My Mayan Prince

     He was a mayan boy raised in a traditional mayan hut with a palm leaf roof, woven stick walls, and packed dirt floor.  His home was in the town of Ticul, Yucatan not far from the ancient Mayan ruins of Xumal, Kabah, and Sayil.  His inquisitive mind drove him to seek out his ancestrial beginnings which led him to visit the ruins of Kabah. 

      At Kabah, he encountered "gringo" missionaries.  They gave him a book which explained who his forefathers were.  He was intrigued by the marvelous tale.  He felt his heart swell with joy, that there was a purpose.  He watched the "gringo" missionaries reach out with compassion to his people as they traveled from village to village.  He watched dark eyes, dulled by centeries of servitude, one by one begin to shine as they grasped the purpose, giving hope.

     I was born in a tar paper shack in the cedar swamps of northern Minnesota.  There were fourteen of us.  My father was blind and my mother half indian.  Life was hard.  We attended a small green church on a hill.  That was where I met, Fernando.  He and a friend came as visiting ministers.  I was six.

     I walked into the church that day barefoot, torn dress, tangled hair, sweating and dusty from the long walk.  Standing before me was a story book princess.  She was my age dressed in a pink chiffon dress, black satin shoes, and perfect ringlets framing her angelic face.  

     As I watched praise being lavished upon her, my aching heart cried longing to be noticed and receive praise as well. 

     I was scooped up in the strong arms of a dark stranger.  He held me on his lap.  I looked into to his compassionate brown eyes.  He smiled and said, "Amorcita,  It's not important what people see.  What's important is what's in your heart."  My starved soul had found its' prince.   

     Time passes and changes come whether we desire them or not. 

     Years later I heard of Fernando's passing.  He had obtained his doctorate in linguistics and was fluent in seven languages.  He had left the church under bitter circumstances.  He died alone in terrible pain from venereal disease far from his beloved homeland in the thriving city of Los Angeles, California.  I wept for him, my mayan prince.

     Things go full circle.  I am a missionaries wife volunteereing in a bilingual primary school in the small village of Zamorano, Valle de Jamastran, Honduras.   

     She came in tears, tangled hair, barefoot, and shoulder bones pressing against her thread bare dress. "Teacher, the children say I'm dirty and ugly".  I pick her up, gaze into her sad brown eyes, and say, "Amorcita,  It's not important what people say..."  

     Wiping her tears, I pull her gently against me and reflect.  Why is it that in our search for personal validation and knowledge we often lose the simple truths which have power to move others beyond circumstance and birth?