The Naysayer

October 22, 2013

They came ‘round the corner, two stark white button-downs, black slacks, pinched with their thin dark belts, to-the-quick black hair and suspicious looking books in their right hands. The raking has gotten the better of my good judgment as I halt my swiping to speak with them. The taller of the two, paper white with eyes close together, a long narrow friendly nose and you’ll-get-over-your-criticism-if-you-talk-with-me wide smile. His words said “Could you use some help with the rake?” while his eyes reveal his sincerity. Of course, I decline. I enjoy pushing wet leaves around the long grass, scraping the thin skin off of my thumbs and pinching a hard-to-reach nerve in my upper shoulders.

The clear-skinned guy inquires about any Hmong neighbors, asks me if I know some of them and to point out their homes. I wave a vague hand over to the other side of the street and mention the family who lived in my place was Hmong, hoping he has a short attention span. He went on to explain that it is their mission, to share the word with the Hmong. Supposedly he has been learning the language but is partnered with his friend, a wide boy, dark spiky crew cut hair, pitted complexion and tired flat face. The other kid, a Hmong by birth, nods his head in agreement and cannot immediately respond to my question about their local church. The first one pipes-in that he believes there are several of their churches in the area but he is not sure exactly where they are. “Then why are you here? In this particular neighborhood?” “We are called to accept this mission,” the eager youth remarks with confidence, as though I am not going to continue to barrage him with questions he cannot answer. Perhaps as a test, I add a few considerations to their program and the tall one blinks a lot in response, the second shrugs in reply. Evidently they are dropped by a van, area to area, to spread their gospel and befriend each family, encouraging them to study at home versus be a part of a greater community of like-minded people.

I know they would have trouble with the stash of Oregon’s best Henry Weinhard beer in the basement. I found it, later in the day, in my search for a bucket to hold the excess cat food, so Grill won’t overfeed, while left to his own devices. The next time I see the boys, I will invite them for a beverage and ask if they are willing to help me clean up the basement. The centipedes are coming up to my place at night, escaping the dank recesses of the lower level. Yikes.