They say it was about 5:00 PM. Death isn't new to any of us; in fact, the ultimate statistic is one out of one dies. But Jesus was only ten years old. Last Thursday at our work-day, Clementina his grandmother, approached us and meekly asked if we could help her grandson who was dying of cancer.
The story was as hopeless as any I have heard. The boy's father had died several months ago. Now Jesus was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The hospitals and doctors had been stalling any help for eight months and by now her medical bill was more than two thousand U.S. dollars. Because of this, the hospital and doctors were reluctant to treat him further. He was now in pain and needed help.
Could I possibly visit Jesus? When we finished our work in Pan America, I seated grandma and Hortensia in my van, then loaded it with four American teens and headed down the long road to Jesus' house. Grandma was giving the directions. After driving for about fifteen minutes, we stopped at a dead end. Grandma got out and crossed the trashy gully to the house to see if Jesus and Alejandra, his mother, were home. She quickly returned to the van and announced that they had taken the boy to the hospital; could we go see him there?
We headed up and over the hill through an urban maze of crisscross streets until we finally came to the hospital. Jesus was in a room on the third floor. I quietly entered the room. He was staring at the ceiling. His mother sat looking at him laying there with an IV in his arm receiving morphine.
I went over to his bed, smiled and asked him how he was doing. I can't forget his eyes as he looked at me and studied my face. I'm sure he was surprised to see an old gringo standing next to him. He managed a smile and said he was feeling a little better, his legs weren't hurting him now. His eyes never left me.
His mother said the morphine would last until Monday.
I talked a little more and his mother requested we talk outside in the hallway. That's where she told me that the doctor had just told her that her son had only days to live. Grandma was sitting on the bench on the hallway holding her head in her hands; she didn't move.
The American teens wanted to see him and she graciously gave permission. I pressed some money in Alejandra's hands to help with his food and care. As we left, Grandma was patiently sitting on the sidewalk with Jesus' little five-year-old brother waiting for Jesus and his mother to come out and go home.
It was morning, a few days later, that I got the news. Little Jesus had died. I also heard that mother, grandmother and extended family couldn't raise enough money to bury the child.
In Mexico, if you don't have enough money to pay for the funeral you don't get the deceased. Tomorrow Spectrum will pay the needed $500 to provide for Jesus' burial. Today, Jesus is just another statistic. His body lies beneath a little wooden cross, one of hundreds of little crosses in what's known only as Cemetery Three.
A little sparrow fell Tuesday; isn't it comforting that our Lord saw it fall.
This true story played out several years ago. This is what we do. Thanks for helping us do it.
