How do I describe this feeling, this scene, this experience of life and its contradictions, injustices, and impossibilities (perhaps only improbabilities…)?
Nine gringos and two El Salvadorians squeeze in the truck bed around two large boxes of meals tied in plastic grocery bags in the center on the floor, arms wrapped around the metal railing, hair blowing in the warm night air as we drive down the bright and usually busy street that is now mostly deserted. Five more people sit in the cab of the truck. It’s 9:30. It’s a clear night with wisps of clouds floating over the sky and occasionally blurring the bright, almost-full moon. Despite being in such a large city, the stars are out in force, refusing to bow to the city lights.
We drive through the main market, one of the more dangerous areas of the city during the day. Most stalls are closed up. Only a handful of owners are still in the streets locking up or eating tamales. We continue down the street and pass the national palace on the right, looking historically ornament with the shadowed decorative features around its windows and roof. It’s dark and outdated but not quite forgotten. On the left we pass the national cathedral. It’s distinctly modern, simple and uncluttered, even somehow hinting of the ancient Arab architectural influence in the Mediterranean coasts.
Soon John taps the side of the truck twice and we slow down. We see people running toward us as they yell, “John! John!”. They whistle to signal others down the street that we’ve arrived. John immediately jumps out-he is the only one who is allowed out of the truck for safety reasons-and greets by name those who appear. He gives orders in Spanish, telling the gathering crowd to form a line behind the truck. He continues to shake hands, hug, greet and joke with everyone who arrives while simultaneously controlling the crowd. This was our last stop of the night.
“Niños venga! Niños primera!” The children run to him and he puts them in a line at the tailgate. I didn’t expect so many children. The line was about half a block long now with more people coming around corners and crossing through traffic. Men with long, scraggly beards, unkempt hair, missing teeth, no shoes, tattered t-shirts and pants; women with simple clothing, sometimes torn and stained, daughters, mothers, grandmothers; transvestite prostitutes wearing nothing but lingerie and high heels; children in ill-fitting clothing, usually barefoot, smiling and excited for the visit, whether it’s for the food as much as the gringo, I can’t tell.
We pass the bags out and the line moves quickly. We hear “gracias” and “Dios le bendiga” many times. We hear “hi” and “thank you” a few times as well. Some people just take the bag and walk away, some smile, some bless us, some giggle from the unusual sight of a truck full of gringos, others giggle because they were high, some beam from this gift, some don’t meet our eyes.
We run out of bags before people to hand them to. Another tap on the truck and we’re driving down the street and I am looking back on the scattered people sitting on the sidewalk eating with their bags in front of them…and those still in the street empty handed.
This is my one night to do this. I won’t leave an impact here. Impact requires time, dedication, consistency. It requires patience and joy in small victories. In this large, busy city, one truck of gringos trying to feed 400-500 homeless people seems so frustratingly futile. Tonight, we didn’t even have 200 meals to pass out. Then I look again at the sky, the vastness, the depth, the brilliant stars. How is all of that out there and here we are, 16 people in a single pickup truck in San Salvador? Can there be more of a contrast and melancholy irony? I think back to the smiles, the greetings, the relationships John’s ministry has made in the four years it has existed. I sense the hope in this night too: a glimpse of God over the vastness of space and simultaneously moving through the streets, of impacting this world even though we know we cannot fix its fallen nature.
