It was an unusually difficult week. Friends in crisis, world events, and demands coming from all directions crowded in on me and made me wonder where I would find the grace or patience to get through the days. Then two friends--one I had never met before--came to visit.
I had been inspired by Karl Gaspar's writings for a long time and had prayed for him during the 22 months that he was in a Philippine prison. And then, at the very moment that Ferdinand Marcos was on a plane heading out of the Philippines, Karl walked into our midst. Given the turn of events, he had canceled his appointments with Congress and decided to give his whole day to us at Sojourners.
Karl carried with him a sobering reminder that the struggle in his country is still a long journey, but he also exuded a bright and solid hope. His warm smile encompassed my wavering spirit and began to rekindle my fragile hope.
I was present at the historic meeting of Karl and Nathan Tamialis, an 11-year-old member of Sojourners Community. Like hundreds of other children around the world, Nathan had sent Karl a Christmas letter during Karl's imprisonment. Karl was answering Nathan's letter, detailing his prison experiences on paper, when he got word of his release. The letter ended with news of Karl's first celebrations in freedom: a trip to the beach and an ice cream cone.
As Karl and several members of our community sat around the Tamialis family dining-room table, drinking a special pineapple-coconut drink Nathan and his brother Michael had made for Karl's visit, he shared stories. Karl sparkled most when he talked about young people--the many committed young men with whom he shared a prison cell, the children from faraway places who had sent him greetings, and the young couples who come to him for counsel in his pastoral work.
He talked of a 3-year-old in Vancouver, British Columbia, who said to Karl after he had stayed for a brief visit with the boy's family, "It's unfair. I prayed for you for two years but I only see you for one night." Karl was gone from our presence as quickly as he was from theirs.
WITHIN A WEEK another visitor came. A contrast in stature and style to Karl, Gilberto Aguirre is a garrulous man with an embrace large enough to encompass the whole world. Gilberto, the executive director of CEPAD, Nicaragua's evangelical committee, was a gracious host to Jim Wallis and me on our first trip to his country in 1982.
On the morning of March 4, while 200 of us held crosses bearing the names of victims of the contra war and stood in the formation of a cross behind him on the U.S. Capitol steps, Gilberto talked about his children. He explained the torment his family endures as his oldest son, just turned 18, faces the military draft. In an impassioned plea, he asked the people of this country, "Would you want your tax dollars to kill my son?"
Later, at the Sojourners magazine office, Gilberto's joyful side emerged when he shared stories as he met members of the staff. He joked with some, "You'd better learn to speak Spanish--that's what we'll all be speaking in heaven!"
When the press conference, the worship, the witness on the Capitol steps, the visits to Congress, and the nightly-news reports were finally all over, Jim and I had Gilberto to ourselves. He was anxious for a tour of our neighborhood.
The first stop was a large, colorful mural on the side of a building at the corner of 14th and Irving Streets. Gilberto gave a wide grin when we pointed out a portrait of Nicaraguan hero Augusto Cesar Sandino painted in a row of faces that also included Sojourner Truth, Harriet Tubman, and Martin Luther King Jr. Sharing that mural in the heart of our poor Washington neighborhood with our Nicaraguan friend was a moment of joy.
We left our neighborhood and showed Gilberto other points of interest in the city. We ended up late at night at the Lincoln Memorial. Jim recited portions of Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" speech as we walked up the long row of steps leading into the memorial. We paused at the top, in the cold March wind, and looked out over the Reflecting Pool to the illuminated Washington Monument as Jim described the scene of hundreds of thousands of people surrounding the monument and listening to one of the most important speeches in the history of our nation.
Our steps echoed within the marble walls of the large memorial as we read the speeches by Abraham Lincoln engraved there. Upon seeing the words about freedom and justice, Gilberto expressed sadness that the words today seem to be only handwriting on a wall rather than the principles of our government.
When we got back home, the three of us shared a pizza--a favorite dish of Gilberto's and a rarity in Nicaragua--and talked about what we will do "when the war is over," when we can go to Nicaragua without having to organize a protest vigil or document contra atrocities. "When you come to Nicaragua then," said Gilberto, "I will take you with my family to our favorite beach. It is beautiful."
As I embraced him when our time was over, as when I gave a warm farewell to Karl, I felt like a 3-year-old in Vancouver. It is not fair that we can touch one another face to face only so briefly. But what a joy that our journey is filled with such companions.
Comparisons between Nicaragua and the Philippines are common in the political air around Washington these days. The commonality is this: that in both countries faithful hearts beat for justice and life. And there, as here and all over the world, hearts long for the day when we can all celebrate together the victory of justice. Pizza and ice cream on the beach for everybody!
Joyce Hollyday was associate editor of Sojourners when this article appeared.
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