Rave Reviews Book Club is recognizing exceptional talent in its membership. A literary group has been formed within RRBC named Rave Writers - International Society of Authors (RWISA). RRBC is showcasing these authors on a month long blog tour that I (along with others) am happy to host!
I am excited to introduce fellow author and member, Michael Hicks Thompson, featured today, day 23 on Watch RWISA Write Showcase Tour! Read his inspiring short story, Detour Cuba. Check it out! Click on his name below (blue link) and also RWISA (purple link) below to learn more about him, and his books! Enjoy!
DETOUR à CUBA
PART I
Once the port-of-call jewel for Magnus Wealthy, Cuba has
been a country lost in time for the last half century, plus some.
Never been to Cuba? I recommend it. But do it before it
returns to the playground of the filthy rich and the Hemingway admirers.
Yes, I’ve been there twice. But not as Magnus Wealthy. Think short-term mission trip. Door-to-door evangelism. Knock, knock. “May we come in.” (Of course, my interpreter said it the proper way: “¿Podemos entrar?”)
An interpreter is essential if you can’t speak the language.
But here’s the beautiful thing. Most Cubans are the
friendliest people you’ll meet. They love to meet and greet Americans. We’re a
mystery to them. It’s amazing. And understandable. Most have never tasted
freedom.
Castro usurped the country in the biggest land swindle ever.
Now, the elderly Cubans alive today are happy with a single, pathetic gift from
Papa Castro’s government.
“He give me this cooking pot,” the appreciative, sun-wrinkled,
Spanish speaking octogenarian said.
Never mind that his midget refrigerator will take him a
lifetime to pay off.
PART II
We flew into Havana, via Mexico, spent the night and flew on
to Holguin (hole-Keen) early the next morning. It’s a four-hour flight. Cuba is
the size of California.
The ‘hotel’ in Holguin was once a grand one—now,
dilapidated. Papa not only didn’t let
the government keep hotels up to standard, he took the toilet seats away. From
personal experience, I can assure you he did it to humiliate the eleven-and-a-half-million
souls into submission.
Ask any American what Cubans look like and they’ll include
“dark-skinned” as an answer. However, you’d be surprised to see nearly as many
red-headed and blue-eyed Cubans as dark-skinned islanders. The Spanish
influence is apparent. Fifty-one percent of Cubans are Mulatto, thirty-seven
percent, White, and eleven percent, Black.
All Cubans are proud. And friendly. Why shouldn’t they be?
They’ve not had the outside world of communications and world events for three
generations. They’ve simply missed the rise in socio-economic gain around the
world. They’ve been isolated. They don’t know any other life. They’ve lived on Cuban
baseball and communism since 1959.
And they’ve avoided all the gun-shot TV news and television episodes of Law & Order. God blessed them.
Or, did He?
When I think of Cuba, I think of Maria. She’s the Lady who
led our group through Cuba. Maria was born and raised in Havana, in a prominent
family.
Shortly after Castro took over, her father gathered his wife
and children and fled to America.
Maria has such a huge heart for her native land. She’ll
always love her people and her land.
Many wealthy families left their homes and their businesses
behind; to start over. But the ones not able to afford travel remained behind.
They faced the dark days of seclusion.
Catholicism gradually faded away. To be replaced by many
false religions—Santería being the most prominent. It’s a singing religion
based on the old songs of slavery. So, most Santeríans are descendants of
African slaves.
PART III
Every morning ten of us would have breakfast, pray, and pile
into vans with our interpreters for an hour or two ride to a small village,
usually to the south, near Guantanamo. A different village each morning. That
way, we could avoid the immigration officials who’d heard we were proselytizing
in their country. Only once did we hear our leader yell out, “Everybody in the
vans. We have to leave. Now!”
We would meet at a local house church and greet the pastor.
Some would have no more than ten church members; some as many as thirty. We snuck
in bibles, clothes, hygiene products, and boatloads of gum.
Each church provided a local member to escort us,
individually with our interpreter, to un-churched homes in the village. The
patriarch or matriarch always welcomed us. Some even asked us to hold off any
discussion so they could gather their family. Even neighbors. All ages would gather
around in a small living room, many sitting on the floor, while we introduced
them to original sin, Jesus, the Gospel, and a merciful God.
The interpreter kept track of those who repeated the prayer
of salvation (asking Jesus to come into their hearts and save them from eternal
damnation). More than a few grown men cried on my shoulder after accepting
Jesus into their hearts.
Naturally, there were plenty who preferred to worship their
idols. Ceramic statues, sometimes made of wood or plastic.
If the idol worshiper wasn’t getting what they wanted from
their man-made God, they’d place them face down in their underwear drawer, to
punish them. Strange stuff. And sad.
At the end of the week, our leader would give us the number.
“Four-hundred-fifty-two made a profession of faith this week. You’ve not only
sowed the seeds of the Gospel, you’ve been a part of the harvest.”
That made me feel pretty good, but we all knew Holy Spirit
had been working in those hearts long before we arrived. Only God can change
the heart of man. But, what really made me warm and fuzzy, was the sight of my
sons who’d been able to join us on the mission field. They had been part of the
harvest. And it would have a lasting, lifetime effect on their lives. They talk
about it to this day.
And so do I.
Michael Hicks Thompson - RWISA Author Page
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