Encounters 4 and a bit of conversation

4th Encounter:

It was evening. We had a new security guard that night that had showed up right after dinner. He was a jovial looking soul and extremely friendly. All of the guards were extremely nice, even when we kept waking them in the middle of the night to gain entrance to the bathrooms when the latest intestinal bug awoke. I started talking to him and Juana (the woman who cooked for us, another amazing woman.

I'm going to try to replicate the conversation we had. I don't totally remember it, so I'll take some freedom. I'll also try to do it justice by conveying the meaning it held from the Spanish. As such, it may sound like two five year olds talking, but that's about the level I could communicate.

"Howdy, what's your name?"

"Mario, very nice to meet you. And yours?" (Honestly, I can't remember his name to save my life, so if you know, let me know)

"Cameron, not shrimp, but Cameron" (The word camaron is the word in spanish for shrimp, which sounds very similar to Cameron spoken in the spanish fashion).

He laughed. "Nice to meet you too. Are you a believer?"

"Yeah! you?"

"Oh yes, How long has it been for you?"

"We'll, I've known God most my life, but I haven't really followed him with everything till about 4 years ago. What about you?"

"My whole life. I've always loved church. I love singing and just being in the Spirit. Oh, there's nothing better" he said with a smile and glance upwards.

"Yeah, that is great. What kind of church do you go to?"

"Pentecostal"

"Cool, so do you live near here?"

"No, I live over by the coast, near the point" (La Punta (the point) is nice coastal district in Lima named for the point of land terminating in a long seawall.)
At this point, Juana began to take notice and join into the conversation. The guard motioned to her and asked "Did you like dinner?"

"Of course" I responded. It's beyond politeness to like the food in Peru. I loved the stuff and the fact that there was always plenty of it and Juana was cooking while I wasn't...heaven. "Juana's a great cook; I wish I could bring her back to the states with me"

Juana smiled "I don't think they would take me there."

"No, if you opened a restaurant, once word got out, you'd be flooded. I'd go there. You'll already cooking for our team of more than thirty, so a restaurant would be cake for you."

She smiled, but shook it off. I really can't remember what she said at this point. She is such servant and humble soul. At this point the crazy guy made his presence known. He let out a dull groan as he squat in the yellow light of the street lamp. He looked this way and that. Being his old self.

"What's the deal with that guy, what do you know about him?" I queried the guard.

"Sad sad sad" He said as his spirits dropped a touch. "He's only fourteen."

"Catorce!? (Fourteen!?) that's it?"

"Yeah"

I have never been a good judge of age. I once thought a woman sitting next to me on a plane was in her mid thirties, but she later told me she was fifty (and that's another story entirely). Even so, I would have put the crazy guy at least at "guy" age. But fourteen made sense once I saw it. The thinness in his legs. The piquant eyes. The terefyingness that had surrounded him I now saw as the iron bubble put out by teenage angst. And I think anyone acting like him will be given more credit in terms of age and dangerous capability than one might otherwise.
The guard continued "The town had tried to offer to get him sent away to a facility to help him out. His mother wouldn't allow it. It was her little boy.";

"So what is wrong with him?"

"Gasoline. Ever since he was a little boy," he put his hand a couple feet off the ground to indicate height "he's been on gasoline. He's grown up with it and its really messed with his head" and he moved his hand as the child grew.

It finally made sense. That was what was in the his bottle he held so tight. The dark fluid and the equally dark spot beneath the nose. He always held it up to his nose, but never drank it, at least that I saw. He was always high from sniffing gasoline.

"Why doesn't his mom take it away from him?" I asked trying to figure out why this had continued for so long.

"She doesn't realize that he's not a little kid anymore." He repeated the growing hand motions. "Whenever she takes away the gas, he goes nuts and she can't stand to see her boy like that"

"What about the gas station at the end of the road, has anyone from the community tried talking to them to not sell him anything?"

"No, she's talked to them and asked them to still give it to him" It seemed like she had everything covered. There was no practical way to shut off the supply to the kid without the change of his mom. Maybe that didn't even matter.

"And I've seen him without the gas." The guard volunteered. "He's much more in himself. A lot calmer and within reason, he's not perfect by any means, but at least he's sober."

I felt like I had a bit of a window into the crazy guy's life. There was a reason he was this way. A perfectly preventable reason. I really wanted a chance to talk to him mom, I wanted her to see her son as he really was. I wanted him off the gasoline so he could at least be open to accepting the good news that would set him free, break his bondage and bring his healing. Only Jesus can do that, that's what He came to do in the first place (Luke 4 reference to Isaiah 61). I had resolved to pray for him and now I felt like I knew what to pray for. First, get off the gas, second, help his mom to truly see him for who he is. And I wanted one more thing to pray for...

"What's his name?"

"I think its Jorge (pronounced hor-hay)"

At this point we wrapped up the conversation and I headed off to bed and to pray. I looked at Jorge and said under my breath, "Jesus te ama (Jesus loves you)."