by Roger Bruner
Neil was going from house to house saying goodbye. I asked him to take my letter to Miss Keem and translate it for her. He readily agreed. I apologized for its length and gave him a big hug. Although he kissed Anjelita on the cheek before going to the next house, he was careful not to wake her.
Once she woke up, we began searching for Miss Keem. We found her at the site of the former storehouse, where she and her friends were apparently waiting for last minute instructions from Rob and Charlie. A moment or two later, the group formed a circle of sorts and started singing. I couldn’t understand the words, but I could tell their song was about Jesus. Who else would they sing about?
Anjelita and I slipped into the circle and she took Keem’s hand. Anjelita was more like herself today, and I silently thanked Jesus for that. She let go of Keem’s hand to touch her grandmother’s necklace.
I knew why. We had discussed it the day before.
She smiled and took Keem’s hand again.
Once the singing ended, Keem took Anjelita to the girls’ campground to get her suitcases and bring them to the eating area. Although the buses had arrived only moments earlier, the drivers had already begun loading the teams’ luggage.
The teens waved their final farewells to the villagers and filed onto the buses. In a few minutes, the Americans would be gone. I would see them again in heaven, but that didn’t sooth my current grief. I was already missing Keem horribly.
Although she had already gotten on her bus, she exited again a moment later and ran to the spot where Anjelita and I were standing. She held the Spanish Bible in her hand.
My daughter and my new sister and I had already done a lot of hugging and crying that morning. But I burst into fresh tears when Anjelita reached for her necklace—I had given her my permission—and put it around Keem’s neck.
“This is for you, my sister,” Anjelita said in Spanish.
Although her gesture had obviously moved Keem, she stood there smiling in confusion, apparently unable to understand its significance. Anjelita had sacrificed something precious to mark Keem as her sister—and a permanent member of our family.
“No, I can’t take that from you,” Keem said as she took it off and placed it on Anjelita’s neck again. I couldn’t understand her words, but realized she must have thought she was doing the right thing in refusing it.
“Momma!” Anjelita screamed. “Why doesn’t she want it? Why won’t she take it? Doesn’t she love me as much as I love her?”
How should I answer her? Help me, Jesus.
Keem must have noticed me admiring her Bible, as I had done countless times before. She handed it to me. I thought she just meant for me to examine it. But when I handed it back, she shook her head, indicating that it was mine to keep.
“No mi Biblia,” Keem managed to say. “Not my Bible.”
The solution to the necklace issue became clear. I would use an object lesson to reach Keem. Jesus Himself must have planted the idea in my mind. I placed the Bible back in her hands, even though I would have given up what little I still owned to keep it forever.
When she tried handing it to me again, I shook my head. “No.”
She looked at me for a moment, her face a mixture of sorrow and puzzlement.
“Kim, come on!” a voice called out from the bus. “We’re leaving.”
Jesus must have spoken to Keem at that moment. She burst into a humongous smile, took the necklace from Anjelita’s neck, and placed it around her own neck. “Mi collar?” she said. “Muchas gracias!”
Satisfied that she understood, I held out my hand, and Keem placed her Bible in it. I smiled my broadest smile and said, “Mi Santa Biblia? Muchas gracias!”
She hugged Anjelita and me and took off running. We were close behind, but stopped when Keem reached the bus. She turned around and blew a kiss before climbing inside.
We waved until the buses were out of sight and cried for many hours after that.
46
The Americans left us their tools and enough wood and other materials to reconstruct the warehouse, although we had no idea what we would store there now. How I grieved at the thought we wouldn’t need it as a schoolhouse.
Not in the foreseeable future, anyhow.
We didn’t know how we would survive once we used up the food and water the construction team left, and yet I was confident that we were los flores de su campo—the flowers of His field. God’s promise of provision wasn’t limited to life on earth; it included eternal life with Him in heaven.
The villagers continued to meet nightly as I read other books from the Bible, and we discussed their meaning at length. I shared my conversion experience and told them I wouldn’t be satisfied until all of them had become Jesus’s friends and followers, too.
Several people admitted they were close to making that decision. Others were more hesitant. Only a few foolishly bragged they would never become Jesus’s friend.
As much as I wished I could lovingly beat some sense into their heads, I wasn’t overly concerned about their resistance. As long as they continued to listen to and discuss God’s word, they were reachable.
By God if not by me.
~*~
A week after Keem returned home, Dr. Morales paid a surprise visit to Santa María. He drove Tomás’s red sports car.
“Where is Nikki?” I asked with concern, almost forgetting to greet him.
“She is ill.” His smile was gentle, yet mystical. “She shouldn’t do this kind of rough traveling in her condition.”
“Her condition?” I frowned. “What are you…?”
He held up his left hand and showed me the wedding ring. “Nothing to worry about, Rosa. Nikki discovered that I am old only in looks, and she agreed to become my wife. She is expecting our first child.”
I giggled with delight. What irony! Nikki hadn’t gotten pregnant with Tomás’s baby, but now she was pregnant with the child of a husband who obviously couldn’t be happier. How amazingly wonderful the way God had worked things out for the best. His best and theirs.
I hugged Dr. Morales so hard I thought he might fall down and take me with him, but he quickly steadied himself.
“Nikki and I have done some work on your behalf. You didn’t know about some of the things that needed doing after Tomás’s death. Because you are—because you were—legally his wife, everything he owned now belongs to you.”
“I told Nikki to take it. Everything. I don’t want anything that belonged to Tomás.”
“Rosa, there is one thing she doesn’t want. Something she—both of us—believe you can find a wise use for, now that it belongs to you.”
My face must have formed an unspoken question mark.
He grinned. “You can’t imagine how wealthy Tomás had become. No one could ever prove he’d made his money illegally, however. Juanita didn’t think the State of California should keep that money while the village of Santa María suffered the after-effects of the tornado.”
She knew about the tornado? Are you saying…?
“You sent the Americans?”
He nodded. Then smiled. “Do you understand what I’m telling you, Rosa? Tomás’s money is yours now. Every penny of it. I don’t know the exact amount, but it contains seven figures.” He chuckled pleasantly. “Seven figures to the left of the decimal point, that is. Almost eight.”
I couldn’t speak. I sat down to keep from passing out. Too much was happening too quickly.
Several questions rolled around in my mind, but which one should I ask first? He answered one before I could say anything. “You’re wondering how we knew to send the Americans?”
I lifted my eyebrows in acknowledgment.
“We were driving here together—Nikki and me—to tell you our good news. That was about a month ago…”
“Ah?”
“The closer we got, the more signs we saw that a tornado had struck the village. Because of a downed tree, I had to park several miles away. Nikki remained in the car while I hiked to the outski
rts of the village.
“What I saw sickened me.
“I hiked back to the car. Nikki and I turned around and started home. As soon as we got within cell phone range of the city, I called a friend—a Christian pastor—who promised to get help for the villagers.”
I nodded. “And so he did.”
“Those teens were originally supposed to go somewhere else, but with a lot of God’s help he arranged to have them come to Santa María instead.”
“He’s amazing, isn’t He?” I briefly described the miracles of the past month. “But now, the money. Seven figures, you say? Almost eight?”
“Solid American dollars.”
I tried to keep from getting my hopes up. “Is that enough to provide for the villagers’ needs?”
“The interest alone would sustain them at their former standard of living for years.” But then his voice hinted vaguely of disapproval. “If you think you should support them, that is.”
I thought about what one villager had said about getting fat and lazy if we depended entirely on Jesus to meet our needs and did no work ourselves. “You think they should earn their own keep?”
Although he smirked, he became serious again. “If it were me, I wouldn’t want them to depend on me to be their provider. It would destroy their pride. Demolish their self-esteem.”
“That makes sense.” Then a strange and wonderful idea came to mind. One Jesus must have planted there. I couldn’t have thought of it. “Doctor Morales, there are other little villages like Santa María in Mexico?”
“Many of them. Some aren’t very far from here.”
“Do the people in those villages know how to read and write?”
“I doubt it. Why?”
“Do many of those people know Jesus?”
“Possibly not.” He scratched his head as if wondering why I’d asked that. I hadn’t told him yet I’d become a Christian, although I’d hinted at it. “Probably not.”
“If we began a school here—one where teens and adults could come and stay for a short time and learn to read and write and study the Bible—do you think they would be willing to pay a small fee? Just enough to provide the villagers an income for operating the school?”
He narrowed his eyes. “They might. An idea like that sounds quite worthwhile, if you feel led to pursue it. But the villagers from other areas may be like Santa María; they may not have money. They would probably have to pay with produce or livestock or render vital services in exchange for their education.”
“I would need all of my villagers to help me run such a school. Several of my students have already proven to be excellent teachers.”
His eyes lit up. “And there will be no more marijuana growing or smuggling?” He grinned before I could respond. “I can’t have the police throwing my wife and baby into jail together, now can I?” He chuckled, and—for the first time ever—I laughed harder at one of his jokes than he did.
“We will live within the whole letter of the law from now on.”
And within the spirit of God’s law of love as well.
~*~
“Juanita has sent you something.” Dr. Morales handed me a small package. “She took this from Tomás’s body as evidence, but she doesn’t need it now.”
I tore the wrapping off and started crying as soon as I saw what it was. A well-worn pocket-sized Santa Biblia. Perhaps it had originally been his mother’s. Now I understood why Tomás had said, “He has forgiven my sins.”
47
They no longer call me Rosa No-Name in the little Mexican village of Santa María de los Campos.
Jesús de Cristo has given me the strength—and enough of his own special kind of love—to forgive Tomás at last. I am proud to be called Rosa Ramírez del Mundo y Jesús after my mother, my late husband, and my Lord and Savior.
But the name Jesús is the one I treasure most.
The End
If You’ve Enjoyed This Book…
I hope this book has both blessed and entertained you. While I can’t claim that God whispered in my ear and told me to publish Rosa No-Name, I’ve had a very strong sense that it was the right thing to do at this stage of my life.
I pray for its success because I care about the number of lives the message may touch.
You may not realize this, but reviews on Amazon and Good Reads help to sell books. People are more apt to try an unfamiliar book if they read recommendations from people who’ve already read it and expressed an opinion about it.
A helpful review doesn’t have to be long or complicated. A simple “I liked this book because…” is adequate.
I wouldn’t ask for anything but an honest review. Even three-star reviews can be helpful. Not every book is for every reader, but what one person expresses as a dislike may be exactly what makes that book appealing to someone else.
Thanks bunches!
Roger
About the Author
The son of a Baptist minister and a Christian for more than fifty years, Roger Bruner attempts to live his life in a way pleasing to God. At the age of seventy, he’s looking forward to eternity in Heaven. But he’s in no rush to leave this earthly life yet. Not as long as God has something for him to accomplish.
Roger spent his entire work life trying to figure out what he wanted to do when he grew up. Along the way, he taught junior high school English, interviewed and counseled low income job seekers, and programmed computers. He finally retired from a temporary stint at Target to write Christian fiction full-time.
He has two published young adult novels, Found in Translation and Lost in Dreams. A speculative satire, The Devil & Pastor Gus, released in 2014. Some of his earlier writings are included in the little books Yesterday’s Blossoms and More of Yesterday’s Blossoms, both of which use original photographs on the cover. He also has eight unpublished novel manuscripts. Samples are available at his website, RogerBruner.com.
He also posts weekly to his two blogs:
As I Come Singing
On Aging Gracelessly
A guitarist and songwriter, he sings in the church choir, plays bass on the praise team, and plays guitar at a weekly nursing home ministry. Long interested in missions, he has participated in volunteer mission trips to Romania, England, Wales, Australia, and Nicaragua.
Roger enjoys spending time with his wife, Kathleen. He has a daughter, who lives with her husband and children in Orlando, a stepdaughter and her family in Las Vegas, and another stepdaughter in New York City. And the world’s most fantastic mother-in-law in Memphis. They are the most wonderful family he knows about.
He enjoys church activities, music, reading (especially suspense, even though he admits he could never write it), web design, photography, and playing Words with Friends with Kathleen and a few friends.