Not My People

I followed the footsteps ahead with my eyes fastened to the ground. Dog poop. It was common on the winding dirt paths. A book title floated through my mind, Street Dogs of San Marcos, and I called out to José, “Hey, I just had an idea!” I shared my imagination of a beautiful coffee table book that could raise funds to care for the hundreds of homeless animals. “It’s more of a ‘feed the children’ kind of feel—photography and stories that are poignant and maybe a little tragic.”

“Oh my gosh,” he replied. “That’s a fabulous idea!” In his usual style, José focused his laser-sharp discernment on the idea and developed it beyond my original thought. “What about influential people and their dogs? That’d be a great way to recognize leaders in our village too.”

We sparked and sparred ideas as we walked in and out of small open-air shops and browsed booths with fresh produce and flowers along the the main footpath. José paused for a moment and asked, “What were we shopping for again?”  

“Um, dinner?”

His laugh resonated, “Yeah, but—”

“Green peppers,” I prompted.

“Oh yeah!” He picked through a bushel and found one. He held it up to the native shopkeeper and asked, “¿Tienes más?” She shook her head no. Bell peppers were hard to find that day. Thankfully he knew how to have conversations in Spanish! I didn’t know the language at all. Every trip I made to a tienda ended with them showing me the calculator so I’d know how much to pay.

I pointed to a deep green pepper that looked like a massive jalapeño. “What about those? You said they were mild.” 

He frowned a bit and examined it. “It’s worth a try. Find the biggest ones.” 

We dug through the options until a voice called from behind, “José!”

Everyone greeted him in the street, and many locals joked that he was the unofficial mayor of San Marcos. A woman approached and kissed him on the cheek, “Are you going to the barbeque? There’s a ton of new, hot gay guys there!”

José laughed and said, “I suppose I could go size them up!” He turned to me and asked, “Want to go? We don’t have to stay long.”

Being a curious follower, I agreed and the three of us walked down a stone path to the lake surrounded by volcanoes. Music pumped our ears long before we approached the gate. We followed the sounds to a primitive concrete dance floor and expansive tropical lawn packed with bodies.

Our impromptu hostess introduced me to people seated on nearby mats. “Plop down anywhere!” I did and went into people-watching mode. It was very different from my world back in the United States.

José didn’t sit, but flitted among the people who called out and approached from every direction with warm embraces, “José! José!” His body swayed to the music during conversations punctuated with brilliant flashes of smile. He was the type of man everyone seemed to know or want to know. I watched, equally captivated. He seemed to fit in everywhere!

I “lucked out” to have José as a host. There was no better person to help me navigate a village of strangers. I didn’t realize he was American until we met in person. His name was Spanish and he looked like he could be of Latin origin, but he was a gringo and only learned the language after arriving in San Marcos five years earlier. Most locals didn’t speak English, but almost anyone with lighter skin did. People came from all over the world to live in the sleepy village full of Mayans and hippies. José bridged all the gaps, and every person I met so far was through him. 

The English-speaking hippies on the mats near me became my attempt to meet people on my own. A young blonde in a scant sun dress was an artist trying to find her own expression. The man who joined her seemed older and more saturated in the mystical culture. I asked for clarification on his name more than once. He seemed irritated that “everyone” did that. It was a hippie name he adopted for himself, so how was I to know? I forgot it soon after. The slender near-perfect older woman with the large, black sun hat shared her hash cupcake with the sun-dress girl. She was unusually polished with manicured nails and light makeup. She reminded me of a trophy wife—just not married and more boho than bling. They were not “my people.” 

Rain drops began to spot the mats and José approached, “You think we should go?” He held his hand out to the rain and looked up into the clouds. 

“Whatever you think,” I said.

The drops increased. “We should go!” We packed our belongings and disappeared with the crowd flowing through the gardens

Rainy season was no joke in the rain forest. It usually rained every day in the late afternoon or early evening. Most days, the downpour came and went fast. Other days it furiously pelted through the night. But the best days were when rain came as a reminder to the land that it was not forgotten with the soft voice of gentle rain. Today was not that day.

José lived the equivalent of two blocks away. Before we were halfway there, it poured. Neither of us brought an umbrella since the initial errand was a short walk for dinner party supplies. We ran with heads down to navigate mud, puddles, and poop. By the time we reached his towering blue metal gate, we and our groceries were drenched.

I fumbled for the key, “What time is everyone coming?”

“Five-thirty or so, maybe six or six-thirty,” he said. 

I laughed. Time was fluid in San Marcos.

We slowed our pace under the vine-covered walkway and climbed the circular outdoor staircase to the rooftop kitchen. We deposited our bags before dispersing to separate floors. José built the house and designed a beautiful bedroom suite on the third floor. I rented one of the second-floor rooms with a shared bathroom, but the other bedroom was acting as storage space, so I had the floor to myself. I mopped the rivulets of water streaming from my hair and decided a towel-off and quick change was all I needed. I just had an outdoor shower, after all!

José had music playing and was already frying bacon when I returned to the rooftop. 

“What can I do?”

He nodded to the bag with onions, “Can you chop up one of those?”

“Sure.” I selected a cutting board and knife. I needed to keep myself busy—give myself a focus to hide behind while I warmed up to the next round of strangers. As long as José was in charge and I could help him, I felt comfortable. 

Three guests from three countries were expected. The Indonesian and German arrived together—opposites. Kartika was exotic and extremely petite with an abundance of dark curls. Ulla was plain-featured and unusually tall with blonde hair she washed weekly in herbs she boiled over a fire. She never married and was past the age of retirement. Kartika was no longer married, but had a daughter and still lived with the father. Complex. She was still young and desired by men of all ages. Her sweet spirit stood out from others. I had noticed that from afar. Even that night, Kartika walked Ulla to José’s house and held the umbrella because Ulla broke her arm a week earlier. Somehow people in the village know these details about one another.

Mariana, the American from New York City, arrived in a flurry without an umbrella. She was drenched like we were an hour earlier. She asked José for dry clothes, changed, and swept into the kitchen like she owned it—no nonsense, like a New Yorker—and danced to the music as she pitched in with the dinner preparations. Mariana and José were friends, so she had been through this ritual many times. We had a brief introduction weeks before, but no conversation. 

She spoke to me for the first time, “What are you doing?”

“Cutting onions.”

“Well, put down that knife and dance!” Mariana put hands in the air and swirled her hips—nearly skin and bones, yet lovely at the same time. Kartika joined her. Their freedom drew me.

I obeyed her command and took a twirl. Awkward. Liberating. I laughed and let my body sway, arms raised, legs rhythmic. Is this how other people live? I remembered my youth when I danced and laughed. I think I need to live like this too. I promised myself to bring the moment with me and danced back to the cutting board.

This time I chopped to the music and let myself listen and sway. It was no longer my hiding place or my task to check off. I was in the moment, aware . . . visible.

José turned from the skillet to the guests, “Have you seen our video yet?” He referred to the worship songs we did sign language for and posted to Facebook. They hadn’t. “Let’s have a performance!” His excitement soared and mine plummeted. I thought he would bring out the videos on his laptop like he had done before. 

Oh dear God, really? In person? I mean wasn’t it breakthrough enough to—Okay, Lord, yes it was beautiful. Your presence—right. Okay. Bring Your presence. Share the peace. My mind quieted. All I need to do is worship You. I put my fast-beating heart into God’s still hands. Humility. I breathed it in.

José interrupted my inner conversation with plans. He and I would perform for the guests first, then teach the signs, and finally we would all experience it together. “Let’s go get our shawls!”

He started down the spiral stairs. I followed. Each of us had woolen wraps for cool nights given to us by the celebrity author who brought us together. He managed her property; I came to Guatemala for her writing residency; We became fast friends.

I tried to remember our simple choreography. “I can’t remember exactly what we did,” I worried!

He laughed and rattled through a condensed version that I couldn’t follow. Humility, I reminded myself. Put yourself in God’s presence. Then I heard a whisper in my heart, “Just love Me.” 

I knew it was all that mattered. Still, I felt vulnerable—exposed and unpracticed. It didn’t matter to José. I admired him for that. He lived fully. Transparent. Humble. Exposed. Generous. Imperfect. 

He once explained, “I already surrendered to death. What have I got to lose?” Death was suicide—trauma, pain, abuse, addiction. His initial attempt left him alive and hurting. He gave away everything he owned from his lavish life except for his puppy and one backpack of necessities. On the shores of Costa Rica where he planned to die in paradise, the worship song Oceans held his heart. God revived him with hope and love. His life was now one of generosity and beauty.

José wrapped himself with a flourish, the camel-colored fabric draping him like a statue in a cathedral. The smile that usually flashed white now took the form of reverent, full lips resting as if a holy kiss awaited. Truly, it did. His peaceful countenance illustrated the definition of worship with perfection: “to kiss toward.” I should take a picture! I resisted the thought and laughed at the nerdy urge to interpret Greek and Hebrew words. 

The music started. I adjusted my cloak, letting it cover my body. I heard within, “There’s no need to hide.” I smiled at the voice of my love, my Lord, and focused on Him as the words came—haunting, melodic—“Yeshua, Yeshua, Yeshua.” Sung in Hebrew, my heart rings the name in English, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. 

We sign in repetition and succession: Jesus; God; Holy Spirit. Our hands make the symbols of identity with graceful arcs, but it’s our hearts that are on stage. Love. I feel love. And peace, too. The sign for God lifts to Heaven as if to acknowledge Him, and when I return my hand, I let it touch my cheek as a lover would. I press into the caress and pull my hands to my heart. I’m with my God.

My heart is full. The room is still. The music fades.

Mariana rushes to me. “I must hug you!” Her embrace is impassioned. Kartika claps her hands and gushes about our “prayer dance” as she calls it. Ulla, always the thinker, asks with her thick German accent, “Where did this come from? Do you do this in the USA? Is this what churches do?” She is surprised that it didn’t originate from any specific place—just kind of happened one night as José and I had spiritual conversations.

The guests draw close. Curious. Eager. They mirror and practice the simple sign language. Ulla tries with one arm, her other in a sling. She exclaims with a winged gesture, “I cannot!” 

We all laugh and agree that it’s not about the signs anyway. “Make it your own,” we say. Kartika pipes in, “Or just dance!” It’s about experiencing . . . whatever that beautiful moment was, maybe peace. They are not Christians as José and I profess, but in this moment we are together connecting with each other and with God.

The music begins again and we enter sacred expression together. Silent tears leave wet trails down my cheeks as I realize they—these strangers—are now my people.