Gomez (or It's A Small World After All)

Several years ago, my sister called me up on the phone, talking so fast I could not understand a word she was trying to say.

“Wait! Slow down! I can’t understand a thing you are saying!” I said, laughing at her.

Patty is definitely not one to get overly excited and emotional.

She lived up in the mountains at a church camp/conference center where she cleaned cabins, etc., between groups. During the winter, it usually tended to be very slow during the week and very hectic on weekends. About the only traffic in and out of the camp during the week was trucks making deliveries.

Late one winter afternoon, as the narrow, winding, half-mile driveway was shadowed by early dusk on the north side of the mountains, a truck driver on his way back up to the highway skidded on the black ice - something unheard of by most southern Californians. His truck jackknifed and became stuck in a snow bank.

He hiked, slipping and sliding, back down the road to find a phone to call for help. 

My sister saw him out there in the early evening twilight of winter and invited him into her apartment to keep warm while he waited. She offered to make him some hot chocolate, and proceeded to the kitchen 

while he entertained himself with walking around the living room looking at knickknacks and photos.

When she walked back into the room, carrying his hot chocolate, she saw him standing motionless, staring at a picture on the wall. She cleared her throat, not wanting to startle him, but he did not move.

"I got your hot chocolate here for you..." she said.

He did not move. 

Slowly, he raised his hand and pointed to the photo on the wall, and said without turning, "Do you know this man?"

Puzzled, she looked at his profile and said, "Yes.... That is my father!"

He still did not turn his head or move away from that spot. Finally he shook his head as though to rid himself of a daydream, and turned to my sister to accept the hot chocolate she held out for him.

"I am sorry”, he said. “I am being rude. Thank you for this hot chocolate and for letting me in to your home. It is so cold outside."

Then he turned to look again towards the photo of my father on the wall and looked back at her with a far-away look on his face. He started to say something, but shook his head as though he had changed his mind and was trying to shake a thought from his head.

They talked about the weather, and about the treacherous mountain roads in the winter, and how lucky they were to live in southern California, where we don’t usually have to worry about icy roads. But the man seemed distracted, and continued to pace back and forth as he sipped his hot chocolate.

My sister thought he must be uncomfortable in the small living quarters of a strange, single woman. Or maybe he is worried about how he will get his truck out of the snow bank.

Finally, the man turned back towards the picture on the wall and blurted out, “That is a face I cannot forget. This may sound crazy, but did your father ever live in Cuba?”

This time, it was my sister’s turn to be surprised. “”Yes… we lived on the naval base at Guantanamo Bay when I was a little girl…”

“I KNEW it!” he exclaimed, becoming suddenly very animated.

Quickly, the story tumbled out.

Mr. Gomez (for that was his name) had been born and raised in communist Cuba. As a young man, he had been told he had to now serve in the country’s army, and was to report for duty immediately.

But because of his religious convictions, he could not do that. So he left his mother and family and went into hiding, living among the sugar cane fields, always on the run from the police who were searching for him to coerce him into service of Castro’s regime.

In desperation, he formed a plan to escape. He and four friends set out to swim across Guantanamo Bay and throw themselves at the mercy of the Americans at the navy base there.

They struck out across the bay in darkness, only to be spotted by Cuban soldiers with a search light who opened fire on them. Two of the young men were shot. Panicked, the young Gomez wavered, torn between freedom and trying to save his mortally wounded friends.

But as machine gun fire continued and his dying friends urged him to go on, he took a long, deep breath and struck out again, diving desperately under the dark water, his two remaining friends following behind him.

When they surfaced, the shouts along the shore rang out across the water. The soldiers were yelling and congratulating themselves on killing all of the escapees. The three frightened men huddle close, whispering and shaking as they bobbed up and down in the inky darkness. But there was no turning back now; so on they swam.

Suddenly one shouted out in pain. He had been struck by a shark that had been attracted by the blood of their wounded friends. The second friend shrieked in pain and went under too. The two remaining friends were both killed by sharks!

As the morning sky went from black to grey, an exhausted Gomez washed up on the rocky shore beneath a cliff. He didn’t know if it was Cuban soil or American soil, and was almost too tired to care. He crawled up over the rocks to hide under an overhanging cliff and drifted in and out of a light slumber.

He was startled awake by the sound of voices and his heart froze. As the voices came nearer, he realized they were coming from the cliff above him – and they were speaking ENGLISH! He came out from his hiding place, arms up in the air, and surrendered to the two startled young men about his own age standing on the cliff above him.

The next hours were a blur of confusion to the tired, young Gomez as he was shuttled from the rocky coast to a jeep and then to grey buildings with endless hallways.

Eventually, a young marine brought him to my father’s office, where he told his story for the umpteenth time. He said my father was the first to listen to his story with any compassion. My father promised him he would do what he could to see that young Gomez would not be sent back to Cuba, and a certain death.

The long and short of it is that my dad pulled strings and got the man safely to mainland U.S., where he lived in Florida for a while before he eventually married and settled in California. He continued to go to church faithfully, and to thank God every day for his life and his freedom and for the man who made his coming to the U.S. possible.

My sister, sat there, amazed as the story poured forth. She wanted to know more, and asked him about his family. He pulled out his wallet and showed her photos of his wife and two sons. He said he worked very hard so he could afford to put his children in Christian schools….

At this point in the story, I had to butt in. “No way! That is too amazing. What are the chances you would meet him?!”

Patty said, “But WAIT! It gets even better! You will never believe this! His son goes to San Gabriel Academy!”

San Gabriel was the school my ex-husband and I had taught at for the past 12 years! 

Mr. Gomez’s son, Gerzon, known simply as "Gomez" at San Gabriel, had been on my husband’s gymnastics team.

He had been accepted into our family circle, and had sat at my kitchen table countless times wolfing down enchiladas or submarine sandwiches after school.

And I had never had the slightest clue that my dear friend, Gomez, was the son of a man whose life my father had saved over twenty years earlier and three thousand miles away!

Now, I would have to say that it most definitely IS a small world after all!

Liz Carson Rosas

21 September 2009

I Didn't Catch You Name....

(I want to preface this week's story with the excitement of approaching my 3,000th blog site visitor! Thanks to all of you who read me regularly!)


Leaving Walmart, I was hungry. I decided a quick hamburger from the in-store McDonalds would do the trick. But then I reconsidered. That wouldn't do. The plan changed.


I’d go up the street one stop light to the one up Beach Blvd. But as I pulled out of the parking lot, I suddenly decided I should to go to the one four miles away – on the far side, two miles beyond home.

I know it sounds stupid. Why not just go to the closest one?! But I’ve learned over the years not to question. When I start getting those “you need to go here” feelings, it’s for a reason, so I try to always just go.  There is usually a reason for them.

Well the drive through line on Brookhurst was too long and I didn’t want to wait. But as I turned to leave for home, I decided instead to go inside. Surely the line was shorter and I could get it to go. (And I typically never EVER would go inside.) 

But then I decided to sit down to eat. Only one table was available, and I took it. Instead of sitting with my back to the only man at the other table (who was reading his newspaper), I uncharacteristically sat facing him.

As I finished my burger, he closed his newspaper, slid to the outer edge of the table and stood. Then he came over to show me a political cartoon in his paper.

This Korean gentleman, reading a Japanese newspaper, showing me a Greek cartoon - interesting. He pointed to the Japanese subtitle and read it to me.

I enjoy political cartoons, so I smiled at him and thanked him for showing it to me.

He said, “I saw you noticing me reading the newspaper. You are probably wondering why I am reading a Japanese newspaper.”

To be honest, busy at work in my own head, I’d only noticed a man and a newspaper. Nothing more. I didn’t think of it any further than that –

especially to wonder why he chose that particular paper to read.

But he continued to explain, yet again, the cartoon and the Japanese characters.

It was clear to me that wanted to talk, so I said, “Please, have a seat.”

He eagerly folded his paper – which had only been an excuse to talk, I am sure – and sat down. 

And for the next hour, he sat and told me his life story, while I listened.

He spoke somewhat haltingly at first, sometimes fishing for words in English. But as he talked, it came more easily.

Born to a poor family in Korea, he moved at an early age to China with his family for political reasons.

The Japanese had ruled Korea since 1910, and in 1937, they banned the Korean language, literature and culture. 

Refusing to become Japanese, his family left for China.

He had to learn Chinese and was often picked on – even beat up – by his Chinese counterparts. 

His parents eventually decided it would be smarter, more advantageous, to send him to Japanese school in China.

There, he was exposed to English – sort of... The extent of his English was their teaching of Shakespeare. Nobody in the class learned anything about the English language that way.

When word got out the government was looking for interpreters, he quickly applied (along with thousands of others) for a position. He spoke Korean and Chinese and Japanese as well (thanks to his parents’ forethought.)

He got a job translating, and was appointed to a West Pointe graduate who saw great potential in him. And soon was involved in Korean secret intelligence too. His English improved dramatically as he worked with his American boss from Tennessee.

In his spare time, he hung out at the news stand and cultural learning center trying to learn English by reading what English language papers he could. But it was extremely slow going.

A man there suggested he learn English the way the Americans taught it.

So he set out reading the likes of See Jane Run and Humpty Dumpty.

He slowly became a self-taught reader of the English language.

At the end of the war, he managed to get a visa to come study in the U.S.

His American boss got him a scholarship to a college in Washington state, which turned out to be an all-men’s Catholic college. And he couldn’t understand why the men all laughed at him when they first heard his spoken English.

Only much later did he appreciate the humor of a Korean man from China speaking English with a Tennessee drawl!

He went on to tell me of the real American dream of Asian immigrant men.

Yes, they all wanted a good education and then higher education and a good job and a nice home.

But the real goal was to find a blue-eyed, blonde haired wife!

And he continued to tell me about his awkward pursuit of his dream woman, and the sometimes hilarious twists and turns of their courtship with its cultural differences.

He told me about his great joy when he married this blue-eyed German-American love of his life, Nancy. And how he’d been happily married to her for forty years.

Only she had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Did I know anything about multiple sclerosis? (And here I felt a greater irony in our meeting.) It broke his heart when he had to put her in a nursing home because he could no longer care for her himself.

At this point, he seemed to finally become acutely aware of the late time and that he’d been talking for over an hour, and said he had to go.

We both went to refill our drinks before we left, and I couldn’t take the suspense. I cautiously approached the uncomfortable subject.

Whatever happened to the love of his life who had come down with MS? Was it long ago? Was she still alive? Was she gone now?

This eighty-year-old man hesitated and my heart plummeted, wishing I’d never asked. But then he smiled wistfully and then sighed. She is still alive. And he still goes twice a day to visit her and take care of her at the nearby nursing home. In fact, he had lost track of time talking to me and needed to head back for his afternoon/evening visit.

We walked out to the parking lot together and stood for another fifteen minutes while he got in his last chance to talk and be listened to intently – something sorely missing from his life, alone now without his beloved wife.

Then we parted ways. 

And I felt a loss as I pulled out of the parking lot. I wanted to go back and make an appointment to meet him another time to visit. To say, “I didn’t even catch your name…”

It wasn’t a coincidence that I had a sudden craving for McDonalds as I left Walmart. Nor that I thought of, and then decided against two other McDonalds before quitting the drive-through line to go inside and sit alone in this one. I was sent. I know. It happens often to me.

I was sent there.  I believe if you leave yourself open to the Lord's leading, he will send you where he needs you, when he needs you. Even it if's to sit for an hour or more in a grungy McDonalds and listen to the fascinating life story of a lonely Korean man who speaks Chinese and reads Greek political cartoons in a Japanese newspaper (with a Tennessee drawl!)

So I guess my thought for today is: open your heart. Listen to that little voice. And take the time to smile at a passer-by, or a stranger who approaches you to show you something in his newspaper. There is very likely a much deeper need that can readily be detected (and met) than if you hurry on by, lost in your own world.

"A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another."
John 13:34,35

Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling. Each one should use whatever gift he has received to serve others, faithfully administering God's grace in its various forms. If anyone speaks, he should do it as one speaking the very words of God. If anyone serves, he should do it with the strength God provides, so that in all things God may be praised through Jesus Christ.
1 Peter 4:8-11