The Gift of Water

It’s still dark as the sun has yet to peer over the mountain ridges to the east. A young mother steps out of her hut, careful not to wake her four sleeping children. The air smells of rain and she’s glad. Her task will be easier. She gathers her three dented, yellow plastic jugs. Careful not to slip in the mud, she descends a short but steep slope. She arrives at the water hole and mutters a word of thanks that the runoff from the incline has topped off the hole. Clumps of dirt and several blades of grass float on the surface. The circular pit is barely three feet in diameter. Its depth is maybe twice that.

The village water hole. 

She bends at the waist, knees straight, as most women in her country do, and fills her three containers. The woman positions one jug onto her head while lifting the other two with her hands, arms stretched by the water’s weight. Somehow, she manages to walk up the rise and reach her home without spilling a precious drop. 

 

She then starts her fire. As it takes shape, she begins sifting and straining the murky contents of the jugs. She needs to remove the dirt and the bugs. She uses a series of old shirts stretched across large plastic bowls. This “filtered” water is then stored in pots to be boiled over the fire. Once the parasites are destroyed, she can cook with it and offer her children a drink when they awake. She does this every day. It’s better than walking 15 kilometers to the nearest well. 

 

My every day experience is much different. I turn a knob and have instant access to clean, cold water. It’s there the dozens of times I need it. Reliable, like a best friend. Faithful as a mountain geyser. Available for bathing, teeth brushing, cooking, and making coffee. I wash my hands countless times a day. I water plants and wash dishes. I fill hydro flasks and camelbacks. I grab a plastic bottle before running out the door. I pop open a can if I want my H2O sparkling. I watch gallons of it go down the drain as I wait for the shower to warm.

The scene above takes place in Maroeira, Mozambique. It’s a village I visited in 2018. Maroeira is incredibly lacking. There are no schools, and the nearest medical services are five miles away. Life changed for the people of Maroeira in 2022, because they now have their first clean water well.

 

The new well in Maroeira.

The well was installed last spring and was one of four that the ministry that I help with, Life for Mozambique, dug this year. One was placed in the village of Nharxungu, a community equally poor as Maroeira. And our two orphan care centers each received new, deeper wells. Our third care center, the Melanie Center 3, will be in Maroeira. We’ve already built a church, a home for a pastor, and a guard house. Plans are in the works for the construction of two classrooms too.

 

Since I’ve been working in Mozambique it seems like each year alternates between drought and cyclone-generating monsoons. A liquid feast or famine. This year is a drought year. Which is why we had to dig deeper wells at our Melanie Centers. 

 

I recently read a book about Africa’s water crisis: One Thousand Wells by Jena Lee Nardella. It’s partly autobiography and partly the story of how she helped start an organization called Blood:Water which provides wells and health care in Africa. In the book she calls the monumental task of solving Africa’s water crisis The Long Defeat. The Long Defeat is a battle that cannot be won but is one we should and must engage in anyway. The numbers defining this problem are staggering: over 300 million Africans lack access to clean and safe water for drinking and 700 million are living in poor conditions without adequate sanitation. In her years of battling Africa’s water crisis, she learned to stop trying to save the world and love it instead. Her aim is to love the world in a personal way without being overwhelmed by the impossibility of helping all 300 million. It’s a way that chooses to enter the world by drawing close to individuals in need …

 

… and living by hope. 

 

She writes: “The faithful actions of loving one person at a time, working for justice one place at a time, providing water one village at a time–that is how we love the whole world.”

 

Loving the world.

Entering the world.

Bringing hope.

 

Sounds a lot like the Christmas story. Loving the world. “For God so loved the world …”. 

 

Entering the world. “You will find a baby, wrapped in cloths, lying in a manger.” 

 

Bringing hope. “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him.” (Rom. 15:13) 

 

Only God can love the whole world and save the whole world at the same time. He wasn’t overwhelmed by the staggering number of souls needing saving. But it meant sending his son for each of us personally, individually. For all who will choose to believe. 

 

I’ve been listening to a lot of Christmas carols this week. A favorite is, “Mary, Did You Know?” I love the imagery. It leads me to picture Mary interacting with the baby. I imagine her scurrying around her little Nazareth home, tasked with keeping the Resurrection and Life safe, warm, and protected. 

Serving food to the Bread of Life. 

Telling bedtime stories by candle to the Light of the World.

Soothing the tears of the Prince of Peace. 

 

And heading out to the local well at daybreak. Day after day. Carrying, straining, and boiling water so a thirsty toddler who would later call himself the Living Water, would have something to drink.

 

Just like mothers in Maroeira.

 

Merry Christmas!

A Financial Analysis of the Baseball Dictionary

The national economic crisis continues to lead our headlines. Recession and depression loom. Inflation is at a forty-year high. Supply chain issues abound. Gas prices have reached heights unforeseen in my lifetime. Baseball too is being hit by the economic downturn. Attendance is down for 23 of the 30 clubs. However, salaries continue to soar higher than the combined egos of Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk. Following baseball has always been a distraction from what’s going on in the real world. Each year I love to take a pilgrimage through the Dickson’s Baseball Dictionary. And considering our current economic woes, this year’s focus, and my 11th overall, is on all things financial. 

Balance the Budget – To tie the score. Also, something the federal government has been unable to do since 2001 when Wander Franco, MLB’s youngest player, was born. 

Banker’s League – Nickname for the Negro national league because many of the league’s owners were bankers. Is there a more appropriate term for today’s game? Even back-up shortstops and journeymen outfielders have inflated bank accounts with the league’s $570,500 minimum salary. 

Bank’s Dictum – The name given to Ernie Banks’ famous line, “It’s a great day for a ballgame, let’s play two.” Today’s bank’s dictum sounds like, “Show me the money,” which is what Juan Soto will be saying when he hits the free-agent market at the end of the 2024 season. 

Chase Card – A baseball card that is so desirable or rare that people buy packs of baseball cards searching for them. Also, the name of the card I need to use to pay for current ticket prices. Along with my Citibank card, my Capital One card, and my American Express card. 

Competitive Balance Tax – A term used by major league baseball owners for what is popularly known as the luxury tax. Also, California Governor Newsom’s plan to equally tax Little League concession stands in both high-and low-income neighborhoods. 

Debt Equity Rule – A requirement that prohibits a major-league club from carrying debt that is more that roughly 60 percent of the revenues and market value of the franchise. Or another name for the local school board’s plan to ensure that all teachers carry the same amount of school-supply shopping debt. 

Dime Hit – A scratch hit. When I was a kid, a dime hit was a household chore that paid a 10-cent allowance.

Dime Player – And infielder who lacks hustle and spirit. When I had collected enough ten-cent pieces, I became anything but a dime player as I hurried to the store for more baseball cards. 

Dime Ya – For a pitcher to display exceptional control, as in, “He can dime, ya”. Or what my mom decreed as she created more chores for me, “I’ll dime, ya for scrubbing those cabinets!” 

Futures Game – an annual All-Star game of top minor-league prospects, usually scheduled during the major-leagues’ All-Star game. Also, an office contest played by contending teams’ general managers in which they twirl a Wheel-of-Fortune-type spinner to determine which prospects can be dealt for key trade-deadline acquisitions. 

Gashouser – A member of the Gashouse Gang (the St. Louis Cardinals of the early 1930s). Or when college roommates pool their resources to pay for a tank of gas.

Laundering – The early efforts by major-league clubs to avoid the restrictions in the 1903 National Agreement on sending players to a minor-league team by repeatedly selling and repurchasing a player to a minor-league club with which they held a cozy but unofficial relationship. Or when the Padres’ clubhouse attendants try to funnel the team’s hideous City Connect uniforms to an offshore dry cleaner with the hopes that they’ll be lost forever.

San Diego's City Connect Uniforms

Millionaire’s Club – A group of players who annual salaries reach seven figures. There were 73 players in the club in 1988. As of 2020, 65 percent of Major Leaguers made $1,000,000. In my mind, the true Millionaire’s Club is comprised of the teachers, nurses, and blue-collar workers who pay the salaries of today’s big leaguers.

Money Bags – Any highly paid player, esp. one who makes more than his teammates. Or Max Scherzer’s, baseball’s highest paid player, vanity license plate: $$$BAGS.

Money Ball – A pitch that is hit for a homerun. Or the baseball used for a game of catch between author Michael Lewis and actor Brad Pitt.

Money Pitch – A pitcher’s most effective pitch. Also, the phone calls GMs will be making before next summer’s trade deadline to pry Shohei Ohtani away from the Angels.

One-Hundred-Thousand-Dollar Infield – The Philadelphia Phillies infield from 1911 to 1914. Their alleged value, not their collective salaries. By comparison, three teams (Rangers, Padres, Cardinals) have TWO infielders making a combined $55 million, while the Dodgers’ usual starting infield rakes in a combined $81 million.

Salary Drive – A period of good performance and/or behavior seemingly staged for the benefit of the player’s paycheck rather than the benefit of the team. Also, what I dubbed my 10-minute commute to the picket lines during the 2019 LAUSD teacher’s strike.

This morning it was announced that a rare Honus Wagner baseball card was recently auctioned for $7.25 million. In 1908 Wagner became the first player to earn five figures ($10,000). Three years ago, his salary after being adjusted for inflation would translate to over $280,000. But using today’s inflation rate, his income would be Scherzer-esque. Now that’s some salary drive.

The Honus Wagner Card

Power of the Dog

 "Happiness is a warm puppy." -- Charles M. Schultz

 

Last December we got a puppy. 

 

And apologies to all Snoopy fans, Charles M. Schultz was completely wrong. Happiness is not a warm puppy. Happiness is a sleeping puppy, and only a sleeping puppy. Because an awake puppy, at any temperature, is a tornado, a cyclone, and a hurricane … a tor-clone-cane!

 

She’s a labradoodle named Maggie. She looks like a black wookie and has a face that reminds me of Wilford Brimley. She has more hair than sheep have wool. We don’t get her groomed, we get her sheered. Her fur is as soft as Egyptian cotton and her greetings are like being attacked by a 50-pound velvet couch wrapped in a cashmere sweater.
 

Wilford Brimley

 And I love her.

 

But it was touch and go there for a while. On many occasions I was ready to put her up for adoption on usedpuppies.com. I’ve never had to raise anything, human or animal. So, I was unprepared for the furry fury that was unleashed upon our once tranquil home. Suddenly life was upended, routines were changed. The world revolved around puppy containment. We have a play pen in our den and a crate in the bedroom. There’s a portable fence stretching across the back patio. Each interior door was always closed. Every shoe was secured in out-of-reach spots. She was continually underfoot, or jumping on me, or gnawing on my fingers, hands, and arms.

 

I had so much to learn about puppies. Lesson 1 was about teeth. Puppies are like walking piranhas. Maggie’s mouth was filled with 28 Ginsu knives. Playing with her required more body armor than Barry Bonds at the plate. But then, thankfully, about six months in, her teeth started dropping like a second grader’s. Next, I had no idea how quickly she would grow. She went from 12 to 50 pounds faster than the price of gas hit six bucks a gallon. She gained two pounds every week. One day she was strolling under an end table, the next she’d bonk it with her head. 

 

Then there was the constant training. I didn’t know when I married her, but Beautiful Karla was hiding an inner Caesar Millan. She has piles of puppy patience. She reads books, watches videos, and scours websites. She was determined to have the most well-behaved dog in the west. Maggie’s not perfect, but had I been the lead trainer, she’d forever be in detention. 

 

And then suddenly, after months of ripped clothing, punctured skin, and $200 vet visits, a miracle occurred. 

 

We got a dog.

 

Technically, she’s still a puppy, but she’s now a dog by all measures. Which means her number of resting hours greatly surpasses her tor-clone-cane hours. Household serenity has been restored.

 

It’s fascinating to watch her learn or discover something new. We have a sliding glass door that we rarely use. The first time I opened it threw her for a loop. You could almost read her mind. “Whoa, you just moved that giant clear wall.” And then she wouldn’t walk through it. I had to demonstrate that it was possible before she’d cross over that magic threshold. 

 

True to her species, Maggie learns through her nose. She has a supersonic sniffer. On walks, she takes after the tortoise, not the hare because she must sniff everything. Even if she sniffed that very same flower (lawn, tree, pole, blade of grass, rock, woodchip) yesterday, she’ll have to smell it again. 

 

It’s no secret that dogs have extremely acute smelling skills. It’s somewhere between 10,000 to 100,000 times stronger than humans. This difference is best explained by using analogies that compare smelling to seeing or tasting. What a person could see clearly a third of a mile away, a dog could see it at 3,000 miles away. Furthermore, in her book Inside of a Dog, Alexandra Horowitz, a dog-cognition researcher at Barnard College, writes that “while we might notice if our coffee has had a teaspoon of sugar added to it, a dog could detect a teaspoon of sugar in a million gallons of water, or two Olympic-sized pools worth.”

 

When her nose is in action, she reminds me of school children learning to read or memorize their math facts. Maggie is doing the same. She is chronicling, categorizing, and cataloging into memory her surroundings, environment, and world. And she’s content to take as long as she wants to learn as much as she can.

She’s still got a lot to learn, starting with discovering her purpose. My favorite canine movie is, “A Dog’s Purpose”. The premise is that every dog has a specific purpose here on Earth and a dog may go through numerous lives before realizing it. In the movie and the book by W. Bruce Cameron on which it’s based, one such dog lives four different lives. He can remember events, sights, smells, locations, and people from each previous life. Told from the dog’s perspective, both the book and the movie humorously use the lessons that the dog learns to weave a wonderful story that comes full circle in a thoughtful, believable manner.

It makes me wonder about Maggie. What life number is she on? Will she remember me in her next life? How can I help her discover her purpose? And if she learns her purpose while under our care, will she get to stay with us forever? 

Right now, as I type this out, the house is empty and she’s sleeping at my feet. 

Here nose is at rest. She’s warm and is no longer a puppy.

 

I couldn’t be more thrilled. 

 

Maggie in December.

Maggie in May

Dreaming on the Way to Uvalde

It’s a long way to Uvalde.

But when you spend your days teaching 8 and 9-year-olds, Uvalde is just around the corner of your dreams.

 

Uvalde is 1,300 miles away. I know the way. It’s basically a straight shot across a country that’s lost its way. An 18-hour drive into the town I wish I’d never heard of before. 

 

But I have heard about it. For tragic, unspeakable, unimaginable reasons. Last Friday marked one month since that horrendous event. In a dream that night, I packed a bag and got behind the wheel. “Uvalde or Bust” was written on my rear hatchback’s glass. Photos of 21 faces were taped to the two back windows.

 

I stopped in Indio for food and gas. Seeing the sign, an older man in a cowboy hat asked if I was really going to Uvalde. Yes, I told him. I need to be there. I want to pay my respects in person. I hope that stepping into a grieving town will bring some healing to my own broken heart. The man thanked me and said he’d be right back. He went into the truck stop and moments later returned, arms full of stuffed animals and flowers. 

 

“For the families,” he said. He looked at the photos on the windows. He pointed to one. “For her family.” 

 

“That’s Naveah Bravo,” I said. “Her name is ‘Heaven’ backwards. She was only 10.”

 

He looked upward, into the blue, cloudless California sky. “Why?”

 

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice quavering.  

 

“Got any more of that window paint?” I did. “To Uvalde” he wrote on his pickup’s window. “Mind if I join you? I could use some healing too.”

 

We set off, back on the highway. The old man following in my rearview mirror. We stopped in Blythe, before crossing into Arizona. And it happened again. A family of three. The dad, grief-stricken, bought a mammoth stuffed Coyote. He set in his backseat, next to his daughter in a car seat. “It’s the Robb Elementary mascot,” he said. 

 

“We’ll give it to Jose Flores’ family,” I said. 

 

He looked at the old man in the pickup. “I think we’ll follow along, if it’s okay.”

 

“By all means,” I said.

 

Our caravan continued to grow as we crossed the desert. A plumber in Phoenix. A medical technician in Tucson. People who couldn’t make the drive added to our donations. Gifts for Xavier Lopez and Tess Mata. Flowers for the memorial for the two Eliahnas, Garcia and Torres, all 10 years old. 

 

In Las Cruces, Victor (I finally learned the old man’s name) had to rent a trailer to contain all the gifts. Our team of travelers now numbering 50. Somehow word got out as we arrived in El Paso. We were met by camera crews and newscasters. Now we had two U-hauls filled with gifts. A sporting goods store gave a mountain of softball gear for Makenna Elrod’s teammates, in her honor. The police escorted out of town and people lined the street in each city and enclave through which we passed. 

 

We drove all night and under biting Texas rains. By the time we reached Fort Stockton the cars were too many to count. I felt honored to lead such a determined and spontaneous procession. 

 

Finally, we reached Uvalde. Our arrival was highly anticipated by now. We drove past the memorial in the town square, past the 21 school chairs looking out on Getty Street. Family members of all 21 victims were there to greet us. Silent hugs and rolling tears pronounced their appreciation. At Robb Elementary we laid wreaths and bouquets at the memorial site. Then we divvied up the gifts and the responsibilities of distribution. We stopped by grave sites for those already laid to rest. I went to Hillcrest Memorial Cemetery to pay my respects to fellow teacher Irma Garcia and her husband Joe. Some of us opted to attend the funeral of cousins Jayce Luevanos and Jailah Silguero at Sacred Heart Catholic Church.

 

Weary from the drive and emotionally exhausted from the day’s events, I couldn’t stay composed during the service. I slipped out a side door, made my way through a park. Then I climbed a dusty, rocky hill and sat under a lone tree, looking down at the church. I thought of fellow teacher Eva Mireles. I recalled her love of hiking. So, I started stacking rocks. 

 

I made a cairn, the pile of rocks that hikers use to find their way. Then I made another, and another, and then another. Hymns drifted up from the church, fueling my construction. I placed my cairns in rows, to look like a classroom. Nineteen in all. A pair of taller cairns, in honor of Irma and Eva, stood in front, like the protective guards they tried to be. 

 

The ground was still littered with rocks. I picked one up and threw it at a tree. Then another at a nearby boulder. I launched a rock for every tear I’ve shed since that gruesome Tuesday. I’d put all my fear, anger, and disbelief into every throw, and I kept hurling until my elbow hurt. The pain equaling the one in my heart.

 

I sat down, drained. I noticed Victor slowly, steadily scrambling up the hill. Below us, the church was starting to empty. He sat down beside me. “Thanks for coming,” I said. He nodded toward my classroom of cairns. “What’s this?”

 

“I didn’t know what else to do. I guess they’re my memorials.”

 

He nodded his approval. “What do we do now?”

 

I didn’t know if he meant he and I, or “we” as a nation, a people. The sun was beginning to set, and from our hilltop we could see much of the city. Streams of headlights lined every road heading into town. People were still arriving. 

 

To his question, I really didn’t have any answers, though something needs to change. Down below, in the church, another funeral was about to begin. I looked at my cairns. Thinking of a country that’s lost its way. 

Hoping it never happens again. 

Feeling like change will only be in my dreams.

 

***

 

In Memoriam

Eva Mireles

Irma Garcia

Neveah Bravo, 10

Jose Flores, Jr. 10

Xavier Lopez, 10 

Tess Mata, 10

Rojelio Torres, 10

Eliahna Garcia, 10

Eliahna Torres, 10

Annabell Rodriguez,

Jackie Cazares, 9

Uziyah Garcia

Jayce Luevanos, 10

Maite Rodriguez, 10

Jailah Silguero, 10 

Amerie Garza, 10

Makenna Elrod, 10

Layla Salazar, 11

Maranda Mathis, 11

Alexandria Rubio, 10

Alithia Ramirez, 10 

 

The End of Wrath

I follow orders. I don’t act on my own. I go where I’m told. I do what I’m instructed.

I’m also out of work. 

 

Before my early retirement, my thirst for justice could only be quenched by the taste of blood.

 

I am the wrath of God.

 

I was awakened in the beginning when the deceived couple disobeyed Him. I watched as He banished them from the garden, a flaming sword nearly blinding my eyes. As they left, my smoky breath pushed the newly clothed couple deep into the wilderness. Their tears of shame and guilt echoing into the night.

 

Many years later, I stood on dry ground as the rain fell freely for the first time. I watched as the men and women blistered their fists against the sides of the boat. It was me who kept those inside from opening the door, preventing the old man and his sons from rescuing a single evildoer. My voice thundered through the storm, drowning out the screams of the dying. 

 

“Death!” I yelled from the mountaintops. “Death to you all!”

 

Sometime later, with His permission, I unleashed my full potential for swift, utter destruction. No more of the slow 40-day drizzle. This was instantaneous. I rained down burning sulphur upon those two towns. Explosions of fire rattled rooftops. Those inside the cities’ walls must have thought the earth had erupted like a volcano beneath their feet. My fire smoldered for days, not a creature survived except Lot and his daughters. 

 

Then a new system of animal sacrifices limited my involvement. Atonement He called it. A payment for transgressions that didn’t require the guilty to die. One night, I watched Abraham take his only son up a mountain to offer a sacrifice. The very promised son who was born when his wife was too old to give birth. Without an animal to slay, he tied his son to the alter. I licked my lips. But an angel intervened just as the knife was about to descend. I only drank ram’s blood that night. Abraham’s words of faith, “God himself will provide a lamb for the burnt offering, my son,” never left my memory.

 

After the passing of centuries, I had very busy night. Abraham’s offspring had prospered into a populous, albeit enslaved, people. I was given freedom to devour the first-born among all living in Egypt, including the Israelites. I relished the name I was given: the destroyer. The Lord and I went all throughout Egypt. But there was a catch. He would not permit me to enter the Israelite houses where the blood of a lamb was painted upon their doorframes. We passed over all the homes that had the drippings of the precious blood. I roamed ferociously that night, drinking to my fill, from the palace of the Pharaoh to the bottom of the deepest dungeon. No house in Egypt was spared. Yet in Israel, the lamb’s blood had saved a nation. That night would usher in an annual celebration of what He had done.

 

My work continued for millennia. And then my career came to a merciful halt. It was my last night on the job. My crescendo of killing. My most horrible endeavor. It was in Jerusalem, during the Passover remembrance. I had been restrained long ago in Egypt. Now I had one opportunity pour out what was once held back. But the punishment I was about to release was not for sins of the past.

 

It would be for future transgressions. The wickedness of all mankind. Paid for tonight. In full. I was told to direct every ounce of life-ending destruction that I couldn’t unleash in Egypt, that I wouldn’t need to mete out during all the tomorrows to come … upon one man. I couldn’t believe my instructions. How could this be His plan? I begged for another way. But I had my orders.

 

And so, I did. I turned my reluctance into rage. With all I could summon, the fury of Sodom was set upon one pair of shoulders. Forty days of rain pelting one man’s head.

 

Beatings. Whippings. Punches. A skin-piercing crown. His back was stripped bare. A bloody Nile ran between the cracks in the cobblestones. His face was nearly unrecognizable.

 

Then I took him up the hill. Laid his shredded body on the wooden beam. The same type of post used to make doorframes. I stretched out his arms across a second beam. I grabbed three nails and a hammer. The first time I raised the hammer I waited, no I hoped, for the angel to step in. To grasp my hand and prevent the downward swing. But there was no ram hiding atop that barren, skull-shaped rock. I swung that hammer.

 

At the strike of the first nail, the words came back to me: “God himself will provide a lamb for the burnt offering …”

 

… “My son.”

 

He took the full measure of my terror. His screams of agony were far louder than those who drowned in the flood, his tears deeper than those of the garden-exiled duo.

 

I lifted him up for the crowd to see. The cross sinking into its hole with an earthy thud.

 

I poured myself out. I was empty, exhausted. As his blood dripped to the dirt, as steady as rain, I took a taste. I filled my cup with it and gulped it down.

 

And I was satisfied.

 

Then I wept.

 

I climbed up the side of the cross, peered into his eyes. Somehow, he was still alive. My tears mixing with his blood below. “Death to you, Son of God,” I sobbed into his ear.

 

Suddenly the sky grew black, the howling wind stopped. Fraught with agony, he looked at me. I saw in his eyes, for the first time, my antithesis … grace.

 

“It is finished,” he whispered back.

 

And so was I.