read it if I’d received it. I’ve really been looking forward to this trip. I was ready for it—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.” I paused, but not long enough for anyone to comment. “At least I was ready for evangelism in Ciudad de Plata.”
Although my disillusionment bordered on bitterness, I was curious—no, more concerned than curious—about what else I didn’t know about this trip to—where? Santa María?
“Maybe the e-mail was undeliverable because she lives in the wrong time zone, y’all,” said a high-pitched, youthful-sounding male voice on the other side of the room.
Laughter exploded in rapid-fire bursts all over the ballroom. Like corn popping. But this popcorn threatened to leave a bitter—not a buttery—taste in my mouth.
“That’s enough!” Rob shouted into the microphone with enough sternness to assure me he was on my side now.
The laughter quieted down immediately.
“Kim,” Charlie said, “there’s obviously been a communication glitch, and we’re as sorry about that as we can be. That doesn’t help, though.”
Although the extent of his understanding caught me off guard at first, I shook my head in agreement.
“You know how Santa is supposed to check his list twice? Well, each of us reviewed that distribution list several times—individually and together—to verify that we hadn’t left anyone off. When we sent the project change message, we didn’t receive a single delivery failure notice. Not for the follow-up messages, either.”
He brought his clipboard over and pointed to my name on a printed, sent message. “Is this your e-mail address, Kim?”
I sighed, barely able to say, “Yes.”
The fight had gone out of me. Although I still didn’t know why I’d failed to receive those messages, I couldn’t blame Rob and Charlie.
“Kim, you asked what else the message said. We offered a refund to anyone who didn’t feel God calling them to Santa María; no one has asked for one. We also told you—those who received the message—what to bring. That list was far different from the one you received for Ciudad de Plata.”
“And what’s on the new list? Please.”
The first hearing of earth-shattering, ten-day-old news still had me reeling. Too overwhelmed to wonder whether I might have been the only person to stay home, I also didn’t consider the possibility that—with even a hint of advance notice—I might have been enthusiastic about the project change.
Maybe this kind of project was what my work with the migrant children had prepared me for.
“Since the village is entirely outdoors now, we told you to bring a sleeping bag and a small pillow. The Passover Church is in the center of the village. You young ladies will sleep in a field about two hundred yards on one side of it and the boys equidistant on the other side. Since Santa María’s rainy season isn’t due for a month, you won’t need tents.”
Although I focused hard on absorbing this information, many of the other team members began fidgeting, apparently bored at having to listen to what they already knew. More and more of them got up and went to the side of the room to get water from a table that almost overflowed with plastic pitchers, glasses, and a bowl of cubed ice. They didn’t seem to be in a rush to sit down again.
“We told you to leave your small electrical appliances at home. You couldn’t use them in Santa María—no electricity, remember?—and the dust and daytime heat might ruin them. You would have little use for makeup, shampoo—all that sort of thing. We said bring strong insect repellent, even stronger sunscreen, and lots of hand sanitizer. Stuff your suitcase with all the deodorant you can find room for. Without access to anything but bottled water, well, you get the idea ….”
“I paid seventy-five dollars for excess, overweight baggage,” I said in a purposely pathetic tone of voice. “I brought a battery-powered karaoke box to sing with in Ciudad de Plata—I bought it just for this trip—and I have a professional hair dryer. I have a full makeup kit, shampoo, conditioner, and a variety of skin care products, and you’re saying I brought it all for nothing? I paid seventy-five dollars to bring what everyone
else knew to leave home?”
A nasty spark had lit my fuse. It was burning down fast, and everyone knew it. Apparently reluctant to chance setting me off further, people tiptoed back to their seats. Nobody was laughing.
“I can only imagine how frustrated you are, Kim. We all feel for you, don’t we, gang?”
A light breeze of nods and grunts blew in my direction from different parts of the room, but real empathy was conspicuously absent. These kids didn’t care what the best of intentions had cost me.
I felt a pat on my back. At least the girl sitting behind me cared.
“Kim, we told you to bring your grungiest clothes and the most comfortable shoes you could afford to ruin. We suggested leaving your used work clothes in Santa María. The village women might be able to make something from the remnants, no matter how small.”
I quieted down again, but I was nearly in tears.
“I brought my favorite American Eagle jeans—I’m wearing a pair of them now—some really nice Aéropostale skirts, my best Hollister tops, and several pairs of Gucci leather flats.” I didn’t care if I was whining or not. “You expect me to do dirty, sweaty work in clothes like those?”
“Long live Miss Prep!”
“Somewhere else.”
“Like back home on whatever planet you came from.” Rob grabbed the microphone from Charlie. His face was two shades past livid. “That’s enough!” He could barely control his voice. “You sound like the crowd at Jesus’ crucifixion. Do we have to send all of you home—tonight?”
That got everybody’s attention. He meant it.
“You need to work together like a little church—a beacon to Santa María’s darkness. Everyone has a right to his opinion about what God has planned, but you need to minimize your differences—or you won’t accomplish anything. As Christians, you should be fair, honest, and loving in dealing with differences. In this branch of the Christian family, a verbal snipe—especially sarcasm—is as serious and out of place as a physical attack.”
Quite a few people began studying their shoes with new interest. This time, I didn’t have to.