Dinner Guest

One evening last week, I returned home to find a young woman and her two-year old son sitting in the living room. She appeared tired and out of place, and I had no idea who she was. My host mother gave few details and simply introduced us and said she was from Panao, a town three hours away where Paz y Esperanza has just opened a small office.

I asked her a few questions, simply to be social, “What’s your son’s name? How old is he?” She answered timidly and without emotion. I didn’t know what to say next, so I just slipped out of the situation and escaped to my bedroom.

I have experienced encounters like this before, in our living room, where a stranger waits on the couch, hands on her lap, trying to avoid eye contact and just keep quiet.

One Sunday afternoon, a young girl, about eleven years old, was waiting outside our neighbor’s door. We had just come home from church and learned that she had been waiting for over three hours. She looked hungry, so my host mother invited her in to have lunch with us and watch the annual Marinera dance competition on TV. We all sat mesmerized, commenting on the costumes and music, while the little girl consumed a mountain of pasta without saying a word.

Just as the television screen kept us all at a safe distance, my retreat to my bedroom last week kept me from getting too involved.

That is, until my host mom came in and asked if I could keep the young woman company while she went out to buy some bread for dinner. A quick glare in her eyes informed me that I should not only keep her company, but make sure she didn’t steal anything.

I invited her into the kitchen and started to set the table. Good, something to keep me busy, while I think of something to say.

“Is this your first time in Huánuco?... Yes. Do you like it?... I don’t know, I haven’t been here very long. The weather is beautiful isn’t it?... Yeah. Where did you live before?... With the baby’s father.”

She asked me where I was from and seemed slightly interested with my response. I described what I was doing in Peru, a vague comment about human rights, and her interest faded. “Human rights,” she probably wondered, “what are those?”

After rearranging every possible item on the table and folding an excessive number of napkins, I realized how in need this young woman was. A teenage single mom, on route from somewhere to somewhere else, with all her belongings in a ragged plastic bag.

The little boy’s face was smeared with dirt and tears and he looked hungry. I reached for the bag of leftover bread from breakfast and offered it to him and his mother. Both hands dove in like it was a bag of gold. I was stunned. Both were starving. They ate in silence while I listened closely for the front door to open and Elena to return.

As I waited I just stood near the girl, watching her son explore the kitchen, all of us trying to make sense of the situation.

But these situations simply don’t make sense. What causes a troubled lonely girl to find herself in the kitchen of a strange family where they have leftover bread and she hasn’t eaten all day? What causes this girl to be face to face with another girl (me), who thinks she has something to say about human rights but finds herself frozen when she meets the very person in need of an advocate?

What does make sense out of all this is that G-d created the space. G-d allowed the encounter. G-d instilled in me what I needed to be useful.

I didn’t need to know why she was here and where she was going. I didn’t need to be a trained psychologist who knows how to probe into another’s emotional state. And I didn’t need to feel scared or uncomfortable standing beside her in the kitchen.

I could be a calming presence as she prepared for her journey, offer her some bread and just stand there, leaning against the kitchen sink, with her and her son.

Elena came back and we quickly sat down for dinner, bread, soup and tea. We talked about the girl’s trip, confirmed the bus time and avoided all the details of what brought her here.

I later learned from Elena that the previous day the girl was found wandering the streets of Panao, alone with her son. She had left Lima to live with the baby’s father, who turned out to be abusive.

She came to a public cafeteria called “Comedores Populares” where women volunteer to cook meals for the poor, offering plates of food from fifty centavos. The women saw her and invited her in, learned that she was homeless and spontaneously gathered their money together to buy her a bus ticket back to Lima.

She somehow arrived at the Paz y Esperanza office where my host mother was working and it was arranged that they would return to Huánuco together. But not before filling out some legal paper work that declared she was leaving an abusive satiation. Without this document, the baby’s father could plead that she abandoned him and demand that she return…

Now protected by the law, she could travel to Lima and hopefully rebuild her life with the support of family. But it’s one thing to have a ticket back home. It’s another to actually have a home to return to, and I don’t know if she does.

A home that exists as a safe haven. A home that always has room for someone else. A home where one more person is always welcome at the dinner table. A home where an unexpected guest can rest and prepare for a journey.