She’d waited for a long moment, looking at the faces gathered around her, solemn and unblinking.
“What do you think Jesus meant when he told his friends this story?” she asked. There was a stillness in the room.
Finally one tall boy who always sat in the back of the room spoke up. “If the man had a hundred sheep, he must be a very rich man.”
Kate nodded her head.
“So, why doesn’t he send his helper after the sheep instead of going himself?”
Kate was stumped. She had never taken the passage literally. But these children had been herding sheep with their parents since they could walk.
Kate was saved by Pilar in the front row who raised her hand, “I think Jesus means that we are all like sheep. And sometimes we go away from him and then he has to come and rescue us.” The child stopped, overwhelmed by what she said, then added softly, “The shepherd loves the little stray one more because he caused him all that worry.”
She looked up at Kate, unable to speak for a moment at the child’s grasp of the parable. Now hands went up all over as each child thought of a story he knew about tending the sheep. Suddenly Kate remembered the boy by the roadside who had lost some of his father’s sheep, his tear-stained face, his despair. She told the children that story, and they all murmured sympathetically at the boy’s trouble.
Kate ended class that day by reciting Blake’s poem “The Lamb” to them in English just wanting them to hear the sounds of the rhyme. Elva then wrote a translation of the poem on the board in Spanish. As the children bent over their notebooks, copying the poem in Spanish, Kate walked around the room, murmuring the words in English like a prayer.
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life & bid thee feed,
By the stream & o’er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice!
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
On her way to the convent for lunch that day, Kate dodged the puddles. The rain had stopped, and the clouds scuttled across the sky, leaving big patches of blue. Maybe she would write to Sister Antonia, her first great literature teacher, and tell her she’d discussed a poem by William Blake with the children of Juliaca, Peru.
She entered the house by the back door and threw a little ball she kept in her pocket to Tito. Marta turned from the stove and greeted her, and, almost as an afterthought said, “Padre Tomás is back. He’s waiting in the front parlor to see you for a few minutes before lunch, he said. I told him lunch was at twelve en punto.”
Kate was careful to keep her voice as even as she could, sensing a faint air of disapproval in the set of Marta’s shoulders. “Gracias, Marta. I won’t be late.”
Her heart thudded as she walked to the parlor. She stopped at the interior door and pinched her cheeks. Smoothing her habit, she noticed that her hands were trembling. Then she opened the door, and Tom Lynch filled the room as he rose from the chair and in two strides stood before her. After a long moment he held out his hands, and she gripped them as a drowning woman grabs a lifeline. Still they said nothing. He was tanned and fit, bursting with restless energy.
“You look rested,” she stared up at him, trying to match this face to the one in her dreams.
“Oh, that I am. I suddenly feel wonderful.”
His grin was mocking. She blushed and looked around helplessly. “Well, sit down. Tell me about Lima,” she said, taking the nearest chair.
He pulled his chair up near hers, and sat facing her, their knees not quite touching. “Lima was gray and misty and depressing, as usual. But I ate wonderful food, went out drinking with the lads at the Maryknoll House and lay in the sun in Chosica. Now cut the small talk, Kate, and tell me how the hell you are.”
“I’ve missed you.”
“That’s better.”
“Other than that I’ve been fine.” She looked away now from the naked longing she saw in his eyes. Embarrassed, she rattled on about the trip to Copacabana, her class that morning, anything to fill up the silence. He was looking at her with amusement and a certain impatience. Finally, she paused. “Tom, it feels so strange to be with you. I don’t know how to act.”
“I love hearing you say my name.”
“I say it all the time to myself.”
They stared at each other. Then he got up from his chair and paced the tiny room, and she could only watch him stride back and forth.
“Kate, things are changing in Lima. The slums around the airport have grown. I couldn’t believe the numbers. The people at first were only trickling down from the sierra. Now there’s a torrent flooding Lima. Do you remember seeing the barriada called San Martín de Porres when you drove by the airport?”
“Yes, the sisters pointed it out to me but I was so scared by the traffic that I didn’t pay much attention.”
“I went out there with one of the men who works there, Jack Casey. It’s a disaster. We’ve got to stop this exodus to the city by making things better for the farmers up here. They have no work in Lima.” Tom stood at the one window in the room and looked out at the courtyard of Santa Catalina where
