Event In Bolivia
January 3rd 2008 05:16
Preacher Shot a Man
Pastor Paul was saying, “I recall when I was a little child, about the age of Arturo’s son there.” He smiled and looked toward me. Of course, this being a small village, everyone knew who he was referring to.
When he pointed in my direction was when I began paying attention. I was sitting on my dad’s lap.
Pastor Paul continued, “We had a really pretty collie dog. If you’ve ever seen any picture of Lassie, you’d know what our dog looked like. We kept her looking so well-groomed and clean, and she was beautiful. I loved that dog very much.”
Pastor Paul was obviously trying to present this story in such a way that even the young children in the congregation could understand and appreciate it.
He went on by asking a question. “Do any of you hijos or hijas (sons or daughters) have a good pet at home? Maybe a dog or cat or monkey; those are all nice pets.”
I think all the other children were quite interested in the pastor’s sermon by now. He continued. “At that age I was aware that everyone and every living thing will die sometime. That’s when I got the idea of trying to protect my dog from having any accident, such as getting hit by a car on the road or being lost. I was trying to protect my beautiful pet from the enemy of all of us, death.”
While Pastor Paul was telling this story, I was thinking of my own little dog at home. Maybe it wasn’t as pretty as the one the pastor was talking about, but I loved it just the same. In my mind, I could see my generic canine, scratching its fleas, ignoring the bumps that were the home of wood ticks in its skin. Some of its hair was missing, some type of skin disease that most of the dogs had in this village.
The pastor went on to explain how he planned to protect his dog. “Living in Ohio, I had to go to school so I could not be home to watch the dog. In order to protect her, I tied a rope to her collar, and the other end was tied to the bumper of my dad’s pickup truck. I went on to school, not worrying any more about my dog because I knew she could not get hit on the road or become lost. However, when I got home from school, the first thing that I noticed was that my dad’s truck was gone. He had driven it into town. I screamed, and my mother came out of the house. She tried to console me as I sobbed out the fact that I had tied my dog to Dad’s truck for protection. I tried to get Mom to understand that Dad had driven the truck with the dog tied on the bumper. Dogs can’t run as fast as my dad would have driven.”
Some of us children were becoming upset with Pastor Paul’s story by now. Some chicas were even crying.
Pastor Paul said, “Now, don’t cry girls and boys. The story ends well. My mother told me that my father had noticed the rope on the truck and untied the dog before he drove away. He retied the rope to a tree behind our house.”
I looked at some other kids sitting nearby with their families and smiled at that news.
The pastor went on to reveal the purpose of his story. “We never know when we will be called upon to meet death. It could be today or tomorrow, but maybe it will not be until we are quite old. The important thing is to remain always faithful to Jesus. None of us is big enough or strong enough to avoid death whenever our time comes. There is nothing we can do to hide from death, nothing except to hide in Jesus, the Rock of Ages.”
Pastor Paul opened the altar for anyone who wanted to pray before ending the service. The song Rock of Ages was being sung. Nobody went forward although I had a strong feeling that maybe I should go pray.
I remember, too, that after the service ended, my dad, mom and I and my two sisters walked out the door together. My dad spoke to the pastor saying, “That was surely a good sermon, Pastor. It’s true that none of us is strong enough to be in control of own lives.”
“True enough, Brother Arturo,” replied the pastor, his older daughter standing near to him.
As my dad was walking toward the road to our home, the pastor called out, “Oh, Arturo. Are you still planning to go hunting with us tomorrow as we had planned?”
My dad answered, “If God wills, Pastor. I will come to the mission house around 6 o’clock tomorrow morning.”
I wanted to go hunting with my dad and Pastor Paul and other guys, but Dad said that I was still too young. He told me that he would take me hunting when I became somewhat older. I watched as he and the pastor and the pastor’s oldest son walked with some other men toward the jungle area that Monday morning.
I never saw my dad alive again.
The rest of this account is what I learned through Paul and his oldest son. It is a hard story to tell, but I believe that I will convince you that things happen that are beyond our control but that Jesus has control, and He does all things well.
Later that same day, Monday morning a few minutes before noon, Paul’s oldest son came running and crying loudly. He said that something terrible had happened to someone in the hunting party. He told some of the village men to bring blankets and to follow him into the jungle.
I thought that maybe a wild tapir had attacked someone, maybe Pastor Paul or even my dad. Paul’s son did not say who had been hurt. That news was brought by Raul, another Christian man who had been involved in the hunt.
In a short time, my mother asked a neighbor to take me to her home. My mom was trying to not show me that she was crying, but I could see how upset she was. That made me believe that my father was probably the person who had been injured. Not until late afternoon did Mom tell the news to me and my sisters.
“Mis hijos (my children),” began Mom. “I have something to tell you about Daddy. He has gone away, and he will not be coming back.”
Of course, we were quite shocked. We wanted to know why Dad was leaving us and where he went.
Mom went on to tell us that Daddy had gone to a wonderful place, better than anywhere that we have ever known about. “Daddy went to Heaven, mis hijos,” she told us. We realized that she was really saying that our dad was dead. Mom promised to tell us more about it later, maybe tomorrow. She was too broken up to talk more at this time.
After a fitful night of trying to sleep, we rose from our bed mats and hoped that yesterday was only a bad dream. However, evidence showed that yesterday’s news was too true. Neighbors were bringing in food and hugging Mom and us children, saying nice things about our father. Mom wanted us to have some breakfast, but none of us really felt like eating.
Around mid morning, Pastor Paul came to our house. He had been crying and was still fighting back tears. His wife and some of their children were with him. He said that he felt that he should be the one to tell the details of the accident that had taken my dad’s life.
Pastor Paul’s accounting of the circumstances were given through tears and sobs which shook the pastor’s body violently. He said that the men were in the jungle area. They heard some noise in some bushes several yards away so they assumed it was probably a tapir or a large bird. They could not see the animal which had made the noise so my father volunteered to go in and try to chase the animal out to where it could be seen. He went into the bushes and was there a long time, obviously trying to chase the animal out into the open. Finally, my father yelled that the animal was coming out from behind a large tree and that the men should be ready to shoot it when it came out.
As Pastor Paul told the story, he cried so hard. Actually, we all were crying, not only because we had lost our father but also because our beloved pastor was crying so much. The pastor said, “We waited several seconds, maybe a whole minute, and saw no animal come out from behind the tree. Finally, I saw something moving near the tree and fired my gun. At that instant, I saw Arturo grab his head, blood gushing out, and he fell dead at the base of that large tree.”
We all screamed in agony at hearing such terrible news. Our pastor, whom we all had loved so dearly for such a long time, our missionary who had taught us about the loving Jesus, this friend of the family, had killed our father. I ran to the bedroom and cried, hitting the bed mat with my hands and kicking the wall. I was deeply hurt.
Pastor Paul asked another missionary from Cochabamba to perform the funeral service. I did not want to see Pastor Paul ever again, and neither did my sisters. My mother tried to convince us that it was an accidental death that took our father and that we should forgive the pastor.
Mom forced me and my sisters to continue going to the mission church with her. As for me, I would have stopped going to church altogether if only I could. Still, we attended and occasionally listened to Pastor Paul or one of the other missionaries as they gave their sermons week after week.
Pastor Paul began looking different than before. He lost a lot of weight and had dark circles around his eyes. A couple of times he lost his concentration during the sermon and felt embarrassed. Still, since he’s the one who shot and killed my father, it was hard for me to have good feelings for him.
One Sunday my mother invited Pastor Paul and his family to come to our home for lunch. I wanted to be excused, but Mom refused to allow me to leave. Mom was always kind and pleasant around our pastor and seemed to try to help Pastor Paul to recover from the guilt he felt. She reminded him of the sermon that he had preached the day before my father’s death, the lesson about the pretty dog being tied up to protect him from becoming in an accident. She reminded Pastor Paul that he had said that we can’t hide from the future. The pastor and his wife nodded in acknowledgement of the truth of what Mom was saying.
Finally, Mom told Pastor Paul, “I think that there are no accidents in God’s sight, Pastor.” The missionary looked somewhat surprised at that statement, but then, he shook his head affirmatively. Paul’s wife caressed his hand when his tears could no longer be held back.
“She’s right, Dear,” said Paul’s wife to her husband. “We know that God is aware of everything that is going to happen, even before it happens.” After a pause, she added, “This was no accident, Paul. God knew it was going to happen before you even preached that final sermon that Arturo heard.”
I was listening, of course. Those words coming from the mouth of my mother were also coming from her heart, a heart that had come to know and love Christ Jesus through the preaching of missionaries such as Pastor Paul.
Paul could not hold back the sobs any longer. It seemed that he would prefer to not cry in the presence of these children who no longer had a father. Still, the sobs could not be prevented.
“Come to Jesus, Pastor Paul.” Those words from my mother seemed confusing. Our pastor had come to Jesus many years earlier. He had told us several times about his conversion as a teenaged boy. Why would Mom tell the pastor to come to Jesus?
After a pause, Mom opened her Aymara Bible and read the words of Jesus in Luke 13:34. “How often would I have gathered you together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and ye would not?” Mom paused again.
A short time later, Mom opened her Aymara language Bible to Matthew 11:28, 29 and 30. She read, “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” Mom looked directly into the eyes of our pastor, adding, “Pastor Paul, you have been heavy laden for weeks because of the event that you call an accident. God knew you were going to shoot Arturo. He also knew that you loved Arturo as much as anyone could love a brother. It’s time to stop the laboring with the heavy load you’ve been trying to carry. Jesus has rest for you.”
Paul’s wife knelt beside her husband, urging him to kneel. Mom was on her knees and motioned for me and my sisters to kneel, which we did. Finally, Paul found himself kneeling beside his wife, and they both prayed for their beloved Savior to forgive their doubts and the self-pronounced guilt. Pastor Paul’s tears somehow changed in quality. He was still crying, but his hands were lifted, his back was straight, his eyes were looking at something that I could not see, something beyond the ceiling of our simple house.
Paul’s wife began singing an old and familiar song that we sang in church a lot. We all knew most of the words without even looking at a hymnal.
“Under His wings I am safely abiding;
Though the night deepens, and tempests are wild,
Still I can trust Him; I know He will keep me;
He has redeemed me, and I am His child.”
We all joined in as she sang the chorus of the song and even tried to sing the last two verses.
“Under His wings, what a refuge in sorrow!
How the heart yearningly turns to His rest!
Often when earth has no balm for my healing,
There I find comfort, and there I am blest.”
“Under His wings, O what precious enjoyment!
There will I hide till life’s trials are o’er.
Sheltered, protected, no evil can harm me;
Resting in Jesus I’m safe evermore.”
It’s amazing how Pastor Paul’s sermon on the last Sunday that my dad attended church was exactly right. Now, this song seemed so meaningful, too. We all joined in the chorus. After the chorus, I hugged Pastor Paul for the first time since the “accident” which God knew would happen.
“Under His wings, under His wings. Who from His love can sever?
Under His wings my soul shall abide, safely abide forever.”
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