Junior.
Junior found his father. Just last year one of our staff members came to him with a photo, an identity, a name. Junior finally had the opportunity to meet his long-lost dad for the very first time.
A whirlwind of emotions. So much pain over what never was mingled such anxious anticipation over what could be. Excitement—a long dreamt-of reunion. Fear—would Junior be disappointed in the man he would find behind the photo?
I was there. The day they met. Tears are surfacing to my eyes as I write this, just remembering the moment. A little awkward at first, to be sure. So much history. So much life lived apart. Will they be able to sift through a list of unshared-memories and reach each other’s heart?
“You look so much alike,” I remember saying to Junior’s dad as he and his wife sat across from their newfound son… a son amongst other brothers, who were now playing on the playground beside us. Since coming to know Jesus a few years prior, Junior's father had begun to turn his life around. Though such a hope-filled testimony, I wondered if Junior was mourning in this moment as he watched his siblings laughing under the care of their dad... vicariously experiencing a life he never had.
Junior found his father. Just last year one of our staff members came to him with a photo, an identity, a name. Junior finally had the opportunity to meet his long-lost dad for the very first time.
A whirlwind of emotions. So much pain over what never was mingled such anxious anticipation over what could be. Excitement—a long dreamt-of reunion. Fear—would Junior be disappointed in the man he would find behind the photo?
I was there. The day they met. Tears are surfacing to my eyes as I write this, just remembering the moment. A little awkward at first, to be sure. So much history. So much life lived apart. Will they be able to sift through a list of unshared-memories and reach each other’s heart?
“You look so much alike,” I remember saying to Junior’s dad as he and his wife sat across from their newfound son… a son amongst other brothers, who were now playing on the playground beside us. Since coming to know Jesus a few years prior, Junior's father had begun to turn his life around. Though such a hope-filled testimony, I wondered if Junior was mourning in this moment as he watched his siblings laughing under the care of their dad... vicariously experiencing a life he never had.
“You have an incredible son,” I encouraged
Junior’s regret-filled father as we looked at the boy-now-young-man seated before us. “We are so proud of him.”
Junior. The same Junior who is now seated with us in the ‘adult car’ one year later.
As we drive back to the hotel, our project's Honduran director shares part of his own story, “I never had a father in my life, so I have had to raise my kids without having that example.”
Without the example of an earthly father, that is. But this once fatherless man before us does have an example, he knows the example all examples are after: the Father.
“I have learned so much about God through being a father. The love I have for my kids? I just, wow…" the father gushes as he maneuvers the steering wheel. "You can’t explain that kind of love. The love the Father has for his children.”
Later that day, I see one of our current Prodigal-sons wading around in the pool when it is time to leave again for the beach. I plan on passing by him, but I sense the Lord’s prompting to draw near. So I do.
“Are you looking for something?” I ask, noticing that his eyes are searching the pool floor.
“Junior’s watch,” he responds without lifting his gaze.
Oh, poor Junior. His cell phone also got its own little baptism that day. This kid can’t catch a break.
I start circling the edge and peer into the murky water. All I find are leaves.
The Lord prompts my heart to pray… with our Prodigal. Uncomfortable, I attempt shoving out the thought. God-stuff can be a runaway trigger for this kid. He doesn’t want anything to do with it. But the prompting resurfaces, so with just enough Spirit-filled bravery I say, “Let’s pray.”
Too nervous to see how he’ll respond to my 'holier-than-thou' suggestion, I jump right in, “Father, help us to find this watch, just like you have found us.”
Prodigal boy has stopped looking. He’s not so sure he wants to find the watch anymore. Or maybe, like me, he is afraid that the Lord won’t answer this prayer... confirming his suspicion that God isn’t with us after all. I've found that sometimes it is easier not to pray for things… that way it doesn’t give God an opportunity to fail us. But since I'm pretty sure He’s the one who prompted me to ask, I have just enough hope that He’ll come through.
“Go on, look,” I sound more confident than I feel. He hesitates. “Go to the middle,” I say. “Keep looking.”
He dives in, and comes up… without a watch. A few more dives. Still no watch. Come on, God, show this boy that you love him. Show him that you hear us. Show him that you’ve found him.
All of a sudden I see Junior rush onto the scene along with another boy, one who is currently playing the role of cranky skeptic in our motley crew. Junior puts on the goggles he just retrieved from his cabin and dives in with Skeptic and Prodigal. Still no watch.
I make one more circle along the edge… and stop. I see something black. It’s not a leaf.
“Right there,” I point.
Prodigal rushes forward, dives in, and bursts out of the water… with the watch.
“Esoooo!” I cheer, then reach out and fist-pump the resurfaced Prodigal. “The ones who prayed!”
“Huh?” Skeptic is confused by our exchange.
“Kelsey prayed,” Prodigal shrugs.
“We prayed,” I say.
Junior kisses his fingers and points them up to the sky, “GRACIAS, BUEN PADRE!”
“Pray for me!” Skeptic inserts, forgetting to uphold his doubtful demeanor. “I lost my sock!”
I smile and roll my eyes before walking away. Gracias, buen Padre. Gracias.
Junior. The same Junior who is now seated with us in the ‘adult car’ one year later.
As we drive back to the hotel, our project's Honduran director shares part of his own story, “I never had a father in my life, so I have had to raise my kids without having that example.”
Without the example of an earthly father, that is. But this once fatherless man before us does have an example, he knows the example all examples are after: the Father.
“I have learned so much about God through being a father. The love I have for my kids? I just, wow…" the father gushes as he maneuvers the steering wheel. "You can’t explain that kind of love. The love the Father has for his children.”
------------------------
Later that day, I see one of our current Prodigal-sons wading around in the pool when it is time to leave again for the beach. I plan on passing by him, but I sense the Lord’s prompting to draw near. So I do.
“Are you looking for something?” I ask, noticing that his eyes are searching the pool floor.
“Junior’s watch,” he responds without lifting his gaze.
Oh, poor Junior. His cell phone also got its own little baptism that day. This kid can’t catch a break.
I start circling the edge and peer into the murky water. All I find are leaves.
The Lord prompts my heart to pray… with our Prodigal. Uncomfortable, I attempt shoving out the thought. God-stuff can be a runaway trigger for this kid. He doesn’t want anything to do with it. But the prompting resurfaces, so with just enough Spirit-filled bravery I say, “Let’s pray.”
Too nervous to see how he’ll respond to my 'holier-than-thou' suggestion, I jump right in, “Father, help us to find this watch, just like you have found us.”
Prodigal boy has stopped looking. He’s not so sure he wants to find the watch anymore. Or maybe, like me, he is afraid that the Lord won’t answer this prayer... confirming his suspicion that God isn’t with us after all. I've found that sometimes it is easier not to pray for things… that way it doesn’t give God an opportunity to fail us. But since I'm pretty sure He’s the one who prompted me to ask, I have just enough hope that He’ll come through.
“Go on, look,” I sound more confident than I feel. He hesitates. “Go to the middle,” I say. “Keep looking.”
He dives in, and comes up… without a watch. A few more dives. Still no watch. Come on, God, show this boy that you love him. Show him that you hear us. Show him that you’ve found him.
All of a sudden I see Junior rush onto the scene along with another boy, one who is currently playing the role of cranky skeptic in our motley crew. Junior puts on the goggles he just retrieved from his cabin and dives in with Skeptic and Prodigal. Still no watch.
I make one more circle along the edge… and stop. I see something black. It’s not a leaf.
“Right there,” I point.
Prodigal rushes forward, dives in, and bursts out of the water… with the watch.
“Esoooo!” I cheer, then reach out and fist-pump the resurfaced Prodigal. “The ones who prayed!”
“Huh?” Skeptic is confused by our exchange.
“Kelsey prayed,” Prodigal shrugs.
“We prayed,” I say.
Junior kisses his fingers and points them up to the sky, “GRACIAS, BUEN PADRE!”
“Pray for me!” Skeptic inserts, forgetting to uphold his doubtful demeanor. “I lost my sock!”
I smile and roll my eyes before walking away. Gracias, buen Padre. Gracias.
------------------------
The next morning I see our project director walking in my direction. He stops in front of me. “Junior’s dad had an
accident this morning,” he tells me with a grim gaze. “He
passed away.”
Oh, Junior…
A year ago, you met your father… Today, you will hear he has been taken away…
My sadness is comforted by the clear demonstration of the Lord’s hand on Junior throughout this trip. Covering Junior, guiding Junior. I think of the watch… and the phone… Gracias, buen Padre… I know it is no accident that Junior has been the boy accompanying us in the adult car, saturated in such rich conversation and reminders of our heavenly Father’s love. I know the Lord is here. That doesn’t erase the pain, but it does remind me that He is with us in it. That whether Junior knows it now or not, He is with him… in every moment.
All of us in ‘the adult car’ gather up our things, and somberly take our seats. Our little group is leaving our beach adventure early in order to arrive in time for the burial.
“Do you have your phone?” our leader asks before we pull out.
“It’s in the back,” Junior answers. His wet phone is buried in a bag of dry sand.
After a length of silence, I lean forward and ask the tear-glazed young man seated in front of me, “Why didn’t you just throw the phone away when it got wet?”
His head snaps towards me. What kind of a question is that?!
“Why not just throw it away?” I repeat.
Junior mumbles something I can barely hear, but I catch the drift: he believes it will work again.
“We don’t throw away what we value,” I affirm. “It’s worth it to wait… for it to come back to life again.”
I give a soft squeeze to his shoulder and sink back in my sit. We pass the next moments in silence.
Lighthearted conversation begins to surface. In all the change, I am thankful that this car and its occupants have been a constant for us amidst the chaos. Laughing over Marcos’ fixation with marshmallows, running out on the side of the road when caught in heavy traffic, talking about our favorite movies—all of this feels so normal and oddly refreshing.
And then we pull in... to a house packed with people—known to Junior's dad, but unknown to him. Gathered outside, a large group of family and friends from his church listen to a well-known story: Jesus raising Lazarus.
“That’s his son,” I hear an old woman whisper beside us as we walk deeper into the house, where we are presented with an open-faced casket. No fancy makeup in Honduras, just raw, unadulterated death. Junior nods and walks back out with a firm, resolved gaze after glimpsing his father’s now life-less face. Since everyone has been waiting for us to arrive, the crowd now loads the casket in the back of a truck. We all get in our cars and follow behind.
I see someone on a bicycle beside us. I think about what it must be like to be one of the tires. Always going around the same axel, again and again and again… Never feeling like you are getting anywhere. Just endless circles. And yet… the bicycle is moving. The whole time. The bicycle is going somewhere. The bicycle has a rider.
And now here I am, at another funeral. Another not-always-genuinely weepy crowd. Another pile of dirt being thrown on someone’s death box. Another blow to my brother’s already-broken heart. And I already know, this will happen again.
They say history repeats itself. I agree. But what if these moments, these stories, this seemingly tragic circle of life were more like tires on a bicycle. Though it may not seem like it to us, we really are going somewhere. We have a Driver.
“Let’s go,” Junior tells us after we've handed out the last bag of water to the hot and thirsty crowd. The other female staff member and I follow behind as we watch the father-less father of our project walk silently in stride with our Father’s son. Together.
Though the tires keep circling, I have hope for where the bicycle is going. The Driver, our Good Father, is bringing us Home.
“The LORD watches over the sojourners;
he upholds the widow and the fatherless...”
Psalm 146:9
(The very verse from my Psalm of the day that I 'happened' to be meditating on right before I received the news about Junior's dad)
Psalm 146:9
(The very verse from my Psalm of the day that I 'happened' to be meditating on right before I received the news about Junior's dad)
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