There are boxes of bibles in the bed of the truck and this is what people are grabbing. They take a sandwich and plop down, backs resting against blue concrete walls. A man with wrinkled brown skin sticks his hand out between the bars of a wrought-iron window. He motions toward the boxes and cups his hands for a bible. He takes it and pulls his arm back.
They want the gospel. They ask for it. “Palavra de Deus?” they say, holding out eager hands. We’re happy to give it to them. This is the whole point of coming. They sit in the dirt in front of a house and swallow down their lunch. Mark walks up the stone street between the two rows of houses handing out bibles. In one home, an old woman takes the Word and raises hand and eyes to thank God for visiting this place. The boxes of bibles are empty. Spread out, filling hands that have never heard.
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