Across the Distance

Across the Distance: I feel the sun set behind Jamaican Blue Mountains.

We remain in Grand Cayman for the time being. So far our visit has, to date, yielded no less than five whole friends, 7 half friends, and one baby friend. We are very blessed, thank you Roberta, Alicia, Keyda, Tatiana, and Chris! We love you. Nonetheless our stay here draws closer and closer to an unknown departure date shrouded in the veil of bureaucracy. While we will undoubtedly miss these ever loving, accepting and generous friendships, we stand expectant of the promised moment when this veil will be cleft asunder by the coming of the Visa, reborn from the Jamaican Ministry of labor.

Now, with the arrival of sad news, my heart turns to Jamaica and asks God for its protection. Kingston is my post, my assigned measure, my task and my cherished undertaking. Even now, 270 miles away over the turbulent stormy waters of the Caribbean Sea, I find my work continues, but not in body. When turning to Kinston my mind automatically goes to one of two communities. During the three and months we were there, we split most of our time between the concrete paths and front yards of Sandy Park, and the steep mountain side tire-stair-steps and cramped living rooms of Highlight View. Home away from home, away from home. In these neighborhoods we were just starting to feel like regulars.

Every Sunday I’d bus from prayers at the center to market in Papine, where I bought my lunch from the Rasta man. Then I’d sweat the twelve minute shade-less walk to Highlight. The washed out mess-of-a-road into the neighborhood is lined with little shops and cook huts. I’d greet the chatters at the first two shops, the gamblers at the third, barbers at the fourth and smokers at the fifth. Okay, they’re all smokers, but these guys JUST smoke. I’d have lunch with Joan, bless with the church ladies, play with the kids and chat with the parents, all of which would eventually lead to a virtues class for 7-10 yr old at around 4pm. This was the way of things on just about any day of the week in one neighborhood or the other.

We found ourselves being greeted by name, by people we hadn’t yet met. We saw more and more faces we recognized from the hoods in the market, on the street, or at the bus stop. We had begun to integrate our lives into theirs, and theirs into ours. I am not writing this to lament the lost time of the last month and a half in Cayman or even reminisce what awaits us when we return. This all comes to mind because early this week we received an email telling us that a family of seven died in Sandy Park as their home was swept away by rising flood waters. They weren’t in our youth group or attending our prayer gathering, I don’t know their names and have yet to see pictures of the faces, which I may or may not know. But they were part of my life. They were within my assigned measure and part of my cherished undertaking.

Now I extend my heart 270 miles, and prayerfully walk the concrete paths of Sandy Park. I have found great comfort in my prayers. Through them, I hold hands with children on their way to class; I bless with church ladies, and have lunch with Joan. I whisper words of encouragement into the ears of children’s class teachers, and spell service onto open hearts. I live in Cayman, but I pray in Kingston Jamaica, in Boone North Carolina, in Iran, China, St. Lucia, St. Croix, St. Thomas (USVI & JA), Antigua, Martinique, Barbados, Trinidad, Tobago, Guadeloupe, Dominica, Grenada, and the Bahamas. I pray in streets, classrooms, sewing rooms, universities, front yards, sidewalks and coffee shops.