Ok…so Becky broke her ankle while we were scrambling over some slippery rocks down at Playa Negra. Bummer for her. Bummer for us. Vacation won’t include soaking in the hot springs, riding horseback to the Rincon waterfalls, tubing the Tempisque, exploring the jungles of Manual Antonio, or taking long leisurely strolls on Playa Blanca. More time to write, reflect, and pray. More opportunity to serve and care for my bride…probably a good thing…maybe a God thing.
Last night, after getting back from the hospital and settling Becky onto the sofa, I went out for a quick bite at the local cafe. Best chicken sandwich ever. Best fries ever. The chef (Garrett) walked away from a promising culinary career in Santa Barbara. Like everyone else down here, he lives on next to nothing. A very friendly outgoing guy…he fits in with the locals. The barista (Orion) used to run a thriving coffee shop in San Fran. Weary of the rat-race, he migrated down here for the quietness of the jungle. Every morning he gets up with the sun to spend a couple hours surfing before work. He’s lucky to make $6/ an hour…think’s it’s good money. He didn’t come here lured by the promise of success. Gabriella works behind the counter. Dark, swarthy skin. Long braided dreads wrapped up in a bun. Very athletic. She surfs for two or three hours every morning, rain or shine. Say’s that surfing inside the curl “is a spiritual experience.” Her husband left her three months ago. Moved back to Santa Cruz. Took the kids with him. She freely admits her brokenness. “It’s my fault. I gave all of my attention to the kids.” In spite of her pain, Gabriella is a caring sweetheart. Very ‘other centered’. Yesterday afternoon, she showed up at the front door of our condo with a pineapple smoothie laced with ‘something special’. “Secret recipe, good for achy bones and whatever else ails you” she said. (Hmmm…unfamiliar taste. I wonder what was in it…)
The tiny outdoor cafe was filled with an assortment of interesting people. Apart from a handful of Ticos, most of the diners were transplanted gringoes: a gay couple, a land developer down on his luck, a handful of vacationing surfer dudes, and an old geezer who’d been drinking most of the night. (“I’ll help you carry your wife upstairs, but you probably ought to know that I’m drunk. My brother just died.”)
Interesting people. Everyone has a story… a reason for being here. For some it’s the promise of anonymity. For others it’s the surfing, the adventure, the women, the laid-back pace of life. For still others, it’s an escape. My sense is that everyone here just wants to be loved and accepted. Not judged. I wonder how Jesus would care for this gaggle of friendly gentle-hearted individualists.
Becky prayed with a lady she met in the emergency room of the clinic. Yesterday, we had our first ‘spiritual conversation. Praying for a full-on opportunity to share Jesus.