#7 - Like Juan

by James Baker

Being the impressionable type, I have often latched onto certain personalities that I wanted to emulate.  Growing up, it was my brother, because he was everything I wasn’t. He’s eleven years older than me, and even though he has a staunch conservative bent, he’s also always had a bit of leftist rebel in him. During his teen years, his hair was mid-way down his back, he was a drummer in a rock band, and he often hitchhiked across the state. Responsibility would later kick in, and at about the age of 20, he enlisted in the Marine Corps. He would regale me with brutish tales of boot camp - how the drill instructors would scream profanities that were both terrifying and hilarious, and how he had been practically handcuffed to another recruit for a full week as penance for a fistfight. He was then, and still is, the toughest person I know. A five-minute conversation with me would tell you that I do not share his fortitude.

As I’ve aged, I’ve found other heroes, but mostly all for the wrong reason. Perhaps it was their swagger, their sharp wit, or the fact that they could hit a nine iron farther than 110 yards. In recent years, I’ve found myself longing to be like those who impact people for Christ. I am fortunate enough (or depending on how I feel on a particular day, unfortunate) to rub shoulders with some incredibly gifted teachers, counselors, mentors, and the like. And while any of them have yet to grace the cover of Christianity Today, they are in my mind an incredibly effective agent for raising disciples. But as I look longingly at these friends of mine, it hits me: I want to be like them, not for God’s glory, but for my own. I look at the way people hang on their words and are touched by their songs. I see the admiration in their eyes as wisdom is imparted that comes as easily as breathing. I study their motions and voice inflections, but my mimickings are a poor impostor. I become defeated. And then I become tired. Tired of trying. Tired of failing.

I often take to the hallways of FCC looking for enlightenment – or at least, less talented people.  But there is nothing. Well, not nothing.  There is Juan, of course.  Juan has worked as a custodian at Friendswood High School for many years, and serves the church in a similar capacity. You will find him most every day sweeping, mopping, and polishing every fraction of our 70,000 square feet of floor space. To be honest, he’s easy to miss. He stands barely 5’ tall and is the soft-spoken sort.

I haven’t had many conversations with Juan, but every one that I have had involves floors…the amount of dirt tracked in on a particular muddy Sunday, the type of polish used, how many giant oscillating fans it’s going to take to dry the most recent waxing. He isn’t complaining, mind you. Far from it. There is a gleam in his eye when he speaks about laminate squares and stained concrete. His voice gets a little higher the more he goes on, and he eventually breaks out in a broad grin and then steps back behind the business end of the floor polisher – because he’s already wasted too much time talking to me.

I look at Juan work, how he does what he does with virtually no recognition. How he works so diligently because he desperately wants to provide a mirror-like finish for the hundreds that pass our doors each week, only to have to start all over again on Monday. It occurs to me as I watch this slightly built 60-year old Hispanic janitor, that I want to be like Juan. Not because I want Juan’s glory, that is obvious. But there’s something else, and I’m not exactly sure how to describe it. Perhaps it is his humility. Or his ability to be present in the moment. Or maybe it’s the simplicity of a life that isn’t clouded with petty jealousies and one-upmanship. I watch him hum along with his mp3 player, making steady swaths back and forth, and I smile. I’ve found someone else to emulate. Maybe this one’s for the right reason.