Twenty years ago, my husband Dave, and I, went on a short-term mission trip to Jamaica. Sometimes we used vacation time to be a meaningful experience.
While many go to the tropical countries for rest and relaxation, living there is not easy. We had ourselves a cultural experience. The trip was to help make life better for a family. Not all the nationals have a place to call home; those having land may not have a dwelling. Their property is generally not as big as an American front yard. The land is chock full of beautiful plants, but also hard, full of hills and rocks.
In the midst of our trip, a weekend break was provided to recoup from the arduous construction. Our missionary sponsor took us to the Poor House. Not the kind of poor house Americans often find themselves in.
Our fellow workers joined us in boarding a school bus, traveling more winding curves than I care to count. The single lane roads leading us were mountainous; sporting only an occasional lane wide enough for an oncoming vehicle to pass. The curves that had no rails to protect from falling over. It was a spiritual experience as we prayed no harm would come to us.
The Poor House is a nursing home of sorts, housing individuals that families were not equipped to care for. A large variety of health concerns lived in their walls. Arriving at our remote destination we were met by a huge young man wandering the yard, lacking a full mind. He was wearing the only garment that could be found to cover him, a pink dress.
Encouraged to meet the residents, two of them sit foremost in my mind. A nameless gentleman wheelchair bound. Afflicted with leprosy—having lost this toes he could no longer walk. He was a learned man living with his lot in life. The Good Book tells us such people were outcasts, feared that the affliction was contagious.
Another resident we learned was Miss Pearl. Bedridden due to a gun accident by her husband. Bed sores are sure to come if they had not already begun. She too, lived her lot in life; praising Jesus in the process.
I had much to glean from these people up in the mountains of a country not mine. That saying from back in the 70’s comes to mind. ‘Bloom where you are planted.’
One Day Wonders with JBK 