The friend I’d gone to see almost seemed overjoyed to see me.
He was definitely surprised!
This is a tough character, not easily intimidated nor frightened. In his six months in the favela he’d already been robbed, mugged, had his home invaded. As I stood in his little shop, he keep furtively looking side to side, anxiously pacing.
“So, this is a pretty bad place?” I inquired.
“This is Hell,” he plainly replied. “It is not a good place to be,” he said as he locked the iron grate door behind me. This was the door to his store; he opens it to let people in, if he recognizes them or doesn’t feel threatened.
Once, well-kept and handsome, he looked like he’d been drug through… hell. He was grungy, sported white hair on his temples that hadn’t been there before and his eyes, his eyes told me more than I wanted to know.
He was defeated. Totally and completely.
Once so close to following Jesus, his desire for money had overcome the appeal of a Jesus that the culture (aka, Satan) had so effectively portrayed as unmanly.
He’d chosen the wrong god and his choice sold his soul to the Devil.
Now his god was exacting a high price.
I fear for my friend.