Mango in Your Mustache – Part 3

Author © Scott D. Zachary

       When we got back to the mission home, Eric announced that we had a few minutes to freshen up before a bus would take those who wanted to go to the Emmanuel Home of Protection. The Home is a BMDMI mission that takes in and cares for girls who’ve been brutalized. Exhausted, I instead opted to lie down for a long nap.

       The most delicious siestas are the ones where I wake up naturally with no outside stimuli wrangling me to respond. Such was this snooze. Refreshed, I lay in my bunk and allowed my mind to wander. After a time, a mental tug induced me to stroll around the perimeter of the BMDMI compound. I walked the cobblestone drive down around the main building and into the gardens of tropical trees, shrubs, and flowers. I strolled out from the rear of the building and observed a handsome, slender, gray-haired man standing on a loading dock across the driveway. The sign above his head read “BODEGA” (warehouse). We waved at each other. Before his hand dropped to his side, the sky released a river of rain. I dashed across the road and up the stairs to where he stood under the awning.

       The gentleman introduced himself as Jack Ogden. I cocked my head. “Got any relations in Arkansas?” I inquired.

       “All of them,” he grinned.

       “My father’s side of my family lives in Lamar and Clarksville, Arkansas. Have you ever read the book, Ogden Brothers and Their Descendants?”

       “I’m in there.” Jack’s calm manner, sparkling grin, and the twinkle in his eye gave me the uncanny impression that he possessed a marvelous secret.

       “I’m having a déjà vu, Jack. While I was stationed at Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma, I met my fifth cousin, Lieutenant Larry Owen. Larry had a copy of that book and showed me where my dad, General Scott Zachary, was mentioned.”

       “Are you in there, Scott?”

       “No, my lineage in the book ends with my dad.”

       “Nice to meet you, cousin!” We shook hands heartily and began sharing stories about our families as we gazed at the raindrops splashing in the puddles. We joshed about the gunslinger in the 1800s who was featured in the Ogden Brothers book.

       I looked around at the stacks of boxes in the warehouse and noticed barcodes on many of the boxes. “Jack, are any of the mission’s inventories computerized?”

       “They maintain some spreadsheets in the Director’s office. Why?”

       “I’m a computer analyst and programmer. Maybe I can help get you automated.”

       “That’d be great. Let’s stay in touch, Cuz.”

       The rain stopped, and I walked away musing about how listening to that faint voice in my mind and heeding its nudge had taken me down so many unlikely pathways. I often called that voice Mr. Wizzle, but sometimes it was clearly God shepherding me.

       I walked to my bed in the dormitory and heard someone yell, “If anybody needs clothes washed, there’s a lady upstairs who will do it for a small price!”

       “No worries,” Steve said. “I gave all my clothes away. I’m going up to dinner,” and he walked out the door.

       I walked over to W.S.’s bunk, and we enthused about the week’s miraculous events.

       Steve came back, grumbling, “They won’t let me in without shoes on.” He scrounged around his bed and ransacked his suitcase. “Where are my shoes?” he implored desperately. “They won’t let me in the dining hall to eat dinner without shoes.”

       An ornery streak overtook me as I snookered Steve. “There was a lady that came down here asking if she could polish anyone’s shoes. I noticed your shoes needed polishing, Steve, so I gave them to her. Two dollars—what a deal!”

       “Do what?! They won’t let me eat without shoes!”

       “I figured you must be wearing your other shoes to dinner.”

       “I don’t have any other shoes! I gave them away!”

       “Sorry about that. I figured you’d appreciate having your shoes polished for two dollars.”

       “Where is she?”

       “I don’t know. I’m sure she’ll be back shortly. Maybe she’s up by the washing machines.”

       Steve huffed and dashed out the door. W.S. had been standing nearby at the entrance of his bunkroom listening to the commotion. I turned to him. “I have no idea how I kept a straight face through all that.”

       “You didn’t give his shoes away to be polished?” W.S. snickered.

       “I’ve never seen his shoes. I just took a wild poke that they were the kind you polish. And we have a bingo!”

       W.S. and I started a belly laugh that lasted for hours.

       Steve returned a while later more flabbergasted than ever. “I asked all around, and they said there aren’t any ladies who polish shoes here.”

       Laughing uncontrollably, “I was just kidding, Steve.”

       “Why did you give away my shoes?!”

       “I’m trying to tell you, Steve, I never saw your shoes.” The hook was buried so deep that I couldn’t make him believe the truth once I told it.

       The more W.S. laughed, the harder I laughed, and the more I laughed, the harder W.S. laughed. W.S. tried miserably to be serious. “Scott was just pulling your leg, Steve,” as he convulsed.

       “What? Why would you do that?!”

       “I was just having fun.” Hysterical tears streamed down my cheeks.

       “So where are my shoes?!”

       “I have no clue where your shoes are, Steve. Seriously now...” I struggled to speak. “I have no idea what they even look like.”

       “Humph, I could’ve been looking for my shoes all this time instead of running around looking for some fictitious shoeshine woman!”

       That frothed W.S. and me into stomach-cramping laughs. I was so tickled that I don’t remember what became of Steve’s shoes. He did show up for dinner, though, presumably wearing shoes. W.S. was seated a couple of tables away, facing me at our celebration dinner. Every time we caught each other’s eye, our contagious giggling resumed.

       I delight in recalling and writing about my impromptu practical joke on Steve. But that wasn’t the end of it.

       We feasted on another fantastic dinner prepared and served by the Nicaraguan cooks. Eric, our Team Captain, walked to the microphone and expressed his wholehearted passion for this mission. Trying to restate the words that Eric so eloquently spoke would be a disservice to him, so I’ll just say that he gave all praise, honor, and glory for our accomplishments to the King of kings. Eric jubilantly summarized our team’s results. He similarly listed our achievements in his email that he sent out the week after we returned home, which follows:

Saving lives and saving eternities is not an understatement of what your Hope for Nicaragua team has accomplished this week. Below is a summary of what God accomplished through willing servants for His mission:

* 3,168 patients through the medical clinic

* 232 patients through the new chiropractic clinic (and probably another 70-80 treatments for team members)

* 13,441 prescriptions dispensed

* 6 Project Life commitments (serious medical needs requiring surgeries or other major procedures at a hospital)

* 209 dental patients and 293 tooth extractions

* 126 women through cervical cancer screening with 16 positives who received cryotherapy treatment (lives saved!)

* 1,187 head of cattle, 349 horses, 130 dogs, and 71 pigs vaccinated

* 968 pairs of eyeglasses distributed

* 1,010 family packs and 4.3 tons each of rice and beans distributed

* 1,333 meals prepared in the field

* 857 Bibles given

* 1,800 books of John given

* 765 professions of faith (eternities saved!)

       Eric thanked everyone again and ended his speech by encouraging us to pray about joining the team next year. He then handed the floor over to anyone who wished to share their heartfelt experiences with the group. The joyfully touching stories that the other missionaries told evoked many tears.

       Barbie spoke to the group and then turned around in her chair and addressed me. “Thank you, Scott, for donating your pillowcase with the rainbow and the silly rabbit on it to family packs. You should’ve seen the little eight-year-old girl squeal with joy when she peeked into her family’s bag of goodies and saw all those brilliant colors. I’m not sure if she even knew what it was, but you certainly brightened her day, and ours.”

       Eric passed out index cards asking everyone to put a “Y” or an “N” in the upper right corner to indicate whether or not we intended to sign up for the next year’s mission. He also asked us to write down any suggestions for how the mission could be improved and to include any positive comments. I immediately wrote a bold “Y” on mine with the comment: “The hook is buried!”

       I walked over to Steve to see if he was still perturbed about my spoof. “Your time’s coming, Scott,” he tartly forecasted. Strolling to the veranda, Steve and I sat in the wicker chairs and enjoyed the beautiful city lights of Managua. We talked into the wee hours sharing our respective stories about our paths to the Lord and how we became missionaries. Steve shared with me how he had died and came back to life. I told him how I wanted to die and came back to life. We both had hit a critical bottom that induced us to reach out to the Lord and to serve Him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       Friday is our sightseeing and shopping day. We walked along a path around the rim of an extinct volcano, a lake cupped in its fertile crater. Eric, Wendell, and I walked together. I listened intently to Eric and Wendell’s wise philosophical meandering as we strolled. Wendell is a mild-mannered, older gentleman who has been coming to Nicaragua for many years on various missions, including teaching mathematics at the BMDMI children’s school.

       The team ate a delicious lunch at El Pollo (The Chicken) restaurant. During lunch, Tomás was inquisitive about my journey that brought me to Nicaragua. My Español had improved vastly over that week, so in Spanish, I told him all about my response to God’s calling for me to become a Christian medical missionary. I was pleased when Tomás said that my Spanish accent was unlike all the other Americans. He laughed when I told him about the hundreds of hours it took me to master trilling my r’s while pushing a lawnmower at the cemetery where I worked as a teenager. The countless hours I had devoted to cramming my brain full of Spanish over the past year flowered when Tomás asked: “Are you a Spanish teacher?”

       The buses took us to “the clean market” after lunch to go shopping. I would learn on a subsequent mission why Eric referred to it by that name. Many of the Nicaraguan interpreters came with us. I asked Erick Cerda to be my interpreter in the market. I had gotten to know him in the optical clinic where he worked as an optician, and we immediately took a shine to each other.

       I needed to buy stamps for my postcards, so Erick led me to the post office. While he discussed my postage with the Postmaster, I noticed a jovial young clerk working in the back of the room. Something drew me to her. I extracted a Christian pamphlet from my waist pouch and handed it to her. It was titled “Tú Eres Especial” (You Are Special). I proceeded to tell her in Spanish why she was so special to God. (I couldn’t imagine myself ever doing that with a postal clerk in the States in English.) The young lady beamed her receptiveness.

       “Vaya con Dios, señorita!” I hollered to the clerk as Erick and I walked out the door.

       She smiled and waved exuberantly.

       Erick led me along the maze-like walkways between the quaint little open-air shops as I browsed the handmade dresses. The beautifully decorative needlework depicted flamingoes, parrots, flowers, and Nicaraguan village scenes. I chose two spectacular dresses for my precious three-year-old granddaughter Remi and one for my lovely girlfriend Bobbie. I also picked out several colorful hand-woven bracelets. I especially liked the lime-green bracelet with two fish designs on it. I planned to give that one to my good friend Dewane when I picked him up for church Sunday morning.

       I had checked off all the people on my shopping list. Erick and I headed back toward the bus when several of the girls on our missionary team excitedly ran up to me, grabbed my wrists and arms, and pulled me along.

       “What’s happening?” I begged.

       “You’ll see!” hollered Angie.

       The girls propelled me into a shoeshine chair.

       I looked up to see Steve’s coy smile. Holding up two fingers, “Two dollars,” he quipped.

       Everyone laughed. In fact, whenever I reflect back on this tale, I bust into ticklish laughter.

       We enjoyed a wonderful chat with Charlie, the young zealous Christian man polishing my shoes. In superb English, he related to us that his teenage friends had all died from sniffing glue. Charlie was living on the streets when a Christian missionary took him in and introduced him to Jesus Christ. I’ve never seen anyone more joyful for the Lord than Charlie. His joy was truly infectious!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       I had set my alarm for 3:00 a.m. to have enough time to shower before the bus would take us to the airport. I heard several people rustling about, so I assumed it was time to get up and get moving. I bounced out of bed thinking I’d had five hours’ sleep, gulped downed an energy shot to get me through a long day of traveling, and then looked at my alarm clock. 1:30 a.m.! I could’ve slept another hour and a half! Oh well, too late now.

       I grabbed my ditty bag and headed to the bathroom where I met W.S. We thanked each other wholeheartedly for a rollicking fun time. I finished shaving, and W.S. came out of the shower as Wendell dawdled into the room, rubbing his half-open eyes. “What time is it?” he grumbled.

       I held up my fish bracelet in his view and matter-of-factly stated, “I’ve got two fishes.”

       Wendell craned his neck closer and closer to my bracelet, trying to decipher what time “two fishes” is. When he finally realized that he had been taken in by my serious buffoonery, he shook it off and grunted. As I walked away from the bathroom, I could hear W.S. snickering and muttering, “I’ve got two fishes.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       I hugged Eric at the airport. “Thank you for the best week of my life!”

       “Thank you, Scott! Your spirited passion uplifted everyone. I’m grateful that God led you to our team.”

       “I glanced down the list of team captain names, and yours had a nice ring to it.”

       “I think that might’ve been God’s ring. See you next year, Scott?”

       “Yes, sir!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       Bobbie said she would pick me up at the airport in Louisville later that Saturday afternoon. I had no idea that Jonathon (our son) and Remi would be accompanying her. I walked around the corner out of security, and Remi spotted me from afar. My heart cartwheeled as I watched her zigzag through the crowd, waving her arms wildly and yelling, “Papaw! Papaw! Papaw! Papaw!”