Terri’s Journey

I remember the first day I met Bartholomew.  Actually, the word “met” is stretching the encounter a bit. I was taking the trash out and was getting ready to lob it into the dumpster when he raised up. In the dumpster. Surrounded by trash.  I think I screamed. It wasn’t exactly something I was expecting that day. When I screamed it startled him. Then I immediately felt bad and apologized. He apologized and then asked if there were any cans or bottles in my trash bag. I told him no.  We were living in an apartment in Michigan in the suburbs of Detroit. Doug and I had moved our family there to begin an apartment outreach ministry the summer of ‘93. Cans and bottles in Michigan had a ten cent deposit.  As he climbed out of the dumpster, I looked at him. I mean really looked. He had a long flowing white beard that was stained yellow around his mouth from nicotine. He had smudges on his cheeks and a ball cap on his head. His hair was long and touched his shoulders. He was wearing an old chec

The first time I remember tasting homemade corn tortillas I was about four. My Tia Delphina was the culinary expert in this and she would make the best ones. They were thick…thick enough to slice. They were both sweet and slightly nutty flavor. And a perfect texture.  In case you didn’t know, Tia is Aunt in Spanish.  She and my Tio Ladisloe lived next door to my grandparents in Del Rio, Texas. My grandfather, my Buello, was her younger brother. There was a connecting gate in the backyard to their properties and a little wooden bridge that we would walk on to get to her house. Beside that bridge was one of the largest pomegranate trees I’ve ever seen.  My Tio, also called Larry, was a carpenter. All around their home were little things he had made with his own hands in his shop. He built shelves for my Tia’s plants. He built her a room for her African Violets and their small breakfast table. Sunday mornings after church I would hurry over there to sit on his lap as he read me the Sunday