I wrote this after a recent trip to Roatan, Honduras.
The shop is crowded. Bags, belts and hammocks sway softly in the rhythm of the balmy Roatán breeze. I step inside out of the sunny afternoon, my eyes adjusting to the dim light and my nose taking in the smell of leather, fabric and creamy coconuts. I gaze around, overwhelmed by the huge selection of colorful souvenirs.
¡Hola! ¿Cómo está? I ask politely, my parents trailing behind me.
¿Tú puedes hablar español?
The question is more of a surprised statement. A big grin flashes across the girl’s face, revealing braces. A native with braces? I muse. Weird, I mean it’s just something I’d never seen before. At first she’s businesslike. She watches me intently as my eyes wander around. I hate shopping with someone breathing down my neck so I try to walk away politely, asking if I can look around. I hope she’ll get the hint I’ll let her know if I need anything. She doesn’t. Instead she follows me around the store, but she’s so sweet I can’t stay mad long. Two other girls appear and start talking to my parents. My mom buys a tablecloth; a brilliant burst of blue highlighting a traditional Guatemalan pattern. We bargain with them, and soon our pile of purchases grows. I feel them warming up to us. I ask questions about where they’re from, their names, how they weave. Even though they’re Guatemalan, they spend most of their time here in Honduras selling souvenirs on the island. Who knew that my struggles to learn Spanish would be used in this way? I suddenly realize I’m not just a customer anymore; I’m someone who’s taken an interest in their lives. I come to the hasty and justified conclusion that knowing a person’s language enables you to topple the barriers of culture, to make a friend in minutes instead of years. My interest melts their façade. I’m no longer a haughty American gringo, I’m a friend. And then the biggest surprise comes. As we prepare to leave, Evelyn, the owner of the shop who can’t be much older than her twenties, looks at my mom and tells her she reminds her of her own mother who passed away just six months ago. The tears begin to spill out of her dark eyes and she can’t wipe them away. One tear turns into a salty waterfall. We don’t know what to do, but I do the only thing that seems right—I throw my arms around her, my own eyes beginning to fill. We ask her if she knows she has the promise she’ll see her mother again at the resurrection. She nods. We leave them then, but it’s not the end, it’s the beginning—the beginning of a friendship that transcends language and distance. Traveling with a purpose can lead to more than Kodak moments and a sun tan—you might change perceptions or plant seeds for eternity.
Before we left I made them cupcakes and we exchanged emails. Evelyn told me that if I ever visit Guatemala that I will always be welcome in her home. My dad left her a Steps to Christ in Spanish. Who knows if I’ll ever see them again on this earth, but I pray that I will hug her again beneath the shining gates of Heaven.
Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. Therefore, as we have opportunity, let us do good to all people, especially to those who belong to the family of believers. Galatians 6:9,10 NIV
