Un toque de mano

Once upon a time...the summer between freshman and sophomore year of
college, I went to La Republica Dominicana for two weeks. It seems
surreal now. I wonder what it means to my life that I went to this
island (and never saw the ocean from it but instead did art classes
with poor children in a mountainous region). The permanent art
teacher with the faith based org called Students International was
an indigenous man who told good stories, in spanish because he was
learning English. I dont remember his name any more, but I
remember his face. I remember how he got headaches almost everyday,
but because the town had no aspirin he took Alka-Seltzer instead. He
also threw cockroaches and other bugs on his 2 year old daughter so
that she would learn not to be afraid of them.

Everyday he would tell us the same thing... Un toque de mano, A
touch of hand or a smile goes a long way. He realized that we would
be there for only two weeks, long enough to get to know the kids
names and something about their personality and then we would leave
and forget about them. But while we were there we had the ability to
love maybe not so much with words (for those who did not speak Spanish) but with a touch of the hand or smile. He had faith that us being there did actually make a difference. He understood something I am only beginning to understand.

The Kingdom Jesus says is like a mustard seed. Something small and inconsequential, that hits the ground when the wind blows and then it blooms and blossoms and grows and there are branches and flowers
and fruit and shade and spice and bright yellow and then more seeds.
A place for birds to rest and nest; a place of growth.

Last night as I was at this meeting in a building I had not been to
in a couple years, I stood to find the bathroom. I peered around the
corner, unsure of the entrance to the bathroom and saw the door and
also a small crowd VIP types whispering important things. But then
___ saw me, and he gave me a look of "sure its fine to pass this
way", it was welcoming, acknowledging, it was a quarter of a second
long but it echoes in my ribs, in eternity. Un toque de mano, un
mirada. Rang in my head and I knew it was true. And I headed to the
bathroom feeling loved and like I wasn't taking up too much space.

As I write this two things come to me:

1) Francisco, the art teacher's name is Francisco.
2) Am I that much of an empty reservoir that a drip of ordinary
human interaction can quench?

I don't think I am the only one because Francisco, on an island in a
mountain town with no aspirin, he knew it ... and maybe its not that ordinary. Mustard seeds look as common as dust, but yet they are a storehouse of potential.