The last ride...

Since our return to Managua a couple of weeks ago, it seems as though we have been on the run and yet it doesn’t seem like we’ve accomplished much. Somehow, during our two weeks in the States, I had forgotten that is how much of life is here…a frenzied pace, a frustrating crawl and often, very little to show for either. I have missed my blog time…it really does help me work through so many things that we see and experience. One of those things lately has been the reminder that life on this earth is temporal and that its termination is often unexpected. An elementary thought to be sure but still, profoundly true.

For whatever reason, there seems to have been a rash of dogs having been hit and killed. Or maybe the number is no higher than normal but I’ve just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and have come upon the aftermath. We recently saw a horse that had collapsed while pulling his master and cart on a busy thoroughfare. And the ambulance sirens’ shrill wail have disturbed more than one night’s sleep since we’ve returned. But those situations have not touched me in the same way I was touched last weekend.

Our housekeeper, Margarita, lost her father-in-law last Sunday. We got news of it that afternoon via Susanna, who also employs Margarita three days a week. The three of us discussed what we should do for her and it was decided that because there would be lots of family and friends there, that we could help out with food. Susanna already had plans in place to go to the beach with her friends that day, so Jim and I said we would take care of getting the food purchased and delivered. We went to the store and bought the basics (beans, rice, oil, sugar, coffee plus some cookies for the children) and two cooked chickens.

Margarita lives way out in the country, it’s a beautiful area but not one many gringos would pass through. On the way out to her house, we passed a funeral procession for someone else who had died. It resembled a small parade. There was a pickup truck moving very slowly. It had the dubious honor of providing the last ride for the deceased (the coffin in the truck bed) and transporting the family members who were packed in to the cab and the remaining space of the truck bed. The rest of the mourners walked slowly behind the truck with many of the women carrying umbrellas to shield themselves from the hot sun.

The procession was similar to our own in the States and yet different enough that it caught my eye. I didn’t want to be rude by staring but my eyes were drawn to the “nakedness” of this ritual. There was no limousine – not for the deceased nor for the family. The pickup truck certainly didn’t have tinted windows or curtains to shield the family from the stares of the curious…ashamedly, like myself. There weren’t floral arrangements being taken to the cemetery and it didn’t look like many of the folks were dressed up. From a distance, it could have been a small demonstration or a small parade. Only the exposed coffin defined the purpose. This was a funeral procession but it wasn’t like one I knew from the States.

The familiar? The grief and the tears and the shell-shocked expressions frozen on the faces of those riding in the bed of the truck were so familiar they made me uncomfortable. I recognized those and because I have experienced each myself, I found my sympathy turned to empathy and I ached inside for these people I didn’t know. They were mourning the loss of someone they loved. We may not have been able to speak the same language but what our tongues couldn’t communicate, grieving eyes certainly could. And suddenly, I felt my eyes had intruded on such a private, intimate time. I looked away. Life here in Nicaragua is so different. Death is the same.

About 20 minutes later, we pulled up in front of the little community where Margarita lives. They live down a small embankment with about a half dozen houses filled with people who are all related in one way or another. There were already quite a few people gathered around outside the little wooden houses. The wake had officially begun. The few plastic chairs were filled with men, many of them already beginning to drink. The children were playing much quieter than children should. The mandatory handful of skinny dogs were sniffing the ground in hopes of scavenging something edible. There were two horses tied to a tree and a couple of pigs were noisily rooting up next to one of the houses. There were several scrawny chickens squawking at one another over what was evidently some sort of poultry infraction. There’s not a blade of grass in the communal area…just dirt. There was an empty pickup truck backed up to one of the houses. If we didn’t know what was happening, it would have been easy to assume this was just like any other neighborhood gathering.

As we were getting out of the car, I realized we were about to go in to a group of people who spoke no English and Margarita was the only one who would know us. For a moment, I felt a great sense of uneasiness but we prayed that we would be well-received and that Margarita would be there. We got the groceries out of the back and started down the drive leading to the communal area. Of course, the smell of cooked chicken immediately drew the dogs. Jim was carrying the chicken and he could hold them up a lot higher than I could have. But thankfully, the dogs only sniffed and didn’t try to help themselves to our bags.

All talking stopped when we got close. There were two men sitting in chairs who greeted us with hard stares. We greeted them good afternoon and they responded with an obligatory like response. It was obvious we weren’t welcome. My knees felt shaky but I stepped toward them and asked in Spanish where we could find Margarita…thank you Lord, for that momentary recall of the language! At the very next second, she stepped out from behind a big tree. She had recognized my voice and came forward with an astonished look on her face. It was obvious we were the last two people on earth she had expected to see that afternoon.

After we hugged for a moment, all I could think to say was “Lo siento,” – “I’m sorry.” It was enough. Her eyes filled with tears and she couldn’t speak. She blinked back the tears, which is so Margarita-like as she rarely shows great emotion. I told her we brought food for her family and she was very grateful. She took part of the bags and told us to wait a minute. It was obvious she was embarrassed we were seeing her familial surroundings. She took the bags in to one of the houses where we could see a group of women gathered...I imagine there was also a great deal of cooking looking at the size of the gathering. Margarita came back out, took the rest of the bags and then hesitated. She asked if we were going or did we want to stay. We told her we had to go, but thanked her for asking and once again, we hugged. Her tears spilled over this time. Jim took my hand and we walked back to the car. As we walked, I could hear the faint sound of conversation. Life resumed. It always does…there in the States and here in Nicaragua.

I told Margarita when she came to work on Tuesday that it was fine if she needed to take some time off this week. She thanked me but told me she needed to work. She also thanked me again for the food we had brought. I asked Margarita if her father-in-law was a Christian. She thought for a minute, shrugged her shoulders and said she didn’t know. She said she knew he believed in God and so did her husband. Her expression was very solemn and there was a worried look to her. There was another pause and then she assured me that she was a Christian and so was her 9 year old son, Freddie. And at that, her face lit up. She put her hands together in the gesture of prayer and thanked Jesus. And she turned to go get busy in the kitchen.

If Jesus waits long enough to return, every one will some day take a final ride of our own. And truthfully, it really doesn’t matter whether it’s in a limousine or the back of a pickup truck. We won’t know. The funeral, the wake, the procession…those are for those who are left here. There will be people who mourn and people who bring food to the mourners. There will be tinted windows and there will be umbrellas. There will be flowers and there will be handkerchiefs. There will be silence and there will be conversations. But all of those things pale in comparison to what really matters when this life ends and that’s where our eternal life begins. We may not get to choose the mode of transportation we have for our final ride, but we certainly do choose our final destination. Please don’t let someone you love be in a position where they have to shrug their shoulders when asked if you were a Christian. If you are, everyone who knows you should know that beyond a shadow of a doubt. And if you’re not, ask God to bring you to the Truth and then ask a follower of Jesus Christ to introduce you to Him. Your future depends upon it.