Marlon and his sister
Guess who showed up at our door yesterday? Marlon! The same Marlon who used to hang out with us, Peachy's old English student who kept pestering us about getting him a visa to work in the US, the Marlon who called us out of bed on the public address system one evening of the Harvest Festival at the Moravian Church back in November 2009, when he told us he wanted to accept Jesus as his Lord. Marlon Talman. That Marlon, the one who kept flipping his hair. He wears it short now. It has been awhile.
I saw him on the street in front of the bike shop five days ago. He had just come back from Honduras. "So-and-so asked me if I knew you," he said excitedly. "He is renting your house ... a big, nice house that you have in Puerto Lempira?" I had no idea who he was talking about.
"You going to be around here for awhile?"
"Yeah."
"Why don't you drop over when you get a chance. Nutie and I live out at the end of the airstrip now."
The day before yesterday Felix came over when I was out playing basketball. He told Nutie that he had seen Marlon in front of his house. "How is he doing in his faith?" Nutie asked.
"I don't think he's doing so good," replied Felix. "At least he hasn't been to church."
"Why don't you bring him over here?"
Felix promised to do so. Nutie told me about it when I got back from basketball.
"I don't think he has been walking with the Lord," she said.
"Well, he always was a little 'fly' ..."
So Felix showed up again yesterday afternoon and Marlon was with him.
"Marlon, how are you doing in your faith?" Nutie asked.
"I have some problems," he said.
"Like what kind of problems?" I asked.
Marlon began to relate how he, the man of his fatherless household, made a promise to his mother that he would make something of himself and went to work in his uncle's wood shop next door in order to get money for college. His problems started, he said, when his uncle preferred him over his other relatives, because he saved his earnings while the rest of them went out partying. Just for that they made life difficult for him, so he took his five hundred Cordobas and struck out for Puerto Lempira, where there was said to be more work and better wages.
With just enough to pay for a room, he stowed his backpack, prayed for the Lord to give him direction, and stepped out on the street to begin his job search. Before he could make a single inquiry, a stranger, a ladino, approached him and told him that he looked just like his nephew, and that he had a job for him. He spent the next couple of days removing trash from the back of a store, throwing it in the back of a pick-up (then tossing himself on top), and surreptitiously dumping it along the roadside in the savannah outside of town. Once the garbage was disposed of, however, he was out of a job again, but that only lasted five minutes. Another Miskito kid from Nicaragua came running up to him, begging, "Please help me ... some narcos are offering me work but I can't understand what kind it is because they spoke in Spanish." So Marlon, who speaks passable Spanish, checked it out and it was legit -working as stock boys in their supermarket- so he had a steady job for the next year and a half, working crazy hours innocent of the existence of such provisions in the labor law as time-and-a-half, double time, and paid vacation. The other day the DEA showed up with the people from Hacienda -the Honduran version of the IRS- and began to make an audit of all the rags-to-riches merchants in Puerto Lempira. Of course his bosses had already disappeared, gone to their finca or on vacation to Mexico, so the authorities said they were going to kick out all the illegals. Marlon, suddenly afraid the bilateral agreement with Honduras which gives Nicaraguans legal status wasn't going to be enough to keep him out of trouble, and seeing that he had saved up enough money to make a start at college, decided that it was a good time to return home to Waspam ... besides, he had gotten news that his little sister was ill. So he stuffed his pocket-sized life back into his daypack and headed for the border, but not before a Honduran Immigration official -a good, churchgoing man- extracted a "fine" of one hundred Lempiras.
As I listened it struck me that Marlon's was a very typical story except for one unusual detail: he actually succeeded in what he had set out to do. It was a success story.
"So, Marlon," I began, "you were saying you had a lot of problems?"
"Yes," he said, "Many problems."
"It sounds to me that God was with you the whole time. He made it happen for you, Marlon!"
There was silence.
"So, did you do your work honestly? You gave it your best and didn't steal from your employer?"
"Yes."
"Did you pray every day?"
"Yes, yes. I pray for everything."
"Did you read your Bible?"
He looked a little sheepish. "No," he said. "I didn't bring my Bible."
"Did you have any adventures?" He knew what I meant by the Spanish word aventuras."
"No. I didn't spend my money on girls or drinking or no-ting. I save up all my money. The oney expense was 300 lempiras a week I have wash my clothes. Some of the other boys saw me and started saving their money too!"
"I know what it is," I said. "You didn't attend church."
"I work every Sunday," he protested, "From seven in the morning till seven at night. I don' have no time to go church."
"And so you feel that you are out of fellowship with God."
Marlon nodded silently, his head down.
"Well, we are really proud of you, Marlon," said Nutie. She was leaning toward him, beaming. "You suffered a lot of hardship, you gave up a big chunk of your life. You wanted to help your mother, right?"
"Yes."
"That's awesome."
"You've heard that story about the Moravian missionaries who sold themselves into slavery so they could go to a prison island and witness to a group of hardened convicts?..." I added. "They couldn't go to church either. They died on that island, and the Moravian Church considers them saints."
"Have you been to church since you've been back in Waspam?" Nutie asked.
Marlon gave a sideways glance at Felix. "No," he said.
When Marlon began to give account of his activities since his return, like we were judges or something, I went and stood over the chair where he sat, way inside his personal space. His narrative began to falter as he wriggled in his seat, uncomfortable.
"Tom! What are you doing?" scolded Nutie.
Finally Marlon was unable to continue. Everyone was staring at me.
"Marlon."
"What?"
"In your mind there is a man with a black suit and clerical collar standing over you, looking at you with disapproval. That's not God, that's the enemy."
Marlon looked perplexed. "What do you mean?"
"Your relationship with God and your attendance at the Moravian Church are two different things. I think you are getting them mixed up. We asked you how you were doing in your walk with God. God was with you the whole time you were in Honduras. He knows what you did and what you didn't do. The people at church don't know anything. They haven't seen you for awhile. Ask God how you are doing, then go talk to pastor Onofre and tell him everything you told us. He's our friend. I'm sure he will be happy to have you back."
"Really?"
"I'm sure of it. The man with the collar ... his name is Condemnation, and he's making you not want to go to church."
Marlon stayed for a little while longer, going over Nutie's iTunes library looking for music he could burn onto a CD. I knew he wasn't going to find anything. He wanted something a little harder. I opened some music my son Brian had loaded onto my library.
"What's that?" Marlon said, taking off his earphones.
"Switchfoot."
I like that one."
Marlon left his CD with me, asking me to burn as much as I could of the album Nothing Is Sound, oh, and also of Héroes Del Silencio, a Spanish secular 90's harder-than-your-average rock band.
"You can give me ten songs from each one," he said.
"Marlon, I said, the Héroes songs are like six or seven minutes apiece. I'll fit as many as I can."
"Okay, I'll come back tomorrow."
After he was gone, I looked over at Nutie. "Marlon is a little fly..."
"...But he'll be alright," she said, completing the sentence.
I saw him on the street in front of the bike shop five days ago. He had just come back from Honduras. "So-and-so asked me if I knew you," he said excitedly. "He is renting your house ... a big, nice house that you have in Puerto Lempira?" I had no idea who he was talking about.
"You going to be around here for awhile?"
"Yeah."
"Why don't you drop over when you get a chance. Nutie and I live out at the end of the airstrip now."
The day before yesterday Felix came over when I was out playing basketball. He told Nutie that he had seen Marlon in front of his house. "How is he doing in his faith?" Nutie asked.
"I don't think he's doing so good," replied Felix. "At least he hasn't been to church."
"Why don't you bring him over here?"
Felix promised to do so. Nutie told me about it when I got back from basketball.
"I don't think he has been walking with the Lord," she said.
"Well, he always was a little 'fly' ..."
So Felix showed up again yesterday afternoon and Marlon was with him.
"Marlon, how are you doing in your faith?" Nutie asked.
"I have some problems," he said.
"Like what kind of problems?" I asked.
Marlon began to relate how he, the man of his fatherless household, made a promise to his mother that he would make something of himself and went to work in his uncle's wood shop next door in order to get money for college. His problems started, he said, when his uncle preferred him over his other relatives, because he saved his earnings while the rest of them went out partying. Just for that they made life difficult for him, so he took his five hundred Cordobas and struck out for Puerto Lempira, where there was said to be more work and better wages.
With just enough to pay for a room, he stowed his backpack, prayed for the Lord to give him direction, and stepped out on the street to begin his job search. Before he could make a single inquiry, a stranger, a ladino, approached him and told him that he looked just like his nephew, and that he had a job for him. He spent the next couple of days removing trash from the back of a store, throwing it in the back of a pick-up (then tossing himself on top), and surreptitiously dumping it along the roadside in the savannah outside of town. Once the garbage was disposed of, however, he was out of a job again, but that only lasted five minutes. Another Miskito kid from Nicaragua came running up to him, begging, "Please help me ... some narcos are offering me work but I can't understand what kind it is because they spoke in Spanish." So Marlon, who speaks passable Spanish, checked it out and it was legit -working as stock boys in their supermarket- so he had a steady job for the next year and a half, working crazy hours innocent of the existence of such provisions in the labor law as time-and-a-half, double time, and paid vacation. The other day the DEA showed up with the people from Hacienda -the Honduran version of the IRS- and began to make an audit of all the rags-to-riches merchants in Puerto Lempira. Of course his bosses had already disappeared, gone to their finca or on vacation to Mexico, so the authorities said they were going to kick out all the illegals. Marlon, suddenly afraid the bilateral agreement with Honduras which gives Nicaraguans legal status wasn't going to be enough to keep him out of trouble, and seeing that he had saved up enough money to make a start at college, decided that it was a good time to return home to Waspam ... besides, he had gotten news that his little sister was ill. So he stuffed his pocket-sized life back into his daypack and headed for the border, but not before a Honduran Immigration official -a good, churchgoing man- extracted a "fine" of one hundred Lempiras.
As I listened it struck me that Marlon's was a very typical story except for one unusual detail: he actually succeeded in what he had set out to do. It was a success story.
"So, Marlon," I began, "you were saying you had a lot of problems?"
"Yes," he said, "Many problems."
"It sounds to me that God was with you the whole time. He made it happen for you, Marlon!"
There was silence.
"So, did you do your work honestly? You gave it your best and didn't steal from your employer?"
"Yes."
"Did you pray every day?"
"Yes, yes. I pray for everything."
"Did you read your Bible?"
He looked a little sheepish. "No," he said. "I didn't bring my Bible."
"Did you have any adventures?" He knew what I meant by the Spanish word aventuras."
"No. I didn't spend my money on girls or drinking or no-ting. I save up all my money. The oney expense was 300 lempiras a week I have wash my clothes. Some of the other boys saw me and started saving their money too!"
"I know what it is," I said. "You didn't attend church."
"I work every Sunday," he protested, "From seven in the morning till seven at night. I don' have no time to go church."
"And so you feel that you are out of fellowship with God."
Marlon nodded silently, his head down.
"Well, we are really proud of you, Marlon," said Nutie. She was leaning toward him, beaming. "You suffered a lot of hardship, you gave up a big chunk of your life. You wanted to help your mother, right?"
"Yes."
"That's awesome."
"You've heard that story about the Moravian missionaries who sold themselves into slavery so they could go to a prison island and witness to a group of hardened convicts?..." I added. "They couldn't go to church either. They died on that island, and the Moravian Church considers them saints."
"Have you been to church since you've been back in Waspam?" Nutie asked.
Marlon gave a sideways glance at Felix. "No," he said.
When Marlon began to give account of his activities since his return, like we were judges or something, I went and stood over the chair where he sat, way inside his personal space. His narrative began to falter as he wriggled in his seat, uncomfortable.
"Tom! What are you doing?" scolded Nutie.
Finally Marlon was unable to continue. Everyone was staring at me.
"Marlon."
"What?"
"In your mind there is a man with a black suit and clerical collar standing over you, looking at you with disapproval. That's not God, that's the enemy."
Marlon looked perplexed. "What do you mean?"
"Your relationship with God and your attendance at the Moravian Church are two different things. I think you are getting them mixed up. We asked you how you were doing in your walk with God. God was with you the whole time you were in Honduras. He knows what you did and what you didn't do. The people at church don't know anything. They haven't seen you for awhile. Ask God how you are doing, then go talk to pastor Onofre and tell him everything you told us. He's our friend. I'm sure he will be happy to have you back."
"Really?"
"I'm sure of it. The man with the collar ... his name is Condemnation, and he's making you not want to go to church."
Marlon stayed for a little while longer, going over Nutie's iTunes library looking for music he could burn onto a CD. I knew he wasn't going to find anything. He wanted something a little harder. I opened some music my son Brian had loaded onto my library.
"What's that?" Marlon said, taking off his earphones.
"Switchfoot."
I like that one."
Marlon left his CD with me, asking me to burn as much as I could of the album Nothing Is Sound, oh, and also of Héroes Del Silencio, a Spanish secular 90's harder-than-your-average rock band.
"You can give me ten songs from each one," he said.
"Marlon, I said, the Héroes songs are like six or seven minutes apiece. I'll fit as many as I can."
"Okay, I'll come back tomorrow."
After he was gone, I looked over at Nutie. "Marlon is a little fly..."
"...But he'll be alright," she said, completing the sentence.
