Abdul, Your Feet Speak...

José Prado

há 5 dias

5 min de leitura

English Collection II · 3 of 5

It was after one in the afternoon when he called.

I was worried because he is not usually late. We had planned to have lunch at our home. It had been a long time since we had seen each other, and we were both happy that we had finally found an opportunity.

Embarrassed, he told me he would not be coming for lunch.

He had spent an hour and a half trying to reach my house, but the bus stop had been moved and he had been unable to find its new location.

At sixty-three, emotionally shaken by persecution and forced displacement, he had not yet been able to make much progress in learning Portuguese.

To make matters worse, he had left his phone at home.

“I failed twice,” he kept telling me.

After trying for a long time, he finally decided to return home.

There was sadness and disappointment in his voice. In his culture, failing to honor an invitation like this is almost unforgivable.

I assured him that I understood, that there was no problem, and offered to visit him at his home that same evening, just to show him that everything was all right.

He was happy.

We agreed on eight o’clock.

I arrived a little late.

I brought a small container of grapes and a bag of apples with me.

Rules of Eastern hospitality that one learns along the way.

He came to meet me at the door.

I noticed that he had dyed his hair and looked well.

A good sign, I thought.

He is doing well.

I entered his small living room and sat down.

We began to talk, and I noticed his feet.

New sandals.

But it was his feet that caught my attention, not the sandals.

They seemed to be trying to tell me something.

I remembered his story.

He was born into an extremely poor family in the countryside of an Asian country. There was no school nearby when he was a child, so he never had the opportunity to study.

He grew up barefoot, helping his father with an ox cart.

At the time, in his country, an ox cart was useful for many things.

It was hard work.

Very hard.

But dignified.

When he was around twenty, during one of his journeys with the ox cart, he had a dream—a revelation.

In it, the Lord Jesus called him.

He decided to dedicate his life to the church and never marry.

For the next ten years, he lived as a wanderer.

A barefoot pilgrim.

An itinerant evangelist.

From village to village, bringing the message of Jesus and his grace.

And the people who walked in darkness saw a great light.

The light shone in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

His inspiration was none other than Sadhu Sundar Singh, the apostle of the bleeding feet.

Once, during his own journeys, Sundar Singh had slept in the home of Abdul’s father, when Abdul’s father was still a boy.

His father used to tell him the story.

The power of an example.

The importance of hospitality.

My attention moved back and forth between what Abdul was saying and my thoughts about his feet and the story of his life.

After those years as an itinerant evangelist, he began planting churches.

They grew and became strong.

Then, seeing that there were not enough schools for his people, this man who had never been able to go to school started one.

Then another.

And another.

Today there are more than twenty schools, serving thousands of children from poor families throughout the day.

At the beginning of each school year, every child receives a kit:

a uniform,

a backpack,

notebooks,

books,

and...

a pair of sandals.

How many villages have these feet walked through?

In his country, preaching the Gospel is forbidden. Persecution is severe.

Still, he did not stop.

How many confrontations has he endured because of the Gospel?

He does not talk about them, but his disciples say that he has been arrested and beaten dozens of times.

His church in his home country supports more than four hundred full-time evangelists.

People following in his footsteps.

The conversation grew deeper when, suddenly, he told me that now, after a year and a half in Brazil, he was at peace.

He believed that the Eternal One had allowed even the persecution he had endured.

He was serene.

He no longer cried every day, as he had in the beginning.

He apologized for having caused me so much trouble.

He had no idea how much he blessed me.

And so two hours passed almost without our noticing.

As usual, he asked me to pray before I left.

For a moment, I felt tempted to ask if I could photograph his feet.

Then I abandoned the idea.

How would I possibly explain a request like that?

I stood up and began moving toward the door, but he asked me to wait another minute.

He went into the kitchen and returned carrying an enormous plastic bag filled with fruit.

Mangoes, bananas, apples...

I felt embarrassed.

There was at least five times as much fruit in that bag as I had brought with me.

“I bought these to take to your house,” he said. “But because I got lost on the way, I brought them back home.”

I took the bag.

Its weight surprised me.

I imagined him walking beneath the midday sun, carrying that heavy bag while trying to find my house.

I left his home carrying much more than I had brought.

This story is a metaphor for what I have experienced over these years as we have welcomed brothers and sisters who have suffered persecution and been forced to seek refuge.

Far from being a burden, they are a blessing to be welcomed.

He insisted on walking me to the car.

We agreed to meet again before Christmas.

“At my house,” he said.

“Next time, I’ll get it right.”

I drove home with a grateful heart and an overwhelming sense of my own smallness.

We have so much.

We give thanks for so little.

We share even less.

How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news...

The beauty is certainly not visible to everyone.

To see it, one must welcome the pilgrim messenger.