The Red Truck

by Anne O’Neil

Five brothers, one truck, and me; it was quite a dilemma in my young mind. I was the eldest child in a family of six children, with five boisterous brothers at my heels. My parents, now deceased and gone on to their heavenly reward, bless their souls, were godly and raised us in a home filled with laughter, love, and prayer. Money, however, was often short. Ever since I can remember, principles like sharing, faith, trust in God, and giving were often-practiced virtues. “All too well-worn,” I often brooded to myself. As if having a large family and a low income weren’t enough, my parents made a habit of helping other less fortunate families.

Back to my dilemma … Christmas rolled around too soon that year. Times were difficult, and Dad and Mom hadn’t been able to set aside much money toward the yearly treat of colors and lights and special desires fulfilled. We had a nice pine tree, which Dad and the boys had chopped down and brought home. We had food, our home was warm, and we had health, but there was no money for gifts, or at least not enough for all six of us children.

One day, coming home from work, Dad had spotted a beautiful shiny red wooden truck on sale. It was just right for the boys, a gift they could enjoy together. He could probably scrape together enough money to pay for it, but he certainly wouldn’t have any money left to afford a doll or any other girly gift for me. So that was how I came to be presented with my dilemma. Dad and Mom left the choice up to me. They wanted to give me a gift, and if I would agree to let what money they had go toward giving the boys this gift, they would save up to get me something later. They knew it would be disappointing for me to have no gift on Christmas Day. I’m sure under normal circumstances they wouldn’t have asked it of me, but I think they must have seen this dilemma as an opportunity to teach me about the joy of giving.

Somehow, in spite of a few sad tears, I mustered up the courage to tell them to get the truck for the five boys. When Christmas Day arrived and I saw the joy on my brothers’ faces as the truck zoomed back and forth, chased and pushed and cuddled, I realized that I had been given the best gift—a chance to make my siblings happy.

As the years passed, though, I grew weary of all the sacrifice and slowly forgot the joy I had experienced that Christmas morning long ago. As I grew into adulthood I lost sight of the value of my parents’ happy, sacrificial giving that went beyond what I thought should be expected of them or what I thought was fair. It took a special experience in my life to fully understand this priceless lesson.

By the time I was out of high school and had begun working, I was weary of the thought of living in meager circumstances. I determined to build a comfortable life for myself and to worry about my own needs instead of the needs of others.

Before I knew it, I was raising two children of my own. My husband held a steady job and we lived in a small but cozy home. I was frantically learning the art of juggling meals, caring for crying toddlers, cleaning up spills and broken glass, and nursing bumps and bangs. My little boys were my pride and joy, and I was determined to give them everything they needed.

I didn’t forget my Christian upbringing entirely. I did have faith in God. I prayed and read the Bible, and tried to be a good Christian example as my parents had been, yet I was determined that my needs and my family’s needs must be my main concern. Once we had what we needed, then I would worry about caring for others. If we had extra, I would definitely share that, but not to our own hurt. I took clothes and toys that the boys had outgrown and gave them to poor families. I knew in my heart that there was more I could do; maybe there was more that God wanted from me, but I wasn’t ready to go that far. I didn’t want to give that much. I was afraid of the hurt. I was forgetting the joys. I was forgetting the fact that I had never lacked for anything important while I was growing up. God had always cared for us, and always provided enough. Little did I know that Christmas that year would hold some valuable lessons for me and for my family.

As the days of summer faded, so did my plans for prosperity and financial security. My husband was let go from the job where he’d worked for nine years. His company was downsizing, and in one short day our lives began to swerve out of our control. Our savings would tide us over for two to three months, but if he couldn’t find a good job by then, we would be in a tough spot.

My upbringing had honed my skills of living with less. This almost instinctive reaction immediately kicked in. I began to reduce spending and guard every bit of our precious reserves. I was determined to make the money last as long as possible so that my husband wouldn’t feel too much pressure. Every day he went out to look for work. Some days he got temp jobs that helped to extend our lifeline inch by inch, but the hope of prosperity was slowly slipping from our grasp. We tried not to despair, we tried to pray and remember our faith, but slowly the days drained our finances. My boys were three and five years old, so I couldn’t get a job myself.

Whenever I was met by a need or request from others, I would shake my head sadly, telling myself that if we were better off, I’d gladly help. The once familiar concept from my youth that “you can never outgive God” was long forgotten.

Five brothers, one truck, and me; it had been quite a dilemma in my young mind.

Christmas was just around the corner when a knock on the door brought back those long-forgotten memories. My youngest brother had come to visit and brought my boys a gift he had dug out of the attic of our parents’ home where he still lived: the once shiny red truck. My mind was flooded with memories of that Christmas: the tears and the smiles and the warm feeling of deep contentment that I now realized I hadn’t felt in a long time. My brother sported a toothy grin as he handed the well-worn truck to my eldest. “Robbie, this truck brought your five uncles so much happiness that I thought you might enjoy it too.” Then he hugged me and rushed out, late for work.

My thoughts were still being pulled back to those memories of that Christmas long ago as I drove to the local grocery store later that afternoon to buy what things we’d need for our Christmas dinner.

On the way I passed by the home of the Thomas family. Dave Thomas had worked with my husband and I had met his wife a few times at the local park. Dave had been let go a month earlier than my husband, and they had four small children. He too was looking for work, but his wife was barely holding up. Things had been tough for them, and with four kids they hadn’t been able to save much even when he was working.

I felt bad for them, I really did. But how could I take away from what would be the food for my two sons in order to help them? How could I give them what we needed? It had been three months now since my husband had lost his job, and our savings were nearly gone. Yet, without a doubt the Thomas family was worse off than we were. We could somehow manage to skimp for a few days and help them out. I weighed both sides, with my mind moving swiftly back and forth, trying to decide between my heart and my head. I was in turmoil as I entered the store and distractedly roamed about, trying to decide what to do. My eyes landed on the toy shelves, and I spotted a bright red truck.

Slowly it began to dawn on me that the spirit of giving of that Christmas many years ago had survived the test of time; it was still in my heart. I had a chance to find that contentment once again. I couldn’t shake the memories of that red truck going back and forth, and how it had made everything else feel right inside. I thought of how happy Robbie had been to receive the truck that morning, and here I was, presented once again with the chance to give a little more than I thought was comfortable, to give even though it hurt me personally, and to dip into what I thought I needed.

Somehow, I found the strength to make the right decision, and as I shopped that day, I carefully picked out twice as much as I would have bought for our family. As I arrived at the checkout, it dawned on me that we had only four mouths to feed, but the Thomas family had six. So I slowly moved over some of what I had intended to buy for my own family into the second pile. I paid quickly, not wanting to change my mind. On the way home I stopped just around the corner from the Thomas’ house. I could see Mr. Thomas in the backyard watching the children play, and I could hear his wife humming a hymn in the kitchen as she fixed their supper. Being careful to not be seen, I quietly carried the boxes of food one at a time to the porch, setting them down silently beside the front door. Then, giving a sharp knock, I dashed behind some nearby large bushes where I could peek out but not be seen.

I heard Mrs. Thomas call to her husband to please answer the door, as she was busy. It took a minute, but soon the door opened. There stood the figure of a man. He walked with a slouch, and the lines of despair were visible on his face in the afternoon light. The look turned to shock, then disbelief, and then a smile crept across his face. He bent down, shaking his head slowly as he gathered up the two boxes of food. Then he began looking around to find who had put them there. Finally he turned and hurried back into the house, and I heard a resounding, “Oh, my Lord!” echoing from Mrs. Thomas.

The contentment had returned; it was more than worth the sacrifice. I slipped back to my car and headed home. That night when I prayed, I felt like my prayers were being heard. I felt a contentment in my heart. I felt peace of mind, and I knew without a shadow of doubt that we would be okay.

One week later, my husband came home with the happy announcement that he had found a job. He was overjoyed as he hugged the boys, and then hugged me with tears streaming down his face. I finished preparing dinner, and as we sat down to eat, with the initial excitement now settling, I asked him where he was working and how he had found the job.

He grinned, happy to tell me the story. “Remember Dave Thomas, who used to work with me? He’s married and has four kids. Surely you remember them, Hon.” He paused as he took another bite and waited for me to respond. I nodded, unable to say anything … as my heart began to beat harder.

“Well, he got hired a few days back. They’ve had a rough go, much tougher than us. He told me that last week, he’d reached the point where he couldn’t go on. He started looking for work a whole month before I did. He’d paid his bills and bought the last box of milk he could afford that morning. Then God just dropped them a couple boxes of groceries ‘right outta the sky,’ he says. Imagine that, Hon!”

I could feel tears welling up. I nodded with a feeble smile, and my husband continued. “Well, those groceries gave him a surge of faith and strength. He said he stood there thinking that if God cared enough to do something like that, then He must care enough to give him a job. He recalled a sign he had seen the day before for a new food distributor. He went right out and applied for a job there and was accepted. At his new job a few days later, his boss told him they were still hiring, and he remembered me. He was parked outside our house waiting for me to come out this morning, and took me with him to meet his boss. You know what I kept thinking of as I came home today, Hon? God bless the person who gave them those groceries; unbeknownst to them, they dropped blessings right outta the sky into our lives as well.”

Tears were now streaming down my face. My husband stared at me in bewilderment, not understanding where the tears were coming from. Then he reached out to hold me. “I thought you’d like that story,” he said, his voice trailing off quizzically.

My tears were ones of joy as I realized that you really can never outgive God. When you give even when it hurts, then God has a new opportunity to give you a blessing. It took me a minute before I could bring myself to reply to my husband. “I do, I do. I loved that story. The thing is, Honey, I bought those groceries.”

 

The Unsung Heroes

Here is an article from David Siervo, a member of The Family International in Chile:

February 27, 2010. 3:37 A.M.

For two seemingly eternal minutes, Chile is rocked by a massive 8.8-degree earthquake with its epicenter just off the coast, 90 km north of the city of Concepción, affecting a huge area from Copiapó all the way down to Temuco, and is even felt as far north as the desert of Atacama and as far south as Puerto Montt, about 3,500 km away, and from the coast all the way across the Andes to Argentina in the provinces of Mendoza, Neuquén and Río Negro. The cities of Curicó and Talca, with their older constructions and many adobe-made houses, are badly hit. The ensuing tidal waves (three of them) that hit the coastline from Pichilemu to Talcahuano devastated much of what remained standing in the lower areas close to the sea. Some small fishing towns, such as Iloca, are simply wiped off the map.

The city of Constitución lies at the mouth of the Maule River, some 320 km southwest of Santiago. The town—with a permanent population of about 50,000, the main livelihood of which is employment in one of the largest paper pulp plants in Chile, the wood industry, and fishing—is also a tourist resort in the summer.

At the very mouth of the river lies the small island of Orrego, covered with forest and about 250 meters from either shore. The end-of-summer celebrations in Constitución traditionally include an event called the Venetian Night, complete with fireworks, music, and dancing, that was to take place the following night. Had the earthquake hit that night, the death toll would have been much higher, as usually from 700 to 1,000 people camp out on the island to watch the fireworks. As it was, some 150 to 200 (the exact number is still unknown, as there are many missing who haven’t been accounted for) had headed out the night before to get a good spot.

Having lived there all their lives, the townspeople knew that in the event of an earthquake, they only had a few minutes to flee to higher ground to avoid getting caught by the ensuing tidal wave, though nothing as big as what they were about to witness had ever hit Constitución. However, the people on the island had no way of getting ashore quickly. Survivors say that immediately after the quake, the sea receded with such a horrific roar that it sounded like some prehistoric monster, ready to pounce on its prey.

As the people took to the hills, two humble fishermen—one of them accompanied by his 17-year-old son—set off in their rowboats toward the island in a desperate attempt to bring the campers ashore. It would take them the better part of ten minutes to make the trip across, get about 8 to 10 people on board, and make it back.

They managed to make the first trip safely. On the second trip, when the boat was nearly full, the fisherman called to his boy to get on board.

“Father,” said the boy, “take one more person back, and I’ll come on the next trip.”

The father insisted, but the boy would not budge. He kept repeating calmly: “I’ll be fine, father. Save these people.”

The father knew there most likely wouldn’t be enough time for another trip. But seeing that his son was determined to stay, he let another person on, and with tears in his eyes, set off rowing furiously toward the shore.

The other fisherman, Juan Gomez, a gruff man, used to the rigors of the sea, had gone on before him, and having let his passengers off on the shore, defiantly headed out again to fetch another batch just as the tide steadily started to rise.

Then the second wave hit.

A massive 15-meter-high wall of water struck the coast with unimaginable force, completely covering the island and sweeping away everything on its way 10 km up the river, leaving a path of destruction behind it.
Looking at the devastation a week later, I couldn’t help but wonder how anybody could have survived, and yet … miracles still happen in the 21st century.

In a supreme act of heroism, the boy gave his life so that somebody else could live. Incredible as it seems, his father managed to make it through the ordeal, though his fellow fisherman, Juan Gomez, did not.

But there are other accounts of what happened that terrifying night that defy all belief.

Twenty-three-year-old Mariela Rojas and her three-year-old son, Tomás, had been on the island since the beginning of the summer, where Mariela and her sister tended a small food stand. After the quake, Mariela grabbed a small life jacket they kept there, put it on Tomás, and tied it firmly. They survived the initial more gradual tidal wave by holding on to a tree. When the second wave hit in full force, they were swept away. In Mariela’s own words:

“When we were hit by the second wave, I determined not to let go of my boy. I held on to him tightly as the strong current carried us along. We must’ve been in the water for about an hour, though it seemed an eternity to me [it was actually over two hours]. Though Tomás cried throughout the ordeal, that was reassuring, because as long as he was crying, I knew he hadn’t drowned.”

The sea finally tossed them up on the river bank close to the high bridge that crosses the Maule River, some 5 km upstream. There they were spotted by Justo Rebolledo, a fisherman who had fled to the hills and come down after the second wave to see about his boats, convinced that the worst had passed.

“There they were, exhausted and tangled in a pile of rubble. The girl was screaming for help and her little boy was shivering with cold. I took them by the hand and led them up the hill. Three minutes later, the third wave hit.”

Unfortunately, Mariela’s sister and brother-in-law did not survive. Neither did two friends of hers and their two young children, all of whom were on the island at the time of the disaster.

Twenty-six senior citizens lived at a small home for the elderly not far from the waterfront, which was run by two nuns. The old house was already badly damaged by the quake, but the nuns knew they would not be able to get the old folks out in time to avoid the tidal wave, as some of them could barely walk. So they instructed them to stand in a cluster and embrace each other firmly. All but two did as they were told, and although they sustained bruises and other minor injuries, they all survived. The two who went off looking for their things in another room unfortunately lost their lives.

Another elderly man was on the island with his nine-year-old grandson. They managed to climb a tree high enough to avoid the full brunt of the second tidal wave. The man kept encouraging the boy to hold on and not give up, until his own strength gave way and he was carried off by the current. For the next four hours, the boy clung to the tree, badly bruised, soaking wet, and screaming for help at the top of his lungs, until he was finally rescued by yet another fisherman in his boat, after the third wave.

What were the odds of Mariela and her son surviving such an experience? God only knows. Again, what are the odds of 24 elderly folks, some of them crippled, others senile, most of them barely able to walk, let alone run or swim, surviving an earthquake and subsequent tidal wave? Statistically impossible to calculate, but no doubt extremely low. And once again, what are the odds of a nine-year-old boy surviving three tidal waves by clinging to a treetop? Surely next to nil.
Such are the miracles that occur in the wake of major disasters. And such are the unsung heroes who help make those miracles possible. The anonymous, humble, noble-hearted, oft-forgotten fishermen who did not hesitate to lay their lives on the line to save others. The dedicated nuns who humbly serve the lonely and the destitute, day in and day out, asking nothing in return. The common folk who have lost everything, even loved ones, and yet are ready to bounce back and rebuild their lives upon the rubble of their former homes.
At Juan Gomez’s funeral, attended by hundreds who came to pay homage to this true hero, a young lady with a beautiful voice, who is a close relative of his, sang a heart-wrenching Spanish version of Amazing Grace. The entire congregation wept until they could weep no more.
And so do I, as I write these lines and ponder the courage of these noble men and women, about the true meaning of life and death, sacrifice and unselfishness, gain and loss, and such fickle things as fortune and fame, so often used as the measure of success.
I presumptuously went down to Constitución as a relief effort volunteer, thinking I was doing humanity a service. Little did I know the lessons of humility, resilience, and thankfulness God had in store for me there, and who I was to learn them from: the poorest of the poor by worldly standards, and yet the richest of the rich in God’s eyes.
May this be a humble tribute to those unsung heroes, who by their shining examples have lifted a powerful beacon to light our way. And mostly, may it be a song of praise to the Creator of all things, who laid it upon their hearts to offer their lives on the altar of sacrifice so that others could live. What a fitting reminder of our Savior’s sacrifice, Who gave His life so that we could freely have life eternal.