Persistent Christian(s)

Luke 18:1 – 8 1 One day Jesus told his disciples a story to show that they should always pray and never give up. 2 “There was a judge in a certain city,” he said, “who neither feared God nor cared about people. 3 A widow of that city came to him repeatedly, saying, ‘Give me justice in this dispute with my enemy.’ 4 The judge ignored her for a while, but finally he said to himself, ‘I don’t fear God or care about people, 5 but this woman is driving me crazy. I’m going to see that she gets justice, because she is wearing me out with her constant requests!’”
6 Then the Lord said, “Learn a lesson from this unjust judge. 7 Even he rendered a just decision in the end. So don’t you think God will surely give justice to his chosen people who cry out to him day and night? Will he keep putting them off? 8 I tell you, he will grant justice to them quickly! But when the Son of Man returns, how many will he find on the earth who have faith?” ~ From - Jesus~

“There is education in the family: first you shouldn’t speak because you are a girl, then later you shouldn’t speak because no one will marry you, then later you shouldn’t speak because you are a new bride. Finally, you might have the chance to speak but you don’t speak because you have forgotten how to.”

~ An activist from Pristina, Kosovo ~


“Mi hermano necesita dormir en puro piso,” (My brother needs to sleep on pure floor!!) he gutteraled to me followed by a request for a mattress for the third time in the matter of 5 minutes. Christian looked around ten, with short, mud-greased black hair that somehow met at the same color by the time it reached his Honduran darker side of brown skin. His clothes mirrored the floor he slept on last night; worn down by uncleaned overuse.

The thing I liked about this ten year old boy is that he realized this, and realized, looking at a clean face American snapping a $500 camera, that this contrast was not fair. However, unlike the clothes he had been given, he had not yet been worn down by a life of liars trying to convince him that he deserved this fate of floor sleeping with 30+ others huddled uncomfortably close. He knew my sometimes well matted hair indicated not only a mattress but a bed with more than enough blankets. He knew in some stubbornly courageous way that I did nothing better to deserve my comfortable beds and pillows and feasts than he did anything to deserve a one room shack with soggy foundations on the side of an eroding mountain. He was just a child after all, he was born into it after all, and he seemed to need to realize that to be able to speak up with the persistence and passion that he did. I guess he figured boys can shout because they were expected to shout while his mother and grandmother who tried to quiet him down had long been excluded from that possibility.

Maybe, in the end, what I liked most about this boy was that he probably did not think or figure or realize any of these things; that was me and my adult overanalyzing. Instead, it just sneezed out of him, and you’re kind of a jerk if you get mad at someone for sneezing: regardless of whether it makes a mess or not. While for me, years of over self restraint had provided me with the what I once thought was the stellar ability to sneeze inwardly; only to bring on more colds, more mess and needing more medical attention in the end.

I did not have extra blankets or mattresses on me, they don't really fit in my pockets, but I knew someone who did. So, remembering a lesson on empowerment from our Mujeres Valiantes (Valiant Women) program, I told him he was doing the right thing, speaking up on behalf of his brother, himself and his family, and that he should never stop, even if those children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard types consistently tried to shut him up and tell him no.

I saw Christian the other day with his grandma and mother, visiting a co-worker. I took more time to talk to the three of them and learnt that Christian loved to sing. “Figures,” I thought, as they explained him singing solos at church, gutteraling for Jesus, I guess. They said he wanted to learn to play the guitar to complete the set. I thought a guitar may be a hard thing to come by, but at the same time felt, this boy had a gift and hoped maybe he or I would meet someone with an old rusty or brand new unused guitar to speed along that process.

Natural disaster season is hard here in Honduras; a mix between afraid and desperate people who have really had their houses destroyed and everyday living in poverty people trying to get a piece of the pie. It is hard to know one from the other, and in the end, I wonder if it really matters, both, like Christian, have been given only the crumbs falling from the crusts; and those that made that pie often seem to wait until disaster strikes to offer a piece.