Our bus bumped and swerved as it slowly made its way to a place that was very familiar to some of us, who had been there a time or two before. Here and there, boys rode horses and herd cattle and waved as we drove by. Young girls chased pigs along a dried-up creek bed. And mothers walked dusty pathways carrying bundles on their heads.
For some in our group, this was a homecoming of sorts to the remote Nicaragua village of Abagansca. The name of this place – loosely translated from some nearly forgotten Indian tongue – means “river with little black pebbles.” I had been there twice before -- and my heart was beating faster with anticipation as our ride came to a halt.
After a simple meal, washed down by warm Pepsi colas, our Nicaraguan friends and us gringos gathered around in a circle and talked about previous visits. They brought us up to speed on new births, deaths and pointed out some of the progress made in their village. We told them about our families and church family and later unloaded duffel bags loaded with pencils, coloring books, bandages, toothbrushes and other items donated by our church.
As we talked, I noticed a bit of sad look spreading Agustín’s face as he watched the items being unloaded. A few moments later, I pulled him aside and asked him if we had done or said something that might have offended him. He studied my face for a few moments then whispered through the interpreter:
No. It is good you have brought these things to us for because our children and people really need them. I hope the reason you have returned because you wanted be with us again as friends.
It didn’t occur to me immediately, but Agustín was on to something when I remember back to that incredibly hot day so many years ago. We extended gifts, good will -- and good intentions.
The poor and modest people of Abagansca offered a wealth beyond any measure.
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