Humble Pie

Javier looks like he's probably in his mid-to-early thirties. He's got a nice trimmed mustache, but is clean shaven besides that. His dark hair is slicked back with enough gel to wax a car, and his clothes are well-used, but clean. Fluent in English and Spanish, he's very open and easy to chat with. He grew up in East L.A., where he has 3 kids between the ages of 6 and 10. He loves the Lord and is quick to say that God is his Provider and that he can always count on him.

If this weren't downtown Tijuana after dark, I would be surprised to see him with a cup of the rice pudding we're handing out. Or to know that he got deported from the U.S. and that he's been on the streets for about a month now, after completing a 2 year prison term. He's been standing here in a laundromat with it's one wall open to the busy street, talking with two YWAM staff members. Right now, he's homeless. He hasn't seen his kids in two and a half years, and he's having problems in his marriage. His oldest son told him that he was disappointed in him when Javier got busted a couple years ago. I can see the pain from that comment hasn't got away yet. And even after we part ways, I sit in the van on the way back to the base, the questions lingering on the fringe of my mind.
How often have I stuck a label on someone and figured I knew their character?
A label like "prostitute" or "illegal immigrant" or "addict"? How often I judge people before I know their stories?
Too often.
You want to know what the ironic thing is? The longer I stood and talked with Javier, I could feel both the impact and the discomfort grow in my heart. Why is it uncomfortable to find out the story of someone I previously judged? Because the more I listen, the more I have to admit the truth: I have a lot to learn from people I've labeled as worse than me.

And that with just a few twists to the story, it would have been me eating rice pudding on a street corner in TJ.

Instead, I am in a fifteen passenger van tasting a different desert: Humble Pie.