A dozen Methodists from Bentonville disembarked al fresco at the Cartagena, Colombia, airport one sunny Saturday afternoon last month. Leaving the narrow confines of a stretched Delta 737 in bound from Atlanta, I was the first in the group to descend the open staircase and to feel the airiness and warmth of historic New World seashores. I momentarily expected television’s Fantasy Island character Tattoo to greet us with “Da plane, da plane!” because of old-style steps leading down to the tarmac. But it was practical. Why cram passengers through a metal chorizo stuffer — a jetway requiring air-conditioning — when Cartagena is balmy and breezy?
Inside, customs was indeed a breeze. As I approached the lengthening queues, a guard called out: “Señor, señor.” How quaint. He was addressing me as “sir” in Spanish. I nodded. With an outstretched arm he directed me to the shortest line where I discovered he’d actually been speaking English. I was at the “senior” citizens window.
Our group came as missionaries of sorts, visiting a neighborhood refuge for children living in the poorest part of this port city of a million souls. With us were 200 pairs of children’s shoes donated by a Northwest Arkansas shoe distributor. We would practice a ritual, “Samaritan’s Feet,” which had been done several times by the church back home in Bentonville. Participants’ feet, usually those of children, are washed by laity, the story of Jesus doing the same for his disciples on the night the Last Supper is shared, and then prayer and new shoes are offered as a gift and remembrance.
This was new ground for me, literally and figuratively. I’d never been on a mission trip before nor had I ever set foot in South America. In preparation, I dusted off my college Spanish.
At the children’s mission, El Refugio de los Niños, we spent most of the week in foot-washing mode, ministering to the 150 or so children who visit daily before or after their split-scheduled school sessions. Divided into four teams, we alternated tasks: While one washed feet and prayed with a child, another provided the wash basin and then removed it to the utility sink to refresh for the next. A third was the shoe-runner, measuring the child’s newly-cleaned feet and retrieving a pair of new Crocs from the mission office where they were arrayed. I did all three jobs at one time or another, each task meaningful. Sharing the message of Jesus’ love, service and sacrifice, as exemplified by such a lowly task as washing feet, was heart-warming to me. Heart-rending, though, were things for which some children asked to pray over: an alcoholic parent, a family member in prison or otherwise absent, a wish to concentrate on school work amid discord in the household.
Fourteen-year-old Jaidar (pronounced somewhat like “Hi there!”) was the one with whom I most easily connected. After I washed his feet, a bright smile came across his dark bronze face as I fitted his adolescent feet with new shoes. He could speak no English. I stumbled with my second semester Spanish. Yet we needed few words at that moment but for those spoken by the young translator nearby.
Two days later our group visited the children’s barrio of cinder-block houses and wooden shacks perched on rocky, inclined trails approachable only on foot, motorcycle or burro. At the highest point in the neighborhood was a plateau serving as a rudimentary soccer field. My friend Jaidar saw me. Breaking away from amigos on the field, he approached, again with that big smile and again with few words. We shook hands. I spoke in his language, saying how good it was to see him again. He pointed to his new shoes. The young man from Colombia and the old man from Arkansas beamed in a photo snapped by a Methodist companion. He bade “Adios” and then bounded back to the game. I choked up a bit. And it wasn’t from the dusty soccer field.
On the flight home, in the relative comfort of oft-maligned basic economy class, I had much to mull over regarding eight days spent in Cartagena. I’m glad I went. I feel privileged to have served God, my church and those children of the refuge mission in such a tactile way. I hope to make such a journey again. I’m thankful for blessings and resources that got me there.
There’s only one regret: I wish I’d have done this many years ago, long before being relegated to the “Senior Señor” passport line.
—–––––v–––––—
Ted Talley is a resident of Bentonville who has lived in the Ozarks more than two decades. His email is [email protected] .