Alberto is from Cuba, and Anna, his wife, El-Salvador. They live next door to our son, Trey, who is renting a home in south Dallas County, not far from where Spur 408 becomes Clark Rd., at the westernmost edge of Ducanville. He and 3 other DBU classmates have moved 'off campus' for their Senior year - entering that stage of living 'on their own,' and experiencing what it means, yard work et al, to take care of a house.
So today Belinda and I went to visit Trey with but a few of my yard tools in hand. Arriving I could see I was in trouble - that I'd not brought quite enough. Trey's 'yard' (such as it was) was out of control. Still... we went after it, my son and me, with what might appear to any observing as little more than sickle and brawn.
Now next door to Trey Alberto was busy working at building a new fence around his property. He and I began exchanging pleasantries. 'I've lived here Diez Años,' he said proudly. And, as we talked further, he began enthusiastically offering us his lawn-mower, tools and the ready conversation and camaraderie of a neighbor delighted to make our acquaintance. I learned Alberto owned his own 'rig' and worked as an independent long-haul, trucker. I learned he liked boxing, BB'Q-ing, family and the outdoors. I learned that though he was a proud Cuban, he would not go back. That he'd never met a preacher before - I was his first, and that he was 'surprised' at learning I liked old cars and 'beisbol,' too.
As the afternoon carried on, I watched Alberto as Alberto watched Trey and me. I watched him mix cement in a wheelbarrow then carefully clean each of his tools before putting them away. I listened and enjoyed the warm, pleasant sounds of men - his friends - joking with each other as they worked the afternoon away. I watched him as he smiled and gave his wife, Anna, a hug each time she came out to see how things were. I saw, with the eyes of man of such privilege too, how he loved her and she loved him - then watched, over and over, as he continued offering Trey and me his hand, advice, and bits of encouragement along our way.
When time came for me to leave, one thing more happened - perhaps the most profound of that day. As I was packing my truck Alberto bounded out his front door to offer us each a beautiful demitasse of Cuban 'café.' The coffee was strong, rich, delicious and bitter-sweet. I thanked him, of course - for both the coffee and his help - then expressed how pleased I was to enjoy his kindness and fortune of my son living next door to a man such as he. With a huge smile on his face, Alberto turned to say, 'But we are neighbors, Amigo, - like family! In America we are supposed to be kind. For we've been given so very much. Si?'
As I looked into his eyes I could not help but wonder and pine, 'might I expect one such as he from the place where I live?' 'Thirty miles close, but seemingly, now, so far, far away?' I climbed into my truck and, waving goodbye to my new friend, I prayed so. I prayed this might be so from me and from you, too. For America could use, always, more Alberto's.
Lord, may it begin in me.
Pastor Sam
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