I have a beloved brother in Christ whom I have never met, no will I. He died in 2006. Let me tell you our story.
Some 25 years ago I was riding in the low mountains of Guatemala with Fred Harder, field worker for Heifer International. Fred pointed up toward the mountains and said, "Go home and send me a grain mill that I can take up the mountina in my jeep for Cesar Maes. Fr. Cesar Maes was a prist from Belgium pouring out his life for the Indian people of San Jose, an isolated village in the high mountians near Mexico. These very primitive people chopped the soil with hoes, scattered the wheat seed by hand, cut the crop with scythes, and flailed out the grain. The carried it two days across the mountinas to have it ground into four, giving half the grain for the grinding.
I came home and purchased a 20-inch stone mill with the equipment and engine, and sent it to Fred. In due time I recieved a gracious thank you from Cesar, reporting the the mill was a glowing success, and the they wanted three more for other villages, but could now pay for them with the profits from the first mill. I had them sent.
This started a friendship by mail with this amazing man of God. Working patiently with the people, he began to bring innovative and practical changes in to the lifestyle. He develped a simple cook stove with a chimney to replace the fire on three stones on the ground inside the house. At one time he proudly wrtoe that there were 260 chimney pots in the village, the name give the new stoves.
He inspired the people to dig and build by hand, with shovels and wheelbarrows, a large lake for fishing and recreation. The climate was cool, so he went back to Belgium and brought trout eggs to San Jose, hatched them, and soon the lake was teeming with trout. Cesar found a way to raise mushrooms at the altitude, and introduced them to their diets.
His innovative ways inspired me, but it was his love of his people that causees me to regret that I never took the time to visit this dear brother in Christ. In his last letter he wrote:
"Every face is charming, for people who keep looking long enought. For 25 years I have been looking at Indians. Their faces become more attractive day by day. Time gnawed 25 years away in San Jose, a relatively small community on this earth. There was never any regrets that my living space was limited to this spot. Besides, I found that Bach at 10,000 feet is no less moving than at sea level.
There are a lot of different faces. It is difficult, even for a talented photographer, to take a nice picture of a an ulgly face. Love never sees an ugly face. The faces of michievously smiling brats are nice, as are those of young girls that due to hard experiences look too old for their age.
There are other bright spots; mules loaded with freshly ground wheat, the water lillies, a family in a rowboat on our new lake, the vegetable gardens, the thousands of young trees, enthusiastic catechists, a fixed house for a widow, the chimney pots, stars filling the night sky, a pair of crutches for a cripple, the first carp fingerling, somebody shouting when he catches his first fish ever, playing children screaming with fun, the pride of a peasant harvesting potatoes in the dry season after a rain, the mysterious fireflies, a mothe lovingly looking back at the baby on her back, the amazing endurance of toddlers. Even the hummingbirds want to fratenize, asking for a gallon of sugar water a day.
I see elderly people singing as they die. I would like to die in the same way."
He did.
Some 25 years ago I was riding in the low mountains of Guatemala with Fred Harder, field worker for Heifer International. Fred pointed up toward the mountains and said, "Go home and send me a grain mill that I can take up the mountina in my jeep for Cesar Maes. Fr. Cesar Maes was a prist from Belgium pouring out his life for the Indian people of San Jose, an isolated village in the high mountians near Mexico. These very primitive people chopped the soil with hoes, scattered the wheat seed by hand, cut the crop with scythes, and flailed out the grain. The carried it two days across the mountinas to have it ground into four, giving half the grain for the grinding.
I came home and purchased a 20-inch stone mill with the equipment and engine, and sent it to Fred. In due time I recieved a gracious thank you from Cesar, reporting the the mill was a glowing success, and the they wanted three more for other villages, but could now pay for them with the profits from the first mill. I had them sent.
This started a friendship by mail with this amazing man of God. Working patiently with the people, he began to bring innovative and practical changes in to the lifestyle. He develped a simple cook stove with a chimney to replace the fire on three stones on the ground inside the house. At one time he proudly wrtoe that there were 260 chimney pots in the village, the name give the new stoves.
He inspired the people to dig and build by hand, with shovels and wheelbarrows, a large lake for fishing and recreation. The climate was cool, so he went back to Belgium and brought trout eggs to San Jose, hatched them, and soon the lake was teeming with trout. Cesar found a way to raise mushrooms at the altitude, and introduced them to their diets.
His innovative ways inspired me, but it was his love of his people that causees me to regret that I never took the time to visit this dear brother in Christ. In his last letter he wrote:
"Every face is charming, for people who keep looking long enought. For 25 years I have been looking at Indians. Their faces become more attractive day by day. Time gnawed 25 years away in San Jose, a relatively small community on this earth. There was never any regrets that my living space was limited to this spot. Besides, I found that Bach at 10,000 feet is no less moving than at sea level.
There are a lot of different faces. It is difficult, even for a talented photographer, to take a nice picture of a an ulgly face. Love never sees an ugly face. The faces of michievously smiling brats are nice, as are those of young girls that due to hard experiences look too old for their age.
There are other bright spots; mules loaded with freshly ground wheat, the water lillies, a family in a rowboat on our new lake, the vegetable gardens, the thousands of young trees, enthusiastic catechists, a fixed house for a widow, the chimney pots, stars filling the night sky, a pair of crutches for a cripple, the first carp fingerling, somebody shouting when he catches his first fish ever, playing children screaming with fun, the pride of a peasant harvesting potatoes in the dry season after a rain, the mysterious fireflies, a mothe lovingly looking back at the baby on her back, the amazing endurance of toddlers. Even the hummingbirds want to fratenize, asking for a gallon of sugar water a day.
I see elderly people singing as they die. I would like to die in the same way."
He did.
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