On my drive to work at CEPAD’s
central office, I sometimes find myself face-to-face with Antonio,
skinny, shirtless and barefoot at a stoplight asking for money.
The first time I saw Antonio my stomach twisted into knots. He
suddenly appeared in front of my windshield, grapefruit-sized
rock in hand, threatening to smash it into my car if I didn’t
give him any money. He came to the window and, out of bewildered
fear, I handed him some coins. When the light changed, I went
about my way—my mind on the encounter. The next time I came
to that stoplight I asked him his name. Standing by my open window,
he lowered the rock and gave me a crooked smile. In the midst
of his incomprehensible diatribe, he told me his name was Antonio.
Then he said, “May all your children of the world be blessed,”
or something to that effect, recognizing my foreignness. The third
time I saw him, I waved to him through my front windshield as
I stopped for the red light. Immediately, Antonio dropped the
arm with rock in hand, put his other hand over his heart, and
a heartwarming smile lit up his face. When he approached the window
I suggested that he stop threatening people with rocks to get
handouts.
I still watch out for Antonio when I come to that stoplight.
Sometimes, holding my breath, I hope to catch the green light
and sail through. Or I watch, with palpable relief, as Antonio
works his way along the line of cars on the other side of the
light, lifting his rock, speaking to the driver to ask for money.
Just in case, I pull a coin out of the ashtray, ready to hand
it over. For days at a time when I don’t see Antonio I wonder
if he is OK, or if he has moved on to other stoplights. I make
plans in my mind to have bread on hand instead of coins, determined
not to support Antonio’s obvious drug addiction. I think
of things I want to say to him, determined not to give him anything
at all but human interaction.
Encounters with Antonio and people like him bear sharp contrast
with my own life. I have a job I enjoy. A healthy and loving relationship
with my husband, Elmer. A new baby to feed, snuggle and entertain.
A 4-year-old’s ever-curious questions, sweet embraces, occasional
tantrums. A comfortable bed to stretch out in at night. Good food
on the table.
As the situation in Nicaragua and the world seems to grow more
precarious, with rising costs of petroleum (and therefore the
cost of living), and international trade agreements that will
surely benefit big business but just as surely will leave most
small-time producers behind, I see Antonio as emblematic of ensuing
crisis. His crisis is fueled by a drug habit. I see that. But
how much longer until people in crisis—brought on by sheer
hunger—approach me at a stoplight not just asking for a
handout but demanding it? A few years ago, for the first time
in recorded Nicaraguan history, children died of hunger. More
than a third of Nicaraguan children under the age of five are
malnourished—meaning that they may never reach their full
developmental capacity.
On the flip side of these unsettling thoughts, I see CEPAD’s
work sowing hope in over 30 communities in rural Nicaragua. CEPAD
works with the Nicaraguan people, teaching them about their constitutional
rights and how to market their produce. CEPAD is providing them
with skills to seek out resources and improve the quality of life
in their families and communities. A total contrast to Antonio
at the stoplight.
In Antonio, Christ crucified. In Nicaraguans’ resilience,
determination, and resourcefulness, Christ resurrected. God is
present in both hopelessness and hope. God calls us to be with
Christ crucified, but also to proclaim Christ’s resurrection
in word and in deed.
God’s blessings be with you
Ellen Sherby
The 2005 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p.
57
P.S. I’ll be in the United States on interpretation assignment
with my family in late spring or Summer of 2006. If you would
like to invite me to visit your church, please let me know. My
address is correct as above.
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