~ ~ ~

 

THE WEATHER IN Mexico City was pretty much the same all the time. If you’ve never been there you’re probably thinking to yourself: hot. But, in reality, Mexico City is at such a high altitude that that’s not the case at all. It’s actually pretty nice. But like I said, it’s also pretty much always the same:

High of 77, low of 42.

High of 73, low of 41.

High of 75, low of 46.

You get the picture.

They do have a “rainy” season in the summer, but it isn’t really all that rainy. I checked the weather back home in Cavendish almost every day and tried to imagine what it was like. The third Wednesday in October, according to the Internet, was breezy and clear in Cavendish. I knew from talking to my Dad that the leaves were “really pretty this year”. Halloween was two weeks away and I was wondering if kids went trick-or-treating in Mexico like they did in the United States when I heard someone at the door.

My first thought was that it was a delivery man dropping off some documents that I’d been waiting for from a client in New Mexico, but usually they just knocked on the door and left. I was already in the hallway when I heard Laci calling me and I started running because she never came home during the middle of the day . . . never.

“David!” She was crying and I just knew something was wrong with the baby. I’d forgotten all about pregnancy hormones.

I got to her and grabbed her shoulders.

“Is Gabby alright?” I asked. That’s what we’d decided to call her.

Laci managed to nod.

“Are you sure? Gabby’s okay?”

“Yes,” she sobbed.

“What’s wrong then?” I asked. In my mind I started running down the list of things that it could be . . . her mom or dad was sick . . . one of our friends had been killed in a car accident . . .

She was crying so hard that she couldn’t talk. I led her over to the couch and made her sit down.

“Please tell me what’s wrong, Laci,” I said. “You’re really scaring me . . .”

“Last night,” she finally managed, “the youth group from Texas . . .”

She hesitated for a moment before continuing.

“They broke into the church office . . .”

“And?”

“And they stole the communion wine and some of them got drunk and they damaged the sanctuary . . .”

I was still thinking one of them must have gotten killed or something since she was so upset.

“And?”

“And we’ve been kicked out, David! The church won’t let them stay there anymore!”

That’s it?

I probably shouldn’t have said it, but I did.

“That’s it?”

“David!” she cried. “What are we going to do? They were my responsibility and now we’ve got twenty kids who don’t have any place to sleep!”

“No. They were their youth leaders’ responsibility, not yours, and they can sleep here.”

“You don’t understand, David,” she said, still crying. “The church didn’t just kick this group out . . . they’ve kicked us out. We can’t house kids there ever again!”

“I understand,” I said. “They can just sleep here . . . in the living room.”

“Really?” she asked, finally calming down which was what I’d wanted all along. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” I said. “It’ll be like a big slumber party every night.”

Like a slumber party in one of those horror movies where everybody dies . . .

“Thank you, David,” she said, hugging me.

“Laci, you can’t let yourself get so upset. It’s not good for you or Gabby.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been kind of . . . emotional lately.”

No kidding . . .

“I think maybe it’s hormones . . .” she went on.

Really?

“Are you feeling better?” I asked, rubbing her back.

“A lot,” she nodded. “Are you sure about this?”

No.

“Yes, I’m sure. But Laci?” I said. “There’s just one thing . . .”

“What?”

“You’re gonna have to have to keep ’em outta my office.”

 

 

 

By late afternoon when the bus dropped the kids off from the landfill I’d had the entire day to get mad at them. They gathered in the living room before going to the orphanage and they were already pretty somber (because of where they’d just spent the day), but I really let them have it.

“Laci and I worked at that church when we were your age and now we aren’t welcome back there because of something you did,” I said. “I know not all of you were involved, but it’s not okay for you to just look the other way if somebody’s doing something wrong.”

I caught the eye of a blonde-haired kid sitting back in the corner and he smirked at me. I remembered seeing him at the orphanage the last two evenings. It seemed like he was always either goofing off or mouthing off. As soon as I saw that smug look on his face I knew that he’d been involved.

It had probably been his idea.

Not that I was being judgmental or anything.

 

 

 

We went to the orphanage after I’d lectured them and everybody was pretty quiet. I was in the kitchen helping load up the commercial dishwasher when I noticed the smug, blonde kid standing around, doing nothing. I walked up to him.

“See that kid over there?” I asked, pointing to Dorito.

“The one with those stupid things on his legs?”

I decided to let that pass.

“Why don’t you go over there and change his diaper?”

He sighed heavily and started to walk away.

“Wait!” I said and he turned back around.

“What?”

“He likes it when someone sings to him . . .”

“Sings to him?”

“Yeah. Why don’t you sing to him?”

“What am I supposed to sing to him?”

“Didn’t you learn any songs before you came down here?”

I could tell by the look on his face that he hadn’t.

“Well,” I said, “sing to him anyway. He’s learning English so sing to him in English. It’ll be good for him.”

He rolled his eyes and walked away. I made a point of passing by a few minutes later. Dorito was smiling up at him, but the smug kid wasn’t singing.

 

 

 

“You did a really good job talking to them tonight,” Laci said when we got back from the orphanage.

“I sounded like my father,” I moaned, laying down on my back, crossways on the bed.

She laughed.

“That’s because you’re paternal instincts are starting to kick in,” she said as she lay down next to me. She put her head on my shoulder and her hand on my chest. “You’re going to be a great father.”

“You’re going to be a great mother,” I said, hugging her. “As long as all those hormones go away . . .”

“That’s the only reason you’re letting the kids stay here, isn’t it? Because I got so upset?”

“Yup.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m probably going to forget that they’re here tonight and I’m going to trip over one of them on my way to the bathroom and break my neck . . .”

“You could use a chamber pot,” she suggested.

“A what?”

“A chamber pot. We used one all the time when my mom and dad took me camping. It’s just this little–”

“Stop!” I said. “I got the idea. I don’t think I’ll need a chamber pot. I’ll just try not to kill myself when I’m walking through the living room. I might kick that blonde-haired kid in the head though if I get a chance.”

“He is a bit of a problem,” Laci agreed.

“At least we only have to deal with him for a week. His youth leaders have to deal with him all the time.”

“What about his poor parents?”

“It’s probably their fault,” I said. “I bet Gabby won’t ever act like that.”

“No,” Laci agreed. “She’s pretty much going to be perfect.”

“Like me.”

This was our favorite subject . . . how perfect Gabby was going to be.

“Aaron was really pleased that we’re letting them stay here,” Laci said.

“I’ll bet he was . . .”

“OH!” she said, yanking her hand off my chest and putting it on her belly.

“What?!”

“The baby!” she said. “I felt her move!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure!”

“What did it feel like?”

“Just like butterflies! Just like the books say!”

I put my hand on her belly, but of course it was too early for me to feel anything. I sat up and put my mouth over her belly.

“Hey, baby!” I said. “Hey Gabby! Whatchya doing in there? Are you going to be perfect? Are you going to be perfect like your daddy?”

“Hey!” Laci said. “I felt it again!”

“She’s agreeing with me,” I said and I smiled before I lay back down next to Laci. She put her head back on my shoulder and I wrapped my arms around her. After about thirty seconds she started to sit up.

“Did you feel her again?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “I want to call my mom and tell her.”

“Don’t leave,” I said, reaching for my phone and handing it to her. “Call your mom if you want to, but please don’t leave.”

She took my phone, but didn’t call.

“I’ll talk to her first thing in the morning,” Laci said and she put her head back down on my shoulder.

 

 

 

The blonde-haired kid who was a “bit of a problem”, it turned out, was named Carter. I know this because his youth leaders were yelling at him a lot the next day while I was in my office trying to work.

“Carter! Take that off the fan!”

“Carter! Don’t put that in there!”

“Carter! Get down from there!”

I ventured out into the kitchen to try to scrounge up some lunch and Laci looked really frazzled.

When I got back to my office, guess who I found?

Carter.

“What are you doing in here?” I asked.

“Just looking around.”

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

“Who’s that?” he asked, ignoring me. He was pointing at the picture of me and Laci and Greg at the picnic table at Cross Lake.

“Me and Laci and my best friend, Greg.”

“Are those your parents?” he asked, pointing at a picture of them holding me as a toddler.

“Yep.”

“How come you’ve got so many pictures all over your wall?”

“Because,” I said. “They’re all the people that I love and I miss them.”

“Do you miss the snow, too?” he asked.

“Yeah. I miss home.”

“So why don’t you move back?”

“Because,” I said. “God wants me to be here right now.”

He rolled his eyes at me and I really wished he would leave.

“Do they all still live back there?” he asked, pointing at the graduation pictures of me and Laci, Greg, Tanner and Mike.

“No. Just Tanner – the one on the far right.”

“What’s he do?”

“He’s teaches P.E.”

“Oh,” Carter said, looking at the pictures more closely. “So that’s you . . . and that’s Laci . . . where’s this guy live?”

“That’s Mike. He’s finishing up his undergraduate degree.”

Please get out of my office.

“What about him?” Carter asked, pointing at the remaining one.

Oh, boy. Here we go.

“That’s my best friend, Greg. He died almost five years ago,” I said. Whenever this came up, it was usually God’s way of providing me with some kind of an opportunity so I plowed ahead.

“He and his dad were killed in a shooting at our high school during our senior year.”

Carter laughed.

“What are you laughing about?” I asked him.

“Your best friend got killed, but you still moved to Mexico because it’s what God wanted you to do?”

I nodded at him, astonished at how he was able to make me feel.

“You’re an idiot,” Carter said.

Then he finally left my office.

 

 

The next day, Saturday, was their last full day in Mexico.

I was in the shower when Laci hollered at me that the bus was there to pick everybody up to go to the landfill.

“Bye!” I yelled back.

I was looking forward to at least six hours of having the house to myself and being able to work in quiet. That’s why I was so surprised when I came out into the living room in only my towel and found Carter there, in the sweatpants and t-shirt that he’d slept in. He was watching TV.

“Whoa!” I said, getting a good grip on my towel. “What’re you doing here?”

“I don’t feel good,” he said. “They said I could stay here.”

I looked at the TV. He was watching Scooby Doo in Spanish.

“What?” he said. “Don’t you ever watch TV when you’re sick?”

“You’re not sick,” I said. “Listen, Carter, I know it’s really hard to go to the landfill and see how those people live, but–”

“Oh, please,” he said, rolling his eyes. “That’s not why I didn’t go . . . I’m sick.”

“You’re not sick,” I said flipping off the TV, “and you’re not hanging around here all day. Get dressed. I’m taking you to the landfill.”

“You can’t make me go,” he said.

“Wanna bet?”

“Touch me and I’ll sue you,” he said.

“You can’t sue me, Carter. We’re in Mexico.”

Now social studies had never been my thing, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t true. I figured social studies wasn’t Carter’s thing either though . . .

He looked at me suspiciously.

“Are you serious?” he asked.

“No, I’m just kidding.”

“I knew you were lying,” he said. “Don’t you know Christians aren’t supposed to lie?”

“Yeah,” I admitted, “but they’re not supposed to get drunk and tear up church sanctuaries either.”

“Whoever said I was a Christian?”

“Look, Carter,” I sighed as I opened the bedroom door. “You might have fooled Laci and your youth leaders, but you’re not fooling me and you are not staying here all day. I’ll be out in five minutes and you’d better be ready to go.”

 

 

 

“Why are you here?” I asked as we pulled out of the driveway.

“Because you didn’t believe me that I’m sick, remember?”

“No,” I said. “I mean why are you here in Mexico?”

“Because my parents wanted to get rid of me for a week.”

Imagine that.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

“You don’t think maybe they wanted you to experience something that could have a positive impact on your life?”

He shrugged at me.

“You know, Carter, I never got to finish telling you about my friend, Greg.”

“I pretty much got the gist of it,” he said.

“No, you didn’t,” I argued. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry. You probably wanted to share your testimony with me, didn’t you?”

“Um . . . well, yeah. As a matter of fact, yeah.”

“Let me guess,” he said. “Your best friend got killed and it was terrible and the only thing that got you through it was Jesus.”

How can someone who tries as hard as I do find myself so unprepared so often?

“Look,” I said. “You know how I told you that he was shot?”

“Yep,” Carter said, nodding his head and crossing his arms. “Him and his dad.”

“Right. Well, anyway, the guy that shot him . . . he was a young guy . . . his name was Kyle.”

“Suicidal?”

“Well,” I said, hesitating. “Yeah.”

“I figured,” Carter said, nodding. “They usually are. Did he kill himself?”

“No.”

“Cops kill him?”

“No. Listen Carter, do you want to hear my version of this or do you just wanna keep talking?”

“Whatever,” he said, settling back into his seat.

“Okay. Kyle surrendered and he was sentenced to be executed this past spring.”

“Did they do it?”

“Yeah . . .”

“Cool.”

“No, Carter,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s not cool!”

“Oh . . . you’re one of those . . .”

I was completely exasperated. I had never met anyone like this in my entire life. Witnessing to Kyle had been a snap compared to this.

“Look,” I said, talking faster in hopes that he wouldn’t be able to squeeze a word in edgewise. “Laci and I and Greg’s mom and some other people, we all went and visited with Kyle and we talked to him about Jesus and how much Jesus loved him and how He’d died for each of us and Kyle accepted Christ before he died.”

There . . . at least I’d gotten that out.

“You really believe that?” Carter scoffed.

“I know that,” I said.

“Whatever.”

“Greg always put Christ first in his life,” I went on, ignoring him. “God was the most important thing to him. He would have gladly given his life to keep Kyle from dying before he was saved.”

“Sounds like he did,” Carter said. “Glad it all worked out.”

“No,” I argued. “He didn’t have any choice about it, but what I’m saying is that Greg would have willingly died to keep someone – even a total stranger – from dying if they didn’t know Christ.”

“Would you do that?” Carter asked, a trace of seriousness in his voice for the first time.

“I’d like to think so,” I said, “but I hope I never have to find out.”

“What about your baby? Or Laci?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what if there was a fire or something and you could only rescue one person? Let’s say you had to choose between Laci or someone who wasn’t saved. Like what if you had to pick between me and Laci?”

Who was this kid?

“Well, again, Carter, I hope I never have to find out what I’d do in a situation like that, but I’d like to think that I’d rescue you.”

“Yeah, right,” he laughed.

We were almost to the landfill.

“I’m serious, Carter. You may not believe it, but there’s another life after this and it’s going to last forever. The thought of anybody going through eternity separated from Christ . . .”

I shook my head and glanced at him.

“I want you to know that Laci and I prayed for you last night.”

He didn’t say anything.

“We prayed that you’d know Christ . . . that you’d know what He did for you.”

“Thanks,” he said as I pulled alongside the parked bus, “but I already know all about it.”

“We’ll keep praying for you,” I said. He was reaching for his door handle.

“Don’t do me any favors,” he replied and he got out and slammed the door.

 

 

 

We always had a “service” for the youth groups in our home on Sunday morning before they were taken to the airport. It was usually a special time and we always invited the kids to come forward and commit their lives to Christ and while we lived in Mexico many of them did.

I’d love to be able to tell you that the next day Carter was one of them . . .

But he wasn’t.

Carter sat through the entire service as if he was bored out of his skull and when it was over he got on the bus and plopped down in his seat and never looked back.

 

 

 

After the group from Texas went home, Laci and I continued to pray for Carter. I’m sorry to say that I don’t know whatever became of him. After he left I found myself thinking a lot about the last time that I’d been to the landfill. I’d been about Carter’s age.

I’d gone there with Mike and Greg and we’d tried to share Christ with a crippled boy who lived in the landfill. Mike was worried afterward, complaining that we’d never know if we’d done any good or not.

Greg had assured him that we would . . . that one day we’d know.

 

 

 

I may not know what became of Carter, but I do believe what Greg said.

I believe that one day I’ll know.

There’s one thing that I already know right now though.

The last night, while we were at the orphanage, I saw Carter at one of the changing tables. He was putting a clean nightshirt on Dorito after dinner.

I walked over near where they were. I didn’t get too close, but I got close enough. Dorito was smiling (of course) and as I passed by, I could barely hear Carter.

He was singing to Dorito – very softly – just under his breath.