unsettled by her honesty.
"I think," she said, "that sometimes, when people first find faith, they're so excited and happy that they just want to share it--especially with the people they love most. But like Josh said, they sometimes end up trying to shove it down people's throats instead."
Max gave a humorless laugh. "Yes, he did that all right."
"I hope you won't hold it against him. He wanted a chance to make it right. To explain it better. No," she said. A faraway look came to her eyes. "He just wanted to let you see it...in the way he lived his life."
A lump rose in Max's throat and he bowed his head. When he finally had a rein on his emotions, he looked at her, "Are you a Christian?" Again, he somehow knew the answer before the question was even out.
"Yes. I am."
"So you understood him?"
She laughed softly. "As well as a man and a woman ever understand each other."
Max smiled. He liked this girl. He wondered if Joshua had had feelings for her, as she'd so obviously had for him.
"I understood his passion for the things of God," Samantha said. Then, eyes downcast, she told him, "After Josh died, I wrote down the things he wanted to tell you. I know it's not the same as having it in his very own words. I'm sorry. But I saved the paper for you. And...I'll answer any questions you have. It's the least I can do."
"Thank you," he said. "I'd like to have it. And I do have questions. I'm just not sure I'm ready to ask them yet."
"How long are you staying?"
"I don't know yet. I cleared my schedule until the end of the month." He shaded his eyes and gazed off toward the front gates. "To be honest, I'm not sure why I came. I guess I just needed to feel a connection to him. To see what was so all-fired special about this place that he gave up...everything for it."
She grinned. "I'd guess by your tone of voice you haven't quite figured that out yet."
"No. I haven't." He glanced at his watch. "What time were we supposed to go to the market?"
She gave a little gasp. "What time is it?"
"Almost ten."
She jumped up. "Oh! Madame Duval is going to kill me. We'd better run." She sounded like a ditzy teenager, and it jolted Max to remember how young she really was.
And yet she had wisdom beyond her years, and an obvious contentment and purpose in life that Max Jordan hadn't unearthed in forty-seven years of searching.
Max stepped down from the tap-tap and thrust two crisp five-gourde bills into the driver's hand, hoping it was enough. The driver seemed satisfied. One by one, he offered a hand down to Madame Duval, Samantha and two young Haitian women who cooked at the orphanage. The truck pulled away, leaving them on the outskirts of Port-au-Prince in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes.
He looked to the west where a "housing development" sprawled across a slope of land. It looked like something a gang of ten-year-old boys might erect at the city dump on a Saturday afternoon, sheets of tin and cardboard jutting everywhere at odd angles.
In the market, vendors crowded the street, hawking their wares, and shoppers bargained in a hundred rich nuances of the Creole language.
Madame Duval distributed shopping lists along with plastic pails and sturdy shopping bags for their purchases. She instructed everyone to meet back here in an hour. "Enjoy yourselves, but be careful," the older woman warned.
Max had been able to log onto the Internet on his laptop computer for a few minutes each morning. The news sites carried accounts of sporadic uprisings in Port-au-Prince. The natives didn't seem overly concerned. But then, they'd lived with constant unrest for two hundred years.
"This way," Samantha yelled above the clamor of the streets. "Stay with me."
Swinging a large plastic bucket on her arm, she led the way to a crossroads where an elderly woman had laid out a variety of anemic fruits and vegetables on a tatty blanket.
Samantha and the merchant carried on a lively exchange in Creole, and before Max knew what hit him, she was
"I think," she said, "that sometimes, when people first find faith, they're so excited and happy that they just want to share it--especially with the people they love most. But like Josh said, they sometimes end up trying to shove it down people's throats instead."
Max gave a humorless laugh. "Yes, he did that all right."
"I hope you won't hold it against him. He wanted a chance to make it right. To explain it better. No," she said. A faraway look came to her eyes. "He just wanted to let you see it...in the way he lived his life."
A lump rose in Max's throat and he bowed his head. When he finally had a rein on his emotions, he looked at her, "Are you a Christian?" Again, he somehow knew the answer before the question was even out.
"Yes. I am."
"So you understood him?"
She laughed softly. "As well as a man and a woman ever understand each other."
Max smiled. He liked this girl. He wondered if Joshua had had feelings for her, as she'd so obviously had for him.
"I understood his passion for the things of God," Samantha said. Then, eyes downcast, she told him, "After Josh died, I wrote down the things he wanted to tell you. I know it's not the same as having it in his very own words. I'm sorry. But I saved the paper for you. And...I'll answer any questions you have. It's the least I can do."
"Thank you," he said. "I'd like to have it. And I do have questions. I'm just not sure I'm ready to ask them yet."
"How long are you staying?"
"I don't know yet. I cleared my schedule until the end of the month." He shaded his eyes and gazed off toward the front gates. "To be honest, I'm not sure why I came. I guess I just needed to feel a connection to him. To see what was so all-fired special about this place that he gave up...everything for it."
She grinned. "I'd guess by your tone of voice you haven't quite figured that out yet."
"No. I haven't." He glanced at his watch. "What time were we supposed to go to the market?"
She gave a little gasp. "What time is it?"
"Almost ten."
She jumped up. "Oh! Madame Duval is going to kill me. We'd better run." She sounded like a ditzy teenager, and it jolted Max to remember how young she really was.
And yet she had wisdom beyond her years, and an obvious contentment and purpose in life that Max Jordan hadn't unearthed in forty-seven years of searching.
Max stepped down from the tap-tap and thrust two crisp five-gourde bills into the driver's hand, hoping it was enough. The driver seemed satisfied. One by one, he offered a hand down to Madame Duval, Samantha and two young Haitian women who cooked at the orphanage. The truck pulled away, leaving them on the outskirts of Port-au-Prince in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes.
He looked to the west where a "housing development" sprawled across a slope of land. It looked like something a gang of ten-year-old boys might erect at the city dump on a Saturday afternoon, sheets of tin and cardboard jutting everywhere at odd angles.
In the market, vendors crowded the street, hawking their wares, and shoppers bargained in a hundred rich nuances of the Creole language.
Madame Duval distributed shopping lists along with plastic pails and sturdy shopping bags for their purchases. She instructed everyone to meet back here in an hour. "Enjoy yourselves, but be careful," the older woman warned.
Max had been able to log onto the Internet on his laptop computer for a few minutes each morning. The news sites carried accounts of sporadic uprisings in Port-au-Prince. The natives didn't seem overly concerned. But then, they'd lived with constant unrest for two hundred years.
"This way," Samantha yelled above the clamor of the streets. "Stay with me."
Swinging a large plastic bucket on her arm, she led the way to a crossroads where an elderly woman had laid out a variety of anemic fruits and vegetables on a tatty blanket.
Samantha and the merchant carried on a lively exchange in Creole, and before Max knew what hit him, she was
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