Stories about Dave (A few of many)

“I’m in purgatory,” Dave said. I was in a Wal-Mart trying to decide which bag of fun-size candy to buy for a piñata.

"I'm in purgatory," Dave said. I was in a Walmart trying to decide which bag of fun-size candy to buy for a piñata.

Dave is 74 years old underneath his ball cap. He's worked in radio, marketing, as a missions pastor, and been an elder at the church (against his will). Think back to the last time an older gentleman elbowed you to tell you a story. That's Dave.

We're in San Diego, California. When our church goes to Mexico, we fly in and out of San Diego and drive the 20 miles across the border into Tijuana.

Dave hated this Wal-Mart stop on every trip. He was ready to be in Mexico.

I picked the bag with Twix in it because I liked Twix.

This was my first trip to Mexico with Dave. I'd known him for a few years. Well, known of him and we might have said hello every now and then in the halls at church. It's a big church.

We took I-5 South, the ocean, large villas, and the Pacific Fleet in the harbor on our right.

"There's the wall," said Dave. "And there's Tijuana."

The border wall cracks out of the ground, and beyond it, scattered across rolling hills, is Tijuana. In front of the wall, on the US side, is a wetland marsh mingled with chaparral where the Tijuana River hits the Pacific. The wall juts out over it, rust brown with methodical bars and a space too small for most humans to slide through.

We drove through the Border Crossing. When we reached the other side, Dave turned, locked eyes with me, and announced, "You now have no rights."

"What?"

"Policia don't care about gringos."

"Dave, quit trying to scare him," said our friend Lara, suppressing a laugh.

Lara told me that Dave once told her if he died in front of her, she wasn't allowed to pray him back to life.

We were staying in the Playas de Tijuana. We'd followed the wall up the hills, then into the Playas with the Pacific resting behind. There was a large arena for bullfighting near our hotel.

The first evening, we stopped at a shelter for women who have fled domestic violence.

I was terrified.

I'm just a video guy on a trip with pastors who live for this. I stayed in the back of the group as we walked down the stairs. The women met us in a dining room. Lara, Dave, and another pastor, Kyle, started talking to them through translators while I shot some videos and hugged the wall.

When we walked in the room, a woman in a black jacket wouldn't stop smiling. She grabbed Dave by the wrist and told him her story. When she finished, Dave ached down onto his knees, his hands straining to ease his body down. He took her wrinkled hands in his, and he prayed with her. She wept. He never let go of her hands.

When he finished, she hugged his neck.

15 minutes later, I was at my post on the wall acting like I was filming something when I realized Dave was standing next to me.

He let me finish the shot I was faking.

"You know, you can't hide behind that camera the whole trip," he said. I didn't know how to respond to that.

Our friend who ran the shelter joined us and asked if we wanted to meet the family staying in the back room.

I can't describe their situation. But it was a mother with children at a women's shelter where the battered and desperate go. I shrunk in the doorway, watching Dave go in and ask one of the children about her stuffed unicorn.

I thought about what Dave had said, set the camera on a table, and went in.

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Later, we were driving back to the hotel in the van. Dave and I were streaming a Tennessee football game on his phone in the backseat. We were actually winning, which thrilled us both.

The sunset was electric rose pink behind palm trees as the cool of the evening settled around us. The lights of the city were on our right, the pink lemonade waves on our left.

Dave turned to me and said, "Well, I'm full."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"On these trips, I really just look for one moment, one conversation, one prayer that is worth the price of the ticket," he smiled.

I looked out at the last of the light on the pastel blue water, and felt the church getting smaller.

Or maybe I was getting more full.

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