What We All Need

Day 4 in the DR (April 11)

People are the same wherever you go. It doesn’t matter if you are in the South in the US or on the West Coast. Or if you happen to be in China or England or Brazil or the Dominican Republic. People are a lot alike no matter where you are.

How do I know? Well, first of all, I’ve been to all the places I just mentioned. So I speak from a little bit of experience.

As I observe and talk to Dominicans this week on my frontliner trip here, I see that they are a lot like everyone else I see. The kids like to play. The moms work to make a good home for their families. The dads work to provide for their families. People like to be around other people. People like to laugh. People put their arms around others when they cry.

Tonight, I went out and sat on the sidewalk in front of the LIFE House after I finished dinner (a scrumptious ham and cheese sandwich with macaroni and cheese, compliments of Chef Russell). We took two chairs from our front porch and sat down among the crowd of kids that had assembled. Within minutes, Juandi asked if we wanted to play dominoes.

“Si, quiero jugar,” I told him. He was gone like a flash to retrieve his board and dominoes.

Immediately, two others ran to get chairs and were back instantly, ready to play. In the background, there was a group of about 15 kids playing their version of Blind Man’s Bluff – only with a long switch from a flowering plant and they used the entire street as their playground.

After a few games of dominoes, they quickly lost interest and decided to all join in Blind Man’s Bluff. When that grew boring, they played some version of Freeze Tag (although I’m quite sure they don’t use the word “freeze” when the temperature here never drops below 68 degrees.)

Kids just love to play.That’s true anywhere.

Just then, a truck pulls up to the house next door – around 8:30pm. A man hops out and a little girl we’ve come to know named Bella runs to greet him. She jumps into his arms and he hugs her tightly.

That same scene could just as easily have been played out in any country.

When the kids ask me to play in some sort of “baseball-throwing-and-catching-and-running-to-escape-when-you-miss” game, I oblige them. The excitement is intense on their faces. The American has come to play their street game!

After my first toss, one of the older guys asks if I’ve ever played baseball. “Of course,” I tell him. I can tell he’s impressed.

I imagine that little scene could just as easily have played out anywhere.

* * * * *

Earlier today, Russell and I walked north through our entire barrio, praying as we went, speaking to people on the street. Everyone was so friendly. I didn’t greet anyone that didn’t greet me back. On one corner was a lady breaking some sort of beans. On another street, a lady was working to curl another lady’s hair. Over one block, a couple of guys were knelt on the ground, working to repair a bus that probably should have been laid to rest about six years ago.

Once again, people that I could see in any country.

When we looked around, however, we saw only one small Christian Reformed Church and a small Pentecostal church in an area that was about 1 square mile. And in this square mile there are probably about 10,000 people. As I walked along and looked at all the people crossing the street, speeding by on motorcycles, kids playing in the streets and moms working on dishes and food preparation, I couldn’t help but think that all of them have something in common with everyone else I’ve ever seen or met.

These people of Monte Plata deserve to have an opportunity to hear the Gospel.

No doubt, some of them are looking for something more in life. They feel that something is missing. Some of them have probably never even thought that there is something more to life. And some of them will probably reject the Gospel. But we have a job to do. We need to do what we can to share the Gospel and to teach them what it means to follow Jesus.

But we leave the day after tomorrow. Just as we’ve begun to make friends and to be known in the barrio, we must leave.

This afternoon, while we were eating lunch, a group of the neighborhood kids came to watch us eat through the back door. After I finished, I went out on the stoop to sit with them and chat and take their pictures. After a few minutes, one girl asked me if I had a Bible in Spanish.

“Si, you tengo,” I said. I went to retrieve one and brought it back to her.

I read John 3:16 to her in Spanish and told her it was one of my favorite verses. Then we read the Nativity story together. I started it, and she read the last ten verses or so out loud.

We chatted for a few minutes about school, the neighborhood, the boys playing with their fighting fish below on the steps. She asked me about our plans for a church and for this house. I told her it was the “Casa de Vida” or the LIFE House. She smiled, amused that a house would have a name. She asked if we were going to have a church here. I told that it would be here or maybe at someone else’s house. She seemed OK with that.

“I believe in God,” she suddenly said.

“Oh, yeah?” I said. “That’s good.”

Without pausing, she added, “But a lot of my friends don’t. Sometimes they make fun of me.”

“Hmmm,” I said awkwardly. Right then, I knew I had found something else in common with this little girl whose life seemed so much different from mine.

I explained to her our plans – as best as I could in my broken Spanish – about how others were coming after we left, and that they would come to start a church and to teach people about God. I’m not sure she understood it all. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I did either.

But there’s one thing I did understand.

I clearly understood when she asked me the dreaded question.

“When are you leaving?” she asked innocently.

“I have to leave on Monday.”

“Oh.”

I sat quietly, knowing what question was coming next, yet unable to stop it or to ignore it.

“You’re coming back again, aren’t you?”

At that moment, I didn’t know exactly what to say, but I know what I felt like saying.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll be coming back later this year. And others will be coming to from time to time.”

She nodded like she understood. And that’s just what I was afraid of. She understood that I was leaving, and that all of this was probably too good to be true.

I don’t think I’ll forget that moment as long as I live. It was then that I understood what it must feel like to want something so much more, to see a glimpse of it and then to have your hopes dashed that it might not come true.

I also know that at that moment, I made a commitment that I would do whatever it took to make sure we have a church presence here in Monte Plata for people like Lucero and her family.

After all, the people of Monte Plata are just like people everywhere else. They need the Gospel.

We all need the Gospel.