We are living in days that feel interminable, filled to overflowing with fear. Alarm at so much division, anger, willful ignorance, and judgment. Those called to sound out their prophetic voices - urging a return to truth, honor, integrity, respect, care, selflessness, and community - are becoming hoarse in their effort. It can seem impossible. Like the thread we are hanging by, holding onto for dear life, might give way at any instant. Like the love we so desperately need eludes us at every turn.
It’s these moments that cause me to retreat to a quiet place and remember. To ponder the goodness that exists in our world, that takes place all over our planet, in ways grand and minuscule, known and unknown. The newness of every day which prompts us to be hopeful. The perseverance of creation which reminds us to be tenacious. The kindness extended by strangers which gives us fuel to continue, which settles within us the determination to live as ones crafted so tenderly, and so lovingly, by God.
Throughout the years and across the miles I’ve spent traversing our globe, I’ve encountered such compassion at nearly every turn. One such occasion, however, circles in my memory, arising whenever I need to be encouraged.
It happened in Central America, where I served for a spell as a short-term missionary.
Although I lived and worked in Nicaragua, part of my call sent me to neighboring countries to visit with mission colleagues. On one such trip to El Salvador, I met a co-worker who lived in a tiny village way up in the mountains, far from the big city of San Salvador. He was in the capital for a few days to recharge, where he shared with me what it was like to serve in a rural setting. He was heading back that day, but he invited me to drop by to see for myself before I returned to Managua. I said, well, okay, having no idea at all what I was getting myself into. I had considerably more Spanish under my belt than the ten or so words I knew six months before, but I still carried my trusty Spanish-English dictionary with me.
My new friend told me, briefly, how to get to his town. So, when the day came, another missionary friend dropped me off at the bus depot, pointing to the bus I was to take, expressing absolutely no worry whatsoever at what lay ahead. Just tell the bus driver the place where you need to disembark. Everything will be fine.
So, I climbed onboard equipped only with the knowledge that I was to get off at a place where a bunch of pick-up trucks waited to give people a ride up the mountain side. Once I got a ride from them, I would start walking: past a soccer field, past a certain number of streets, turning left and right, counting houses, until I arrived at the home where my new friend was staying.
It all sounded somewhat reasonable in my head, even with my limited language skills, until I tried to explain my destination to the bus driver. The Salvadoran woman sitting next to me, discerning what I was trying to do, became somewhat alarmed—leading to the two engaging in quite the conversation. I pieced together that the bus driver put this woman in charge of me, or maybe she told the bus driver she was now my guardian. Either way, she made clear to me she was the one who would tell me when to get off the bus. Thus began quite the comedy of errors, as I tried valiantly to understand everything else she was saying, but mostly just understood that I would have to trust her and the universal language of arm-waving and heightened speech.
We rode along for a good long while in silence. I imagined she was pondering what she was going to do if this American got waylaid. I was mostly praying. And rehearsing in my head the directions my friend gave me so I would not be lost forever somewhere in the Salvadoran mountains.
Hours later, we arrived at a dirt road depot of sorts. With no time to spare, my new-found friend sitting next to me animatedly indicated it was time to get off the bus. She didn’t stop there. She disembarked with me, grabbed my arm, pointed to the pick-up trucks, and motioned for me to tell them where I needed to go. I took a breath, said thank you, over and over, and began walking through the crowd to the next stage of my journey. This perfectly lovely stranger took one last look and finally got back on the bus, alleviating my anxiety that she would miss her ride at my expense, and leaving the bus driver satisfied his job was complete.
After asking one of the pick-up drivers if he was going in my direction, I clambered into the bed of the truck. We took off, rapidly driving straight towards the sky; the other passengers grinning from ear to ear as they watched me hold on for dear life. And then, suddenly, we were there. The top of the mountain. It was time to begin walking. I jumped out, looked around, and took my best guess, for there were no signs to be had and no landmarks to get me started. One foot in front of the other. Until, finally, I passed the soccer field. I counted streets and houses, carefully turning left and right. Then, ultimately, I arrived at the one where I hoped my colleague would be.
The door was open. No one was around. I stuck my head inside the house, and lo and behold! There he was! My new friend! I was safe and sound, all because of a lovely woman sent by God to take care of me. I began to laugh, for I could very well have been lost. But, I was found. Cared for by people whom I did not know, who took time out of their busy lives to help a complete stranger they did not expect to encounter when they got out of bed that day. They showed me in those few hours complete, unfiltered love in the form of profound protection. It was born of truth, honor, integrity, respect, care, selflessness, community. When I think of them, as I do often, I ponder if I would do the same for someone else who needs to find hope in a sea of unfamiliar faces, in a time of dire circumstances.
I keep a watchful eye, for they taught me we belong to one another.
Born and raised overseas, Kim Jackson continues to travel far and wide, collecting stories of hope and healing. As an artist and a pastor, Kim seeks to foster forgiveness and reconciliation.
