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Christmas for Jorge :: from a Gen Y blogger's perspective

posted by TheGreenFile at 3:28 AM 0 comments

Hope

Jorge was 22. He'd been beaten nearly to death by the banditos three years ago. The damage to his brain had crippled him, and it gave him pain. All the time. It was a hard life, but he kept on, clung to... something. He wasn't sure what. Hope?

How can someone who's been beaten within an inch of their life and left bleeding to die have hope? How can someone who can hardly walk because they've got hardly any control over their muscles have hope? How can someone who has no hope of ever driving a car, eating a Big Mac, watching a DVD, or surfing the internet have hope?

But he did.

He didn't have a blog, chronicling his life's disappointments. He didn't have girls to worry about. With his deformity, most women wouldn't even look at him. Who would date a cripple?

But he had hope.

Hope. Something the denizens of the internet don't have. Something much of Generation Y claims not to have. Something we lose when our girlfriend dumps us. Something we lose when we fail that exam, or we don't get the right gift for Christmas.

Do you know what Jorge would tell us? He'd walk right up to us, and tell us to get up off the ground, stop whining, and get on with life. That's right, he'd walk. Because that hope, that thing he clung to despite the fact that it would've been easier to just give up and die, it came through. It came through for him. Somebody upstairs hadn't forgotten, hadn't let go.

Jorge didn't recall where he'd heard it. His mother, maybe. Either way, here he was, on his way downtown, carried by his uncle. News traveled fast in these small towns. News of a group of Americans, giving away many wonderful things that would help cripples like him.

Sure, just like the other Americans. And Europeans. The uncle knew they just gave away junk, and the people took it, and smiled, and said gracias, and made the gringos feel good about themselves helping the poor.

When they got there, there was already a line. They'd have to wait an hour or more, in the hot sun, with no water, no food, and nothing but their tired feet to stand on. At least there was no wind to kick the dust up.

His uncle wanted to turn right around and march home. These Americans were just like the rest, he said.

But Jorge's mother wouldn't allow it. Whatever little they got would help, she thought. Jorge thought he didn't really care, but... something inside told him to stay. A small voice, it seemed like.

Jorge stayed. They tried to give him crutches at first, but he couldn't use them, the pain was too much. When they tried the walker, it was like something inside him snapped, but in a good way. Something had happened, the pain was gone. He could use the walker. It worked. Maybe there was something different about these Americans...

One of those Americans had prayed for Jorge. And somehow, Someone responded. Jorge could use the walker. The pain really was gone. But was it really the American that was different? Or was it something else.

There are things one must decide for oneself.

Jorge has decided.

 

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