Strength for the Journey

For Wilshire Baptist Church

I was out mowing on the morning of July Fourth and looked up to see Orlando, our Cuban refugee neighbor, giving me a thumbs up from across the street. I call him a “refugee” without really knowing his story. I know his daughter came here some years ago, met and married a man from Mexico while they both worked at a large downtown hotel, and eventually brought her parents over. Refugees, immigrants, migrants, legal, illegal — I just don’t know. They’re our neighbors and good neighbors at that, and like many of us home-grown types they are mostly private and keep to themselves.

I returned the thumbs up and kept working until a while later when I made a turn with the mower and there stood Orlando, holding up a tiny cup and saucer and grinning from ear to ear. 

It’s hard to describe what I feel at these moments — and I’ve had them before — but it’s pretty much a storm of competing emotions: irritation, because my carefully scheduled mowing routine has been disrupted; anxiety, because Orlando doesn’t speak English and I don’t speak Spanish; fear, because I’m sweating buckets and I really don’t think a shot of strong Cuban coffee is the best thing in these conditions; admiration, because Orlando always makes the first brave move; and anticipation, because there is usually an unexpected discovery in these meetings.

So I let go of the mower handle, which cut off the motor, and I walked the few feet to where Orlando was standing. We traded “good mornings” and he handed me the cup and saucer, but there was a handshake at the same time and we almost spilled it all. Then came nervous laughter and the beginning of me taking small sips while he stood and watched. And then slowly, we began an awkward, broken conversation about the weather and the work I was doing — at least I think that’s what we were talking about. A little wind blew up and I said, “the breeze feels good,” and he motioned with his hands and said “brisa,” and for a moment we were in the same place.

Orlando’s wife was watching us from the porch across the street and she shouted something to him in Spanish. He pointed to my cup and then to our house and asked, “Señora?” I think he was asking if LeAnn would like some coffee too, so I said no and made a drinking motion and a swirl around my head and said, “crazy.” My meaning was that LeAnn doesn’t do well with caffeine, but Orlando may have received a different message from me.

When I emptied the cup, Orlando gave me a double thumbs up and raised his shoulders, forearms and fists. I interpreted that to mean the coffee would provide strength for the rest of my work, so I acted out running while pushing the mower. He nodded and laughed, and then his wife spoke again from across the street. Orlando raised up his shirt to reveal a large scar up under his arm and flesh that was red as a beet. He struggled a moment but found the word “radiation” and then formed a small ball with his hands, which looked to me like a tumor. “Cancer?” I asked, and he answered, “lymphoma.”

My mind flashed back to a time maybe six months earlier when I saw what looked like the whole family surrounding the door of a car that had driven up and them helping someone out of the passenger seat and slowly up the walk and into the house. They have a lot of extended family and friends and I couldn’t see who it was, but now I know it was Orlando.

Like I said earlier, I don’t know if Orlando is a refugee, migrant, immigrant, citizen or something else. But I do know that he is flesh and blood just like me and is susceptible to all that can threaten our humanity, whether it be illness, injustice or indifference. I also know he is a fighter because that’s what any of us are when our survival is at stake.

When the little coffee cup was empty and we had run out of words, I handed Orlando the cup and saucer. I offered him my best version of “gracias,” and he worked up a stilted but earnest, “Happy Fourth of July.”

Orlando turned toward his home, and I returned to my work. As I pushed the mower, I replayed the visit in my head, and then I had a thought and let the motor die again. Before going out, LeAnn had asked me to check the tomatoes, so I grabbed the blue garden bucket and picked a dozen or so Romas and cherries. I got LeAnn and we carried the bucket across the street where it seemed like the entire family met us at the door.

I believe tomatoes can make you strong, too.