a trip to the country
Thoughts while visiting
a Cuban farm family


I must sit while others stand.  I must sit in the biggest chair; the only one with a cushion. I must drink from the biggest glass; eat from the finest plate, the one without the cracks and chips.  The rest are saved for family to eat from.  Honored guests eat first, everyone else later.  They have so little yet it is offered as completely yours.  Not in word only, but given from the heart.  Don't say you like a certain food or you will soon be eating a giant portion of it.  You shouldn't dare to comment on how well you like something, say, the little mechanical espresso machine, you will soon own it.

Baby chicks roam the house looking for bugs.  The floor is plain concrete but is swept and mopped perfectly clean.  Occasionally a pig or goat will wander close to the door but they are quickly shooed away.  Life is simple.  Life is slow.  Generations have been born right on this property and shacks have been added to accommodate the new marriages. You can tell which are brothers and cousins by looking at their features.  The same with the animals, these have spots, those are red.  They work hard to live; it shows on the roughness of their feet, hands and faces, but their heart is as warm and innocent as a child's.

All the young boys in the little community were drawn to me.  I felt like the Pied Piper!  Everywhere I go, just to the car, even to the outhouse, six or seven boys follow me.  Do they know I love them?  Do they know I am giving my life for them?  Or are they drawn to me just because I'm different?  Maybe both.

The digital camera is always a pleaser.  The kids are transformed into acrobats and trapeze artists as soon as you bring it out.  Suddenly they can do some gravity-defying cartwheel or flip and of course want to see their action picture immediately.   You tell them you don't speak much Spanish, but it doesn't register with them.  They continue to rattle off questions and stories just like you were answering every question and were amazed at the details of each story.  Their language goes deeper than the tongue, straight to their heart.  They can't stop their tongue once their heart is given to you.  Their eyes look deeply at you, they're not afraid to stare.  They drink you in with their eyes.  It's as though their asking; " Who is this strange man and why does he love me."

I guess no one has told them their dreadfully poor.  All they care about is a quick game of freeze tag or hide and go seek.  Or their rickety old bicycle with flat tires and bent wheels.  They take off running in a pack, the leader trips and they all pile up on top of one another.  They laugh, I laugh, and they take off running again.  Do they know their clothes are tattered?  Do they know their homes are shacks?  They haven't yet realized they have little hope of purpose in life.  When this epiphany of poverty and hopelessness arrives will they turn to alcohol or hedonism like so many other Cubans or will they turn to the God of all hope?

No clocks, no alarms, no rush, just the setting sun and the clip-clop-tick-tock of the horse's hooves set the pace for these folks.  We're off to a church service in the converted house-church.  Scheduled for 7:00 we start about 8:00.  They've put on their best clothes.  It doesn't matter to the kids that some don't have shoes or that their shirt is buttoned all wrong.  They jockey for position near the big white guy.  Not too close, just close enough.  Nearly everyone sings off key.  No instruments except the hands and the voice.  Most of the women are Christians; many of the men are not.  The men tend to see things as they are, women as they can be.  These are simple, honest and hardworking people.  We read the 23rd Psalm, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…" I cry...

As I drive my car out the footpath, the kids run along beside me waving a hundred times.  With each wave they look you in the eye.  The last wave means as much as the first.  If you're not willing to give your heart away, you should never come to Cuba.

As I drive by the shacks, I catch glimpses through the wide-open front doors.  In nearly every house there is a vase bulging with fresh wild flowers placed in the most obvious location on the table or counter.  It's strange to see; the beauty of God's creation set among these shacks of poverty.  Not the flowers, but these wonderful Cuban people.

They drink you in with their eyes.  It's as though their asking; " Who is this strange man and why does he love me?"

We read the 23rd Psalm, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…" I cry...

It's strange to see; the beauty of God's creation set among these shacks of poverty.

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Copyright © 2004 Jim Waldron, IMSS, Inc All rights reserved.