I have had several years to reflect on an experience I had in Tijuana, Mexico and America’s position on illegal aliens. These are mostly good people who sneak across a border illegally into our country for many reasons that most of us understand and sympathize with, but don’t condone and will not accept their method of entry.
Recently, I was showing a farm to a couple of poultry farmers, a father and son, from Laos who had toiled and saved for several years. Actually they had worked over 15 years…working 7 days a week, to be able to gain citizenship in the United States. They told me that they were able to vote for their first time in 2016 and were extremely proud of voting for the “big guy” who won. (their words).
They despised the thought of people being able to sneak into the country they sacrificed everything to become a part of, and they will tell you that this is their country. The father was in his late 60’s and spoke clear English.
He said that he had no alternative.
Go figure!
Having that conversation with those poultry farmers from Laos that day brought back to my mind an experience I had some years ago in Tijuana that I found heartbreaking.
And if I really love the Lord, I will love his people.
After all, I’m His representative.
“Unwanted bastards, that’s what they are, you know.” said Pastor Von during our conversation following bath day. He was simply making a statement of fact, not to shock but to educate us to the issue that faces the unwanted children of Tijuana. These kids come from prostitutes and the like, as a waste product of the trade that feeds and clothes the girls physically old enough to produce progeny.
I asked if anything is improving and he said, “No, it’s getting worse every day.” We were on the way to “bath day” after a visit to an orphanage in a rough part of Tijuana. The Pastor went on to explain to us the issues that face each orphanage in the city.
The one located in the “red light” district is the most notorious for receiving kids that would never know who their biological father was, but the other orphanages weren’t much better. Two of the missionaries that guided us were brothers of sorts, neither knowing their fathers, who both lived in the same orphanage and never knew each other until they got out. Their mother had several children from different men and would drop them off when they became a burden.
Some were babies and at least one was 10 years old when she abandoned him. Most of the unwanted kids were boys as they had little value to their mother, as the girls could be sold at the age of 13 or so for sex, facilitating the perpetual propagation of the poor.
Von used to hate Mexicans as he thought they were vermin until he had a come to Jesus meeting that caused him to have a change of heart.
That change started an extraordinary mission.
He never explained what happened to him, but the results were obvious.
Pastor Von had been working with the poor of Tijuana for over forty years and continues to do as the Lord leads him. He keeps it simple by administering grace to the poor, passing no judgment, preaching no messages, just loving God’s children where they’re at in the moment.
I asked one of the other missionaries why he doesn’t preach and Rafa said, “If the people can’t see Christ in your actions, they sure won’t hear Him in your words, so instead of preaching, we prefer to share Jesus’ love with food and clothing and that seems to be good enough. Anyhow, it’s hard to listen to someone on an empty stomach,” he chuckled.
I was embarrassed that I asked, as it was obvious that from what we had experienced over the previous days that he was absolutely right.
The conversation caused me to reflect on that day’s event, as it was one of the most humbling days of my life. We were allowed to participate in the Thursday ritual called “bath day” where we bathed over 200 boys and girls in one of the most dangerous sections of town. Pastor Von started bath days forty years ago and is now bathing grandchildren and great grandchildren of the first kids he bathed. The baths occur twice a month in four locations around the city and are facilitated by volunteers locally and from the U.S. with Von always leading the way.
The boys and girls are usually 12 years old and younger and are bathed in separate buildings with women bathing girls and men bathing boys. My son Travis and I assisted Von with the bathing, while the rest of our team had their own task, all of equal significance, as each fit into a sequence that facilitated little boys being blessed at every station.
First, they entered the building via the back door organized in groups of five by our Spanish speaking team leader and sent to take their clothes off behind a four-foot plywood wall. They put their clothes in plastic bags hanging on the wall and wrapped themselves in a clean towel.
Then they went to the foot washing station and had their feet washed by a team member. I got choked up as I watched him carefully clean each boy’s feet. The boys then lined up for their bath, with two or three at a time climbing into the wash tubs for the main event. When finished, they were towel dried by another team member and finally sent to pick out new clothes to wear.
Within a few minutes, Von and his merry men had us organized and ready to serve, making it clear that we were to enjoy the event and to encourage each boy to have fun. He told Travis and me that he would tell us which kids to let in the shower together and which ones to bathe separately as some were mean little bastards, literally.
I soon discovered he was right!
The shower set up was interesting as it consisted of two washtubs, side by side, enclosed by a shower curtain three-foot-tall, suspended on Mexican rigged PVC pipe tied together with zip ties. Between me and Travis was a bucket equipped with a too small plastic bag rubber banded to the end of a piece of hose that had a uniquely beveled opposite end. This contraption was a pee bag for the boys when they entered the tubs, because they would pee in the water if there wasn’t an alternative.
To the left of me was a 20 gallon can that held the bath water with a 6-volt pump attached to a small hose fitted with a spray nozzle. Out of curiosity I stuck my hand in the water to discover how glad I was that it wasn’t 110 volts as I was shocked to the point of nearly peeing my own pants!
A Mexican brother saw me and busted out laughing to the point that I thought he would wet his too!
We both guffawed at my stupidity!
Travis and I were handed a bottle of shampoo and told to put a small dab in the boys’ hands once their hair was wet. From one to three boys would walk up, hand us their towels and climb into the tubs. Von would wet their hair and the party started. Once the curtain was closed the boys would start playing in the water and laughing as Von would tease and encourage them to scrub everything.
There was one added instrument of torture that most of the kids really enjoyed, and that was a giant tub of ice water that was dispensed with a large cup over the boys’ heads if they acted macho or impatient. Von expected joyful discipline from his little disciples and they obeyed every command or else… the ice water!
He helped each child bathe as he inspected their body for possible abuse and health issues, looking in each boy’s mouth by spraying water in it, and making each boy pull back the foreskin of their penis and making them wash with soap their uncircumcised instruments. He would tell each boy to show him their pistols, bazookas, or cannons, with each description being used depending on how macho the kid was. They would laugh and jump up and down as he sprayed warm water on the exposed pink flesh.
He told Travis and me that the boys carry all sorts of bacteria and disease under the foreskin and he wanted them all to clean that area good.
You may ask why I would go into such detail, because you need to know what we were stepping into!
This was a tribal ritual, of sorts!
It was easy to see Jesus in Von’s eyes as he showed compassion to each child he washed. On occasion, a little boy would be shy, as it may be his first shower day, and Von would simply ask him if he was clean and give him a dollar or a toy car and send him on his way. He was sensitive to each child’s spirit and he made it clear to all who helped that the boys were to be nurtured and encouraged in whatever manner was befitting that particular child.
You could tell who the regulars were, as some wanted to be sprayed in the face and some would stand their ground to have ice water thrown on them. But some were timid and shy, so we would ask them if they had washed everything and then send them on their way.
I saw a boy who had obviously been beaten as he had a black eye and several bruises on his chest and back, but he acted no different than the two wild buddies in the tub with him. Von gave him a toy car when he got out of the tub.
Looking into the eyes of the boys as they asked for shampoo, I saw mostly joy and excitement. But also on occasion, I saw trepidation and fear, and every other emotion that life in the streets had given them.
For me, it was a good experience that at times was gut wrenching. My spirit rose and sank in what I saw in each pair of eyes. Jesus must have experienced the same emotions as he looked into the eyes of the innocent. And then there’s Von… the pastor who once hated Mexicans, moving from child to child speaking words of compassion with Jesus in his eyes.
Nothing beats love, ever!
THOUGHTS OF THE HUNTER KIND:
I don’t doubt that some of the boys we bathed are some who are sneaking across our border. As I have said previously, I am against them doing so. But to be honest, I would do whatever it took to get out of that place.
What a dilemma. How do we handle this situation with compassion?
PRAYER OF THE HUNTER KIND:
In Matthew 19:14 Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.”
Lord, what a struggle. So many children just trying to survive circumstances they didn’t create. What is it that you would have me do?
I hear You Jesus, as Your Spirit says just do something. Anything is better than nothing.
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