The rain beat against the bus as though it were a dinghy in the middle of rough seas. As hail fell on the roof, we noticed a man pushing his ice cream cart through a deep river of water that had formed. We gave thanks for the rain, gave thanks for the protection we had, and prayed for the safety of that faithful ice cream man.
Thunder announced the presence of this day’s storm earlier as we learned about the early Mayan culture of El Salvador—we saw the excavated ruins of an ancient village and the acropolis the people would have visited for religion, commerce, and politics. We learned about the later Spanish colonization—with indigo factories run by Dominican monks. We had walked to the top of a hill next to an uncovered acropolis, appreciated the beautiful ridges and crests of the surrounding mountains, and noticed the rainbows forming in front of the gathering thunderheads. At the time, I didn’t think anything of the clouds or the rain—having grown up in the tropics of Jakarta, I was used to the rainy season daily thunderstorm.
I wasn’t prepared for this storm.
Not just because of the awesome display of creation—of wind whipped trees dancing in the rain. Not just because of the terrifying possible consequences of such a storm on our bus as we traveled from San Salvador to Auachapan. No, I wasn’t prepared for this storm because of the ice cream man.
Our local guide from Habitat for Humanity, Caty, talked about an ice cream man she met the other day—while the rest of us were busy browsing souvenir stalls—a man who walks for several hours a day, pushing his cart, to earn around five dollars a day. The current minimum wage in El Salvador is around 230 dollars a month. This man faithfully and dutifully pushes his cart each day, so that he can earn almost a hundred dollars less than minimum wage—a minimum wage that is already lower than the cost of living.
I say all of this to call attention to the ice cream men we have encountered. Pushing their carts to feed their families—sometimes through intense storms—they embody sacrifice. If no one calls attention to their faithfulness, who will? My goal here is to honor and celebrate all those who do such work. They struggle against poverty, the elements, and the indifference of others to be a blessing to others. God bless the ice cream man.
Reflecting on this, I remember our visit to a Lutheran church this morning. It was an overwhelming experience—the bomb-scarred building itself a witness to the suffering and faith of the church of El Salvador. The smiles on the faces of the pastor and the people—the little girl who stole my heart as she gave me a cross necklace—were full of hospitality and grace. Outside, after the service, laughing children and youth lined up to get snow cones dripping in juice from fresh-squeezed limes.
Not exactly ice cream, but a blessing nonetheless.
Thunder announced the presence of this day’s storm earlier as we learned about the early Mayan culture of El Salvador—we saw the excavated ruins of an ancient village and the acropolis the people would have visited for religion, commerce, and politics. We learned about the later Spanish colonization—with indigo factories run by Dominican monks. We had walked to the top of a hill next to an uncovered acropolis, appreciated the beautiful ridges and crests of the surrounding mountains, and noticed the rainbows forming in front of the gathering thunderheads. At the time, I didn’t think anything of the clouds or the rain—having grown up in the tropics of Jakarta, I was used to the rainy season daily thunderstorm.
I wasn’t prepared for this storm.
Not just because of the awesome display of creation—of wind whipped trees dancing in the rain. Not just because of the terrifying possible consequences of such a storm on our bus as we traveled from San Salvador to Auachapan. No, I wasn’t prepared for this storm because of the ice cream man.
Our local guide from Habitat for Humanity, Caty, talked about an ice cream man she met the other day—while the rest of us were busy browsing souvenir stalls—a man who walks for several hours a day, pushing his cart, to earn around five dollars a day. The current minimum wage in El Salvador is around 230 dollars a month. This man faithfully and dutifully pushes his cart each day, so that he can earn almost a hundred dollars less than minimum wage—a minimum wage that is already lower than the cost of living.
I say all of this to call attention to the ice cream men we have encountered. Pushing their carts to feed their families—sometimes through intense storms—they embody sacrifice. If no one calls attention to their faithfulness, who will? My goal here is to honor and celebrate all those who do such work. They struggle against poverty, the elements, and the indifference of others to be a blessing to others. God bless the ice cream man.
Reflecting on this, I remember our visit to a Lutheran church this morning. It was an overwhelming experience—the bomb-scarred building itself a witness to the suffering and faith of the church of El Salvador. The smiles on the faces of the pastor and the people—the little girl who stole my heart as she gave me a cross necklace—were full of hospitality and grace. Outside, after the service, laughing children and youth lined up to get snow cones dripping in juice from fresh-squeezed limes.
Not exactly ice cream, but a blessing nonetheless.
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