Editor’s Note: The Baptist Messenger received articles Walker Moore submitted before his passing on June 26, including this column. Look for other columns in the coming weeks, as well as from the archives in the future.
Several years ago, I wrote this article from an Internet café in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico.
I must describe my surroundings for you. I am sitting on one of those cheap white plastic lawn chairs that are made to appear fancier than they are. You know the ones I am talking about; they come from a store ending in “-Mart.” When you sit down, the chair legs tend to buckle ever so slightly, and you hold your breath. If you shift your weight inappropriately, you will go down like the Titanic.
The computer I am working on should be in a museum. Its sides have been removed because the café has no air-conditioning, allowing the heat from the computer to escape into the room. This little café is exposed to the outside world, and as the screen flickers, it creates static electricity. Every time a bus or car goes by, it stirs up the dust, which is immediately attracted to the computer screen. I am having trouble determining whether the screen is dimming, my eyesight is getting bad or enough dirt has collected that it’s time to wipe off the screen again.
The Spanish keyboard is different than our English ones and includes “magic” codes that you have to know if you want to be successful. The “@” sign used to address e-mail is a tricky one. You have to hold down the “Alt” key and type in “064.” When you release the “Alt” key, up pops the “@” sign. It cost me a dollar of Internet time to figure that one out.
This internet café charges 14 pesos for an hour of computer time. At 10.5 pesos to the dollar, it will cost me about $2.20 to write this article. I think $2.20 is a lot to spend, but if you divide that by the 90-some thousand subscribers, that comes to about .0000244 cents per subscriber. I think you are worth it.
So, as I sit in this hot, dusty Internet café, I am looking out onto the street, trying to think of what I would like to share with you this week. The only thing I can think of is… I am blessed. That feeling doesn’t come from what I have but from somewhere deep down inside me.
Last night, after I shared the Gospel. A lady came up to one of our students with her eight-month-old grandson. She asked our team to pray for him because he has a brain tumor. Thank you, Jesus, for letting me be at that dusty flea market where You touched a woman who needed prayer. I am blessed!
Just now, a man rides by on a bicycle that has been thrown together from salvaged parts. I wonder if he has heard the wonderful news that Jesus died on the cross for him. I have. I am blessed!
Across the street stands a man waiting at a bus stop after doing a day of hard, manual labor. Most likely, he only made enough to buy tortillas for his family. I bet this morning when he got up, he didn’t have to ponder what to wear. He was probably thankful he had something to wear at all.
I wonder who is more blessed. One man barely ekes out enough to live on, but when he comes home, his children run to meet him at the end of a dusty driveway, yelling, “Papa, Papa!” They wrap their little arms around his leg, and he playfully drags them into the house.
Another man comes home and has to punch in a security code to enter his own house, only to be faced with a pile of bills lying on the table. Then his children greet him with a request for money to go on a school trip, complaining that the car they drive is a year older than the ones their friends have. That dad goes off to bed feeling unappreciated. I wonder which man would say that he was blessed.
I think we need to rethink what being blessed means—and I will be the first one to get on my knees and ask God to forgive me. I repent of thinking that blessing comes in things that are bigger and better—when all along it was the muddy footprints across the kitchen floor or a hug received for no apparent reason.
Maybe I am feeling blessed today because when I went to put on my jeans, a heart- shaped note fell out of one of the pockets. On it, in my wife’s handwriting, was a note telling me how much she loves me and can’t wait until I return home. I am blessed.
Since I still can’t think of anything to write, I will just say a prayer for you and your family that you will find God’s truest blessings. Amen.