StirUpYourPower: Road Dust
Day 6 of the Slate Project devotional, this time with "dust."
I'll admit to being surprised; this idea arose pretty much immediately after I read the verse. But the topic is actually one that I struggle with, personally, a little bit. How far do we go in our welcome?
Maybe you can help me figure that out.
The verse is Luke 5:9 "[Jesus said] 'If people do not welcome you, leave their town and shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them.'"
Here's my flash fiction story "Road Dust."
Road Dust
Maria stared up at the concrete fortress rising above her, frisking the clouds.
“Mamá,” she said, tugging on her mother’s calloused hand.
“Yes, mija?”
“Mamá, it’s so big! How are we ever going to get over it?”
Mamá looked down into Maria’s wide, bright eyes, saw the earnestness in her broad cheeks.
“Well, mija-” she spoke gently, letting her voice caress her daughter the way her hands couldn’t during this walk. “- many have tried before. Some dug long, long tunnels underneath. A few caved in, and it was very sad.
“Some tied together blankets and shawls, and threw them over the top, to climb up.”
“But Mamá-“ Maria’s free hand was pointing practically straight up, so much higher was the wall than her little-child’s head.
“Yes, Maria; there wasn’t quite so much barbed wire then. They added that to rip up the blankets.” And other things, fleshy things, but no need to scare her, she thought.
“So then some of the cartels started bribing certain guards, and then some of the people who owned land on the border.”
“I thought the cartels were bad, Mamá.”
“They are, amorcito, and that is one reason they are bad. They do illegal things, and they use those things to hurt more people.”
Maria frowned, still looking upward at the wall. She tentatively reached out her little hand, gingerly, seeming afraid it would bulge forward and take off her hand.
“It’s alright, Maria. It won’t hurt you by itself.”
A thin index finger barely brushed the side as mother and daughter continued to walk.
“Mamá,” Maria said eventually. “Mamá, you never said how we are going to get over it.”
Mamá smiled. “You’re right. Well, some time ago, someone spread the word, in texts and on papers passed in secret through caravans. ‘Everyone go to one spot,’ they said. ‘The same small patch of wall.’ And do you know what they did, mija?”
She shook her head, no doubt trying to imagine the sheer force needed to break through something of this size.
“The all came, thousands and thousands. And they took off their shoes and they clapped them together, like we used to beat the carpets, remember? To get the dust off? They clapped their shoes together-” those that had any by that point - “and then they turned around.”
Maria stopped walking suddenly, confusion too great for her to overcome. Mamá pulled gently on the hand she still clasped, urging her on.
“You see, all those people, our people, they left that road dust behind. Day after day, more people would come and shake off their shoes, leaving more and more dust. Until -”
Maria gasped, and Mamá beamed. She had timed this story perfectly.
Just ahead of them, nowadays marked with a heavy obelisk to sanctify the site, to tell this story to those whose mamás didn’t know it, was a large pile of dirt. Stacked up, day after day, week after week, forming a mound, a hill, up which even Maria’s little feet could walk. To the very top of the wall.
Just beyond it, of course, was a welcome center with social workers and asylum lawyers and fresh water bottles. But they still let families climb that dust staircase, if they wanted.
“We’ll walk, mija,” Mamá said simply, smile beaming brighter, as she took her first step onto that pile of dust.
I'll admit to being surprised; this idea arose pretty much immediately after I read the verse. But the topic is actually one that I struggle with, personally, a little bit. How far do we go in our welcome?
Maybe you can help me figure that out.
The verse is Luke 5:9 "[Jesus said] 'If people do not welcome you, leave their town and shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them.'"
Here's my flash fiction story "Road Dust."
Road Dust
Maria stared up at the concrete fortress rising above her, frisking the clouds.
“Mamá,” she said, tugging on her mother’s calloused hand.
“Yes, mija?”
“Mamá, it’s so big! How are we ever going to get over it?”
Mamá looked down into Maria’s wide, bright eyes, saw the earnestness in her broad cheeks.
“Well, mija-” she spoke gently, letting her voice caress her daughter the way her hands couldn’t during this walk. “- many have tried before. Some dug long, long tunnels underneath. A few caved in, and it was very sad.
“Some tied together blankets and shawls, and threw them over the top, to climb up.”
“But Mamá-“ Maria’s free hand was pointing practically straight up, so much higher was the wall than her little-child’s head.
“Yes, Maria; there wasn’t quite so much barbed wire then. They added that to rip up the blankets.” And other things, fleshy things, but no need to scare her, she thought.
“So then some of the cartels started bribing certain guards, and then some of the people who owned land on the border.”
“I thought the cartels were bad, Mamá.”
“They are, amorcito, and that is one reason they are bad. They do illegal things, and they use those things to hurt more people.”
Maria frowned, still looking upward at the wall. She tentatively reached out her little hand, gingerly, seeming afraid it would bulge forward and take off her hand.
“It’s alright, Maria. It won’t hurt you by itself.”
A thin index finger barely brushed the side as mother and daughter continued to walk.
“Mamá,” Maria said eventually. “Mamá, you never said how we are going to get over it.”
Mamá smiled. “You’re right. Well, some time ago, someone spread the word, in texts and on papers passed in secret through caravans. ‘Everyone go to one spot,’ they said. ‘The same small patch of wall.’ And do you know what they did, mija?”
She shook her head, no doubt trying to imagine the sheer force needed to break through something of this size.
“The all came, thousands and thousands. And they took off their shoes and they clapped them together, like we used to beat the carpets, remember? To get the dust off? They clapped their shoes together-” those that had any by that point - “and then they turned around.”
Maria stopped walking suddenly, confusion too great for her to overcome. Mamá pulled gently on the hand she still clasped, urging her on.
“You see, all those people, our people, they left that road dust behind. Day after day, more people would come and shake off their shoes, leaving more and more dust. Until -”
Maria gasped, and Mamá beamed. She had timed this story perfectly.
Just ahead of them, nowadays marked with a heavy obelisk to sanctify the site, to tell this story to those whose mamás didn’t know it, was a large pile of dirt. Stacked up, day after day, week after week, forming a mound, a hill, up which even Maria’s little feet could walk. To the very top of the wall.
Just beyond it, of course, was a welcome center with social workers and asylum lawyers and fresh water bottles. But they still let families climb that dust staircase, if they wanted.
“We’ll walk, mija,” Mamá said simply, smile beaming brighter, as she took her first step onto that pile of dust.