So just writing that last post made me think of the short story I wrote for one of my Spanish literature courses this term. I have it in both Spanish and English, but I kind of prefer it in Spanish. (Although I don't really know how it sounds to a native speaker. My professor gave me a good mark at least.) I guess the English wouldn't be so simple if I wrote it in English originally.
The inspiration for this story was from two experiences and two women I met while working with YWAM (one in Vancouver and one in Toronto). Maybe sometime I will share the real story, but for now, here is my creative version where the two meet (and where I am not exactly a character).
Don't worry, the English translation follows!
¡Qué
ejemplo!
Ella casi no la ve: la mujer encorvada, cubierta de mantas casi parece como un montón de basura apoyándose contra el café. Es una de las noches oscuras y frías de Winnipeg y ella se ha envuelto la cara con una bufanda. Se ensimisma, pensando en el fin de semana pasado cuando alojó en su casa a una joven misionera. Hacía sólo dos meses que había asistido a la iglesia cuando hicieron un anuncio pidiéndole a alguien que proporcionara una habitación por una noche para una oradora invitada, una misionera, así que ofreció su casa. Sabía que no tenía mucho que ofrecer, pero ella podía ofrecerle su cuarto y así ella compartiría con su hija adolescente.
Ella esperaba que no le importara a la misionera que ella fumaba, que los amigos de su hija fumarían yerba en el balcón, que tenía más gatos de lo que debería. Trataba de hacer algo para cenar, a pesar de que el día sería un día largo de trabajo. Cuando llegó a casa, se dio cuenta que no había tenido tiempo de lavar los platos de ayer, pero no había tiempo para hacerlo ahora ya que había que cocinar algo para la misionera invitada.
Fue una comida sencilla, la conversación fue ligera y somera. Ella se preguntaba si la misionera estaba satisfecha. Observaba que la misionera parecía incómoda.
(La misionera era alérgica a los gatos; y tenía una aversión fuerte al desbarajuste. A ella no le molestaba la suciedad en los países en vías de desarrollo, pero ella no podía comprender porque esta mujer canadiense se había ofrecido a hospedarla el fin de semana sin haber limpiado la cama. ¡Qué ejemplo de hospitalidad!)
Actualmente cuando la mujer hospitalaria camina esas calles de Winnipeg, perdida en estas preocupaciones, se recuerda de algunas palabras que una vez leyó:
Veía cómo los ricos echaban dinero en el arca de las ofrendas. Vio a una viuda pobre, que echó dos monedas de muy poco valor y dijo:
— Les aseguro que esta viuda pobre ha echado más que todos los demás. Porque todos los otros echaron como ofrenda lo que les sobraba, mientras que ella, dentro de su necesidad, ha echado todo lo que tenía para vivir.
La mujer hospitalaria y generosa cruza hacia el montón en la acera, dejar desaparecer su inquietud propia.
— ¿Puedo invitarle a un café y un sándwich? — pregunta.
Las dos mujeres se sientan juntas en la acera, se comulgan, comparten historias, comparten sus vidas. Aprenden la una de la otra.
En el camino de vuelta a su casa desordenada, la mujer hospitalaria reflexiona sobre las palabras de la mujer pobre que llama a las calles, su hogar:
— Cada mañana me levanto y doy gracias al Creador.
¡Qué ejemplo de gratitud!
What an
example!
She almost doesn't see her; the
hunched over woman covered in blankets almost looks like a pile of
garbage leaning up against the coffee shop. It's one of those dark,
cold Winnipeg nights, where she has her own face wrapped up tight in
a scarf. She was also lost in her own thoughts, thinking about last
weekend when she hosted a young missionary in her home. She had only
been going to church for a couple of months when they made an
announcement asking for someone to provide a room for one night for a
guest speaker missionary so she offered her home. She knew she
didn't have much to offer, but she could offer her bedroom and share
with her teenage daughter.
She hoped that the missionary wouldn't
mind that she smoked, that her daughter's friends would probably be
doing pot on the balcony, that she had more cats than she probably
should. She would try to make something for dinner, even though the
particular day would be a long one at work. When she got home she
realized she hadn't had time to do the dishes from yesterday, but
there was no time to do them now—she had to cook something for the
missionary guest.
It was a simple meal, conversation was
light and superficial. She wondered if the missionary was happy.
She noticed that the missionary seemed uncomfortable.
(The missionary was allergic to cats;
and she had a strong aversion to clutter. Dirt in the developing
world didn't bother her, but she couldn't understand why this
Canadian woman would offer to put her up for the weekend, but not
take the time to clean off the bed! What an example of
hospitality?!)
Now as the woman walks those Winnipeg
streets, lost in those worries, she recalls some words she read once:
Looking up, he saw the rich putting
their gifts into the temple treasury. He also saw a poor widow put
in two very small copper coins and said, “I tell you the truth,
this poor widow has put in more than all the others. All these others
gave their gifts out of their wealth; but she out of her need put in
all she had to live on.”
The hospitable and generous woman is
now going over to the pile on the sidewalk, leaving her own
preoccupation to disappear. “Can I buy you a coffee and sandwich?”
she asks. The two women are now sitting together on the sidewalk,
communing, sharing stories, sharing lives. Learning from one
another.
On
her way
back to
her disorderly
home, the
hospitable woman
reflects on
the words
she heard
from the
poor woman
who calls
the streets
her home:
“Every morning
I wake
up and
give thanks
to the
Creator.”
What
an example
of gratitude!
