A Fleeting Moment

I threw my right leg over the motorcycle seat and settled in. Immediately thereafter I began to question a few things, my sanity chief among them.  I also wondered if this rickety contrivance which appeared to be held together with baling wire and prayer would actually hold the weight of both me and the driver. Now the driver was a slight fella with a winning smile and nerves of steel, so I knew it would carry him. After all he had come up the hill on it; but when I sat down and heard the springs bottom out under my weight, I felt the rising of a little tickle of apprehension in the middle of my stomach. Shortly thereafter that tickle became a bit more intense as we careened down the mountain toward the Caribbean Sea on a road that appeared more liquid than solid when it appeared at all. Thanks be to God, my driver was skilled and for the most part we remained airborne, but once in a while we would return to earth and on one such occasion we came upon a particularly ambitious hole in the ground.  Shortly thereafter my stomach was propelled into my throat while my overactive nerve center moved from my brain to the seat of my pants. That one hurt.

On top of all of this I had nothing much to hold onto. My driver had made it clear from the beginning that hugging him and screaming like a little girl just wasn’t acceptable. So I held on to the back of the seat, watched my life as it flashed before me and kept my audible terror to a minimum.  

It was about this time that I risked opening my eyes and what I saw amazed me. Paola, a lovely young Colombian woman, my friend and contact person, was on a similar contraption right in front of me. While I was hanging on for dear life, and wondering about final arrangements; she was doing her hair while watching me and grinning from ear to ear; so much for the fearless, strong and daring team leader facade.

Embarrassment and terror aside, little did I know that this wonderful death defying act I was in the midst of would lead to one of the most meaningful moments in my life.

As we returned to earth for the final time and the cycle glided to a halt, a wonderful sight lay before me.

There is truly no apt way of describing the wonder of a quiet, secluded Caribbean beach. As your eyes become accustomed to the glare, your mind cannot take in all of the beauty at once. The water, as clear as crystal with just a hint of lime for color, dazzles your senses. The azure sky (I have always wanted to write that), filled with delicate clouds and reflecting off of the waves gives the sea and the sky a turquoise hue. Where they come together is anyone’s guess. Somewhere near the horizon the sea and sky become one.      

The lazy breeze traces its way through the palms providing a counterpoint to the crashing waves, and together they sing a soothing melody which beckons the listener to find a seat and rest a while.

I had accepted the invitation and I was doing just that; sitting with Paola on a piece of old driftwood, enjoying the peace of the place and the conversation of a good friend. We watched as the little children from a nearby village played at the water’s edge with the rest of our party.    
In the midst of our conversation a man of about forty, who appeared as if by magic, caught Paola’s attention. He wanted a word. They spoke for a moment or two after which she came and asked if I would be willing to go with him to offer a prayer for an ailing old man a short way down the beach. A bit aggravated at having my rest disturbed I reluctantly followed him accompanied by Paola, as we walked down the beach toward a little mud sided thatched roof hut in the distance.

I had left my shoes back at the driftwood forgetting the little pieces of broken coral and jagged shells that littered the ground under the palms, so it was slow going for a while there as we picked our way forward. Eventually, however, we arrived at the little home. It had a couple of rooms, no running water or power, no glass in the windows, another gift of the Caribbean, and it held the faint odor of persistent illness and age.    

As we walked in the heat was oppressive. Sitting in the hall on a ladder back chair was an old man, desperately trying to catch whatever breeze offered itself through the opened front door. His name was Fernando. He was 90 years of age or so, unable to speak or walk, but he had a wonderful smile and peace about him that was a tonic. His eyes, milky with age, bore no desperation, just a gentle acceptance coupled with the patience that only great age can produce. His wife, whose name escapes me, was leaning in the doorway of the little kitchen. She offered a weary, but genuine smile, and her love for her husband was truly a blessing to observe.

Paola asked her what prayer was needed. She answered nothing specific, just a prayer would do. So with Fernando’s permission, I knelt down beside him and put my hand on his bare shoulder.

There have been instances in my life when I knew that Christ was present, but seldom have I been so blessed as to lay my hand on his shoulder. As I prayed the peace of Christ moved from Fernando to me, and for a moment, for a fleeting moment, I understood the peace that passes all understanding. There was nothing but that little hut, Fernando, Christ and me.

A moment later the breeze moved my hair and cooled my skin, and I came back, but I will never forget that moment in time when all doubt was erased and true peace was found.
​
I pray the same for all of you.
​
In Christ,
Pastor Tony