All I have, Day 310 (Guatemala Story)

Before I knew it our little production was about to begin. All of the children had now arrived in the school yard. Their vast numbers seemed to have expelled their fear. I stood in the midst of them as they ran around. They were so excited by our presence and their freedom from the indoors. Our cameras, candy, and gadgets must have been alien. At one point I noticed several moms gathering around. I’m not sure where they came from or why they were there but they stood by silently observing our presence. I thought they looked skeptical, but they were silent and calm and just watched everything.

Our show consisted of puppets singing a Spanish song, crazy games, and a message about Jesus. The part I played was sitting with the children and trying to keep the children sitting (it was an impossible task). I sat with the group of girls I’d originally greeted. They seemed to like me, offering many smiles accompanied by taps, inviting me to join in the giggles when something funny occurred during the show. Two of the littlest girls gradually scooted closer and closer to me, increasingly excitingly trying to involve me in all of the giggling. However one of the girls in the group didn’t giggle with the rest. She didn't seem to belong. She’d occasionally glance at me, timidly, with sadness in her eyes. Her reluctant glances seemed to whisper a beseeching desire for a hug. She was quite dirty; her hair disheveled. The children all wore the Guatemalan dust like a uniform but she was different. She had sores in patches on her skin and often held her arms over them. It must have been over 80 degrees but she had a large fleece sweater that she kept zipped all the way. She wore the dust like a second skin and the fleece sweater like a security blanket. A sad sunken look tied the uniform together like tattered and torn rummaged old gift wrap. I lament not remembering her name. Although I don’t think I understood her when she'd quietly spoken it. I’d return her shy glimpses with a smile of acceptance and a gentle pat on her back or on her head. Amidst the laughter and wild children who’d rush as an enormous crowd like one colossal being volunteering for a game, she inched slowly nearer to me. With each new game the children would jump in unison; the colossal beast once again volunteering. After one such advance accompanied by our poor Spanish American version of sit down being shouted into the beast, “SENTARSE!!!,” the unwashed diffident girl sat upon my lap. In this moment I felt I’d accomplished what I’d come to do, and not at an orphanage or a feeding program but at a school filled with Mayan children. I offered acceptance with a friendly warmth to one little girl who lived in an entirely different world from mine. I couldn’t really speak her language. I spent no more than an hour with her. I didn’t give her money or food or new clothing. But I gave her what I had. I loved her. I believe that my smiles told her that she was important and special. There was no fear there, no doubt and no regret. It was marvelous and in one brief moment I was new because of her.

As we packed up the items from our show many of the children ran gleefully to their mothers who were standing on the sidelines observing. They showed off their prizes we’d given them and their moms gave them little treats consisting of small packets of chips, tiny bags of frozen juice, and bananas. The end of their school day looked to me like a smorgasbord at a carnival. I imagined that everyone here would be starving, but these children for the most part wore smiles. They were dirty but looked healthy and now their mothers were lavishing them with treats.

Families began making the trek home. Very rarely did we see a dad in the group. Mothers had little children slung upon their backs in blankets sleeping. The babies looked like Joey kangaroos, as if the blanket they snuggled in were a part of their mothers. The moms maneuvered the blankets upon their backs rather like a third arm. The oldest daughters looked out for the little ones, carried them, and held their hands. The little ones held hands and even carried the babies. Mothers had five or more children. The girls each dressed alike. Everyone belonged. Everyone had their part in the family.

We drove away in our pickup trucks; each of us filled with pride at our accomplishments, wearing huge smiles, and waving like we were the main event in our own parade. This began my eyes opening in Guatemala.