During one game of stick caps I realized there was a
particular sound drifting on the breeze that explained the aroma ever present
since arriving at this particular location.
When I needed a break from pitching caps I turned to Maria and pointed
back behind the houses while making pig sounds in my throat. I figured a noise like that would transcend
any language barrier, and she caught it immediately and grabbed me by the arm
and took me back for show and tell. The
show part worked out really well, but the tell part was lost on me, though I
smiled a lot and kept saying, "Si."
I was delighted to see three litters of little piggies in various stages
of development, doing what piggies do in their mud havens. I pantomimed eating and
pointed to the pigs, asking if they were going to be using these pigs for food,
and received confirmation from Maria and her little friend. While my camera was out snapping photos of
the pigs, they wanted some photos in that setting that included them so I
happily obliged.
We took turns posing and shooting, but just before I was
about to suggest another angle a woman came rushing up and grabbed me by the
arm, gesturing for me to go with her.
She drew her hand across her neck twice in an unmistakable sign of
death, and I willingly followed her to what I was sure would be another
adventure. She was going to take me to
see a pig being butchered, and while I didn't relish the thought of observing
such a grisly business, I am a realist so I might as well put my eyeballs where
my mouth is all too willing to go and watch the part of the bacon that happens
between the pig and the supermarket.
Those BLT's might never taste the same again, but I was a guest and this
dear lady was trying to share something with me that seemed to be very important
to her, judging by how urgently she was leading me through a maze of small
dwellings. Imagine my surprise when we
stepped inside an open door and there lay an old woman on a bare mattress,
covered only by a sheet, apparently dead. God
gave me the grace to switch gears immediately from thoughts of bacon to
thoughts of sorrow and grief in this home.
There was only one thing I could possibly do that would be of any value
to this woman and her family, and that was to share her sadness and pray for
God to provide comfort and strength. I
immediately expressed my sorrow to her for her loss, and as I reached to
embrace her she threw herself into my arms as if I were a life preserver thrown
to a drowning person in an open sea. I
prayed for her and for her family, asking God to bring comfort and to meet all
their needs, while she cried on my shoulder and petted my arms and back in an
emotional display of painful loss. The
two little girls who had come along were sitting in chairs just watching,
showing no emotion and saying nothing.
Was the old woman in the bed their grandmother? Or were these children in this room with me simply because of the openness of the culture and the door? After the prayer I simply stood and looked at
the woman in the bed, with my arm around the waist of the lady who had brought me here, hoping that my quiet show of respect
would be understood and received as the love it was meant to convey.
On a zigzagging path around these buildings . . .
to this door where death lay in wait or had already come.
In the Dominican Republic it is common to bury
the dead within 24 hours. Due to the
tropical climate and the cultural belief in not embalming, this is a
necessity for dealing with the rapid deterioration of a body. I didn't have the opportunity to see a rural
cemetery where the poor lay their loved ones to rest, but the cemetery in
Jarabacoa was unlike any I have ever seen.
My guess is that these above ground crypts are primarily owned by
wealthier residents, judging by how elaborate many of them seem to be. The poor in this town would most likely rent or borrow a burial space for a period of seven years, after which the family would either collect the bones and move them to a different location, or they would have the option of buying a permanent site.
Perhaps the old woman in the bed hadn't yet breathed her
last. It's impossible for me to be sure
since we were unable to communicate with words.
But whether death had already claimed her, or whether her final
heartbeats were still in countdown, I can only hope that she knew Jesus before
she took her last breath.
