Five Glorious Days

How do I put into words the last five days?

One rental car

Five nights in a hotel room

Six train rides

Over ten hours in planes

30+ blocks in NYC

Millions of people

. . . and just me and my son.

 

Elder Padilla

Noticeably absent from the list:  shopping, shows, and museums, for these are not Tucker's New York.

Tucker's New York is all about people--people and the way their lives have forever entwined with his.

Tucker is kneeling down next to Hermana Eva (in pink)

Hermana Eva—a miniature lady from El Salvador who made us the best pupusas and hibiscus juice.

 Arianna, Jessica, Hugo

Junior and Jose Luis

Arianna, Hugo, Jessica and her cousins Jose Luis and Erica—Guatemalans that opened their home to us for dinner even though they had extended family in town.

 Hermana Lechuga

Hermano and Hermana Duartes

Hermanns Duarte and Lechuga—when they found out we would be in town, they threw Elder Denton a party—complete with plenty of Spanish music for dancing.

Hermana Portillo with Stephanie and Jacquelyn

Hermana Portillo and her four children—we dropped in for a visit, then later came by for lunch and Tucker left with a surprise gift of a hammock.

Don’t forget the Garcias--an extended family spread over three floors of one house, a house filled with good food and energetic kids.

Hermana Rodrigues

I was served food from all over Central America—each dish was delicious and different.  I met people from all over the world, and surprisingly enough, I didn’t miss all the excitement that the city has to offer.  We did walk through Manhattan one day, where we saw

 

Central Park

 Ground Zero

 preschool class holding a rope as they walk down the street

St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and about 1 million people who were basking in the only sunny day all weekend, but I could sense Tucker’s need to return to Long Island and his people.

 Hermanas Herman, Flores, Chirinos

 Sister Stevenson

I met new people—eccentric people who live lives so foreign to mine. 

 

 I heard their stories and ate their food and sat in their homes and looked into their lives and played with their children—and I, too, fell in love with them.

I watched as my son went from place to place, playing with the children and hugging the men and women.  I listened as he joked or taught or prayed in Spanish, occasionally stopping to translate for me. I attended Church with them, and although their building was small, the Spirit they brought was huge.  I felt of his love for them and their love for him—a deep love that can only come through months of serving selflessly all day every day.  And best of all, they encircled me—a stranger—with their love, including me in their joyous celebrations and private memories.  They told me of the countless hours my son had spent serving them—schlepping water and debris from basements, chopping down trees and cutting utility wires, tearing up damaged wood floors and soggy sheetrock, organizing volunteers and finding those in need after Hurricane Sandy.  They shared funny memories—Sharpie marker mustaches and sombreros, practical jokes, and impromptu dancing. They remembered his laugh, his passion, and his exuberance.

Most of all, they expressed to me, often in their halting English, their genuine love for my son—their gratitude that he had shared his love of Jesus Christ with them, that he had spent two years of his life serving them, and that he would forever be part of them--a part of Freeport, NY--never to be forgotten among those he had served so lovingly.

The city will always be there—with its bright lights and entertainment.  Maybe next time.