As we walked into the tiny Cuban café
that had opened recently, I noticed two men, one younger than the other, sitting
at one of the tables. The older one with the slim face and graying buzz cut
asked if we had eaten Cuban food before. I smiled and responded not since our
last trip to Cuba several years earlier. My husband ordered the Cuban: beef and
French fries on a long French roll, weighted and grilled like a Panini. I chose
the ham and cheese Panini with mustard, lettuce, tomato and pickles. We each
ordered a Mexican fruit soda.
When our order came, I looked down
at the generous sandwich, and tears welled as I remembered the hungry people we
had met in Cuba. Not long after, the older man came and stood tentatively near
our table. He asked if we had been allowed to take pictures during our Cuba
trips and whether he could talk with us about our experiences after we were
done eating. My husband promptly said, “Have a seat!” As we reminisced about
the two church mission-study trips to Cuba, the memories flooded back. We told
him about our travels to Sancti Spiritus in
the center of the island on the first trip and to La Habana on the second trip, with one night away at the seminary
in Matanzas on the northern coast.
Sarge said he had been born in
Matanzas, and had left Cuba as a seven-year-old. He had been back only once as
a seventeen-year-old to visit relatives. He said he belonged to Little
River-Academy Methodist Church, and his pastor had been urging him to go along
as the translator on a mission trip to Cuba. He admitted he was tempted, but at
the moment he wanted to know more about how the Cuban people were doing.
I said they were poor, and that I
felt guilty eating the sandwich remembering how bread was rationed there. We
told him we had spent our time in Cuba visiting Christian brothers and sisters
and hearing about their ministries: laundry services for the elderly in a place
where soap is a luxury, and gardens to provide fresh vegetables for the hungry.
We also told him that in spite of the difficulties of their daily lives, the
Cubans we met enjoyed life and were devoted to their families. There are many artists
there: singers, dancers, sculptors, painters and poets. Perhaps because their
earnings were much the same regardless of their jobs many pursued their artistic
gifts to create beauty in a place where beauty is as scarce as soap.
Sarge asked if he could see our
pictures some time, and then hastened to add, “No hurry, just when it’s
convenient.” I said, “Of course!” and promised to stop by soon. My husband said,
“I need to get back to work.” He stood and shook hands with Sarge. When Sarge reached
out to shake my hand as well, I saw the sad look in his eyes, and impulsively
gave him a hug.
I know what it is like to have no
early home to return to, as my parents are both deceased. I don’t know what it
is like to have left my home country behind and have only childhood memories to
cling to. Our hearts long for home, for a place where we belong. In this Holy
Week as I walk once again with Jesus towards the cross, I’m reminded that God
has promised us a permanent home in a new heaven and a new earth, a place where
death and mourning and crying and pain will be no more—a place where God himself
will make his home with us. Maybe that’s the real home we all hunger for here in
this world. Easter is our yearly reminder that the world as it now exists is
not the end of the story. Thank God for that!
Grace and Peace,
Donna
