In a paint spattered overall, he sat hunched over a bowl of soup in the break room of the RV dealership. I had just delivered an RV and while it was being processed, I was trying to figure out how to get to the airport thirty miles away. This next leg of my journey was usually filled with a myriad of taxis, public busses and a hike or two. As I tapped away on my phone, I noticed the young painter stealing looks at me. I smiled at him and asked his name. In heavily accented English, he replied "Francisco." For the next twenty minutes, I spent some time getting to know Francisco.
My family thinks I have an affliction. It drives them crazy that I start long conversations with perfect strangers. They, like most people subscribe to the belief that everyone has this massive personal space that should be honored. I don't know if it is because I am curious, nosy, or just a really nice guy, but I can't help myself. I am genuinely interested in getting to know the people I meet. Francisco was no exception. Not only did I think he had a story to tell, I got the feeling he was bursting with the desire to share it with me.
Throughout his lunch, we swapped the basics about what had brought us to that break room. I explained that I was a pastor who was delivering RVs and that I was headed back home. He told me that he had his own painting business and that the dealership had hired him for some custom painting. As he gathered up his lunch things, he looked at me and said, "Timoteo, you need to get the airport, no?" "Yes," I replied telling him I thought I would find a bus to get to the train station. "No, no!" He exclaimed. "I take you. It is by my house." He led me over to the window and proudly pointed out a tiny blue Datson. "You be by that car at 5:00. I take you."
At 5:00 sharp, I met him by the car. As I squeezed my 6 foot, 2 inch frame into the tiny car, I found myself scrunched right up next to him. Forget the personal space my children preached to me about. There was no personal space in this tiny car. As we drove along, we continued our earlier conversation about our families. Suddenly Francisco choked up and began to tell me about his first wife's illness and eventual death. As he told about her mysterious illness and rapid decline, he began sobbing. It was clear, he had deeply loved her. However, at the end of the story, his emotions swung to joy as he described meeting his second wife and his current family. Suddenly his phone rang, he answered it and held a rapid conversation in Spanish, none of which I understood. He hung up his phone and turned to me beaming. "You come home with me to eat." I protested that he didn't have to do that, but he cut me off. "No, you come home with me. My wife has made soup and we will eat it together."
We pulled into a tiny ranch style house with an immaculate lawn. As we got out of the car, he motioned me toward the back yard. "Come. You must see this." He led me to a tiny sapling. Bursting with excitement, he said "In two years, I eat my own oranges. Is exciting, no?" Back in the house, I met his wife, his wife's sister and her boyfriend, all who spoke English with various degrees of ability. We had a simple meal of soup accompanied by lively conversation. Francisco's sister was a little more American savvy and she had a lot of fun with me. His wife spoke very little English, but did her best to communicate anyway. Francisco's pride in his family and his ability to host a stranger was evident throughout the meal. It was probably the simplest yet most fulfilling meal I'd had in a long time.
Later as he drove me to the airport, I offered him money to pay for his time and gas. He was horrified and protested greatly. "I do this for you as a friend. I do not want money." As I got out of the car, he didn't pull right away, but watched as I made my way inside. I turned back for one last look. He was watching intently. When he caught me looking, he waved happily and then pulled away. Later I sat marveling at what had taken place that evening. Not only had I gotten a free ride and a meal, but I had been brought in as a family member. This total stranger shared his sorrows, his joys and his passions with me. How did that happen? I didn't earn that! Why would they jump into the life of a perfect stranger?
It gave me this loved feeling that was full of wonder. I called my wife and said, "You won't believe what happened to me today." I wanted to tell the lady at the airline ticket counter. I wanted to tell the security guard. People don't do that. People don't just jump into another's life and share like that. I have to wonder if that is not what God meant when he said "if you do it to the least of my brothers, you do it to me." As Christians, we tend to think of those verses as taking care of the poor. We give to the needy and maybe even serve at a soup kitchen now and then. This went beyond that. This was passionately jumping into another's life. I understand now why Zacheaus turned his life upside down after Jesus invited himself to lunch. You can't experience this kind of unconditional acceptance and love and not be changed by it.
May I never forget to be "Francisco" to those I encounter.
Tim
You can be my Francisco
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