avocado faith

The sweat eases into the threads of my shirt as I stand in the sweltering kitchen. The stack of mismatched plastic cups and plates grows exponentially as Javier hurriedly rinses away bean and rice residue. I sigh. Once again about three people are missing from the after-lunch clean up crew. I hated having to track the kids down for their chores.

Suddenly I feel little arms wrap around me and an excited voice gushes, "Mami, venga a ver mi jardin. . . Tengo una sorpresa."

I walk into the blazing sun behind the kitchen. Water seeps out of a hose. His childish enthusiasm bubbles to the surface. He can hardly contain himself. His grimy finger proudly points toward a crudely arranged line of small avocado seeds. He has pulled away some of the grass around each one, and the seeds gleam post-artificial shower.

I slowly cut open the avocado. I'm standing in my air conditioned kitchen, thousands of miles away. My heart feels like the butchered piece of avocado on the counter. There are no tiny hands to wrap around me now. There is no tiny voice to plead for the seed for a garden that will never grow.

Elias. I miss you. I miss you more than words or tears can express. I miss being your 'Mami.' And now you're gone, wandering the streets again without food in your tiny belly or arms to hug you when it's time to say goodnight. I can't tell you a story or pray with you. I can't even see you, or hear you.

He replied, "Because you have so little faith. I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you."
-Matthew 17:20

Faith the size of a mustard seed? What about an avocado seed?


*Elias was taken by his mother from the Hogar last week. The staff are trying to bring him back, but the process is difficult as they have no legal claim for him. His mother is not in her right mind, and often leaves the children alone as she wanders the streets. Please pray.