tapping on steve's door

My house does not have an open door.

It is not that I am a hermit. It is just that I do not get many visitors.

And if people show up at the door without first calling, I will likely miss their presence. I have no doorbell, and the house is large enough that rapping at the door is, is for me, simply a reference to "The Raven."

If I am somewhere in the house I can hear the knocking, I will occasionally go to the door. And I am often glad I did.

We have a lot of Jehovah's Witnesses working our neighborhood. I always invite them in for a glass of water and to practice my faltering Spanish on matters theological. The anti-dengue health squad is similarly welcomed. Both are doing God's work as they see fit.

Dora was here on Saturday. Both of us were up to our chests in house-cleaning when we heard a rather insistent knock at the front door. She looked at me with that mix of exasperation and resignation suspecting I was about to launch into another theological seminary discussion.

The knock was mixed with extended "hola"s designed to alert the household that the person at the door had something of great value to share. And then came a surprising "Steve." My interest was piqued. This was not a casual visitor.

I discovered I was correct when I opened the door. No vested-health workers. No Watchtower-toting evangelists. It was my good friend Oz.

His full name is Oswaldo Alonso Gallardo Moreno. Oswaldo to his family. Ozzie to his friends and colleagues. Oz to my family.

The name morph reminds me of the Viscount Stangate, who turned himself into Anthony Neil Wedgwood Benn, then into Anthony Wedgwood Benn, then Tony Benn. I always imagined his brand strip-tease would leave him being called Mr. T, had that option not yet been taken by a man who would have not taken kindly to a violation of his trademark.

I first met Oz six or seven years ago when he was interviewing for a job at Rooster's. The manager was inclined not to hire him. There was something about him him that caused me to intervene with the manager.

I am glad I did. He was one of my favorite waiters. Even though he had spent most of his life in The States (California, New York, Nevada) and spoke impeccable English, he was willing to put up with my Spanish -- and to help me improve it. Of course, most of the new words he taught me were not the type I could use in polite conversation. But I did learn a lot about the use of the imperative.

You may remember him from four years ago when he and his family took refuge in my house during hurricane Patricia (sawing memories in half). He had just been reunited with his wife and two children when the storm headed our way. We survived the storm together, but the marriage went its own way.

He was at my house on Saturday because he was in the neighborhood selling fried platanos to raise money for the expenses of the volunteers who work at the treatment shelter where he is currently staying. 25 pesos a bag.

I do not care for fruit, and frying does not improve it. But I bought a bag each for Dora, her son Leonardo, and my son Omar. I then donated an extra amount.

If you have visited this area, you undoubtedly have seen young men wandering around town clad in a CRAC t-shirts and carrying a donation canister. I suspect most of us have never bothered to find out what the operation is all about. I know I hadn't. But Oz gave me the scoop.

There is a house in northern Barra de Navidad that offers shelter, treatment, and therapy for the addicted. Some alcoholics, but primarily drug addicts.

When I moved here, drugs were not a large local problem. Most drugs were on their way north as wholesale packages -- just passing through. Our small villages were not seen as retail sites. Of course, there was marijuana usage, with its attendant problems. This is a surfer-skimboard area.

And then something changed. The reason is not important, and I am not certain I fully understand the dynamic. But our villages now have a mushrooming methamphetamine problem. It is inexpensive, and even more addictive and debilitating than heroin.

The house where Oz is staying is dedicated to assisting addicts in dealing with their respective addictions. That is why Oz was at my door on Saturday -- asking me to be part of the solution. An offer I could not refuse.

When I was an attorney in Oregon, methamphetamine was becoming a problem. I watched a number of my young criminal clients start melting away -- in a very real sense. Their skin was jaundiced. They stooped because of calcium loss in their bones. They lost their teeth. And they continually smelled of cat urine.

About two years ago, I started using Facebook as a method to get to know some of my neighbors in the barrio. To my surprise, almost everyone I contacted was willing to have the type of "friendship" created by social media. Shallow. Inconsequential. Ephemeral. But I did not expect much more. It's Facebook.

But there were a few exceptions. I started corresponding with about a half dozen who were more than willing to tell me about their lives -- and to help me develop my Spanish. I would meet regularly with them.

It did not take me long to realize that what I had seen in Oregon was happening in my neighborhood. The blight of methamphetamine had set in amongst far too many talented young people -- for much the same reason addictions are created elsewhere.

I decided I was going to do something. I have no training in drug treatment -- other than what I have learned through experience as an attorney and classes conducted by the Air Force and the Salvation Army. But I also knew that for addicts another therapist is not what most of them need.

Yesterday at church we were scheduled to discuss the parable of the Good Samaritan. I did not attend for a number of simple reasons. But it is one of my favorite parables. It is the story of a man who is set upon by thieves and left for dead along the side of the road. Two religious men pass by and ignore him to avoid becoming ceremonially unclean -- and perhaps out of fear.

The only man who stops is a Samaritan. A despised foreigner. He treats the man's wounds, takes him to an inn, pays for his immediate care, and offers the innkeeper more money in the future if it is needed.

I know it sounds presumptuous to say I feel like that Samaritan when I go out to work with the methamphetamine addicts in our neighborhood. But my role is smaller than his. What most addicts lack is someone simply to talk with. Because of the behavior this odious drug drives them to, most have lost contact with their families and friends. I can offer little more, therefore I offer what I have -- an ear willing to listen.

There is another Samaritan in Jesus' teaching -- this one the woman living in adultery who he encounters at a village well. Philip Yancey relates a story that I often think of when I am talking with my friends.

That scene of Jesus and the Samaritan woman came up during a day I spent with the author Henri Nouwen at his home in Toronto. He had just returned from San Francisco, where he spent a week in an AIDS clinic visiting patients who, in the days before antiretroviral drugs, faced a certain and agonizing death. “I’m a priest, and as part of my job I listen to people’s stories,”  he told me.  “So I went up and down the ward asking the patients, most of them young men, if they wanted to talk.” 

Nouwen went on to say that his prayers changed after that week. As he listened to accounts of promiscuity and addiction and self-destructive behavior, he heard hints of a thirst for love that had never been quenched. From then on he prayed, “God, help me to see others not as my enemies or as ungodly but rather as thirsty people. And give me the courage and compassion to offer your Living Water, which alone quenches deep thirst.” 

That day with the gentle priest has stayed with me. Now, whenever I encounter strident skeptics who mock my beliefs or people whose behavior I find offensive, I remind myself of Henri Nouwen’s prayer. I ask God to keep me from rushing to judgment or bristling with self-defense. Let me see them as thirsty people, I pray, and teach me how best to present the Living Water.   

I am telling you this for one reason. Certainly, not for self-aggrandizement. What I am doing does not even trip the self-sacrifice meter.

Here is what I suggest. When you see the young men in the CRAC t-shirts wandering around town selling the two varieties of fried platanos they have prepared for you, purchase a bag or two and drop some extra pesos in the can. But, more importantly, stop what you are doing and share a few moments with another soul who is as thirsty for companionship as are you.

The Oz of this world will thank you for it.