Before the Bus

By Julie Babb

Before driving our school bus, Ramon drove a garbage truck. For many years, his route took in the elite homes of Mexico City and hurt his heart. He’d never been a rich man, and he knew to waste was to want. Often, on his rounds, he would net quite a catch of serviceable items—sometimes clothing and shoes for his growing family of “six-and-a-half kids,” he’d say. His customers in their elegant homes behind the locked gates wanted for nothing and wasted everything.

We badgered him about his earlier life, and he told us stories to make sure we understood. He told us of his transgression many times over and what it had cost him.

Ramon’s house had no need of fancy gates—how did one fence the mountains? His children belonged to the village where they were born and had many parents. His windowless house opened to the seasons and the stars. God came and went at His pleasure. Sometimes, He brought food and fiesta, sometimes hunger and despair. Ramon told us he believed God’s heart would also be hurt by the wanton disrespect shown daily to His gifts.

Every night, Ramon and his family thanked their Heavenly Father for the bounty. Every night, they asked their Heavenly Father for permission to take the items home. Seeing the pleasure these things brought, Ramon felt no guilt and slept in peace. He would ask us on the way to school, “Do you think that it is honest to take something no one wants?” We always said, “Yes! If no one wants it, why not?” Then he would ask, “Is it honest to take something of great value if you find it?” But we were children with no interest in such a question and gave it little thought.

This was his confession: once, while sorting through the day’s garbage dumps, Ramon found a five-thousand-peso note. Slipping it quickly into his pocket, he left the truck at the city garage and went home without taking the time to check through the rest of the loads. Ramon and God were about to have a serious discussion. “If I give it back,” he reasoned, “no one will know who it belonged to, and they will take it from me. It will pay for my daughter’s school uniform, which she needs. Surely God will see my reasoning and allow me to keep it.”

He didn’t consult with his wife, who’d probably tell him to consult with each of his customers to see who’d lost the note! She is too innocent; she could not get along in the city. But then, if she asks me how do we have this money, I will have to lie, and that is a sin. So, better I say nothing and let her think it’s a miracle. She will believe that—she always prays for a miracle. She will say: Thanks to God. Amen.

Ramon’s newest child arrived the same day as the Mexico City Police. The loss of the money was reported and traced to Ramon’s route, and he was arrested and charged with theft.

Apparently, God agreed with Ramon’s wife.

When Ramon was finally released, his new daughter was almost two. He could never return to the City Sanitation Department, so he came to drive our school bus. He was a sinner, now sent by God on a mission to help the children stay on the right path.

Every morning at 7:15, he would tell us the story again, teaching us, he hoped, about right and wrong, good and bad, justice and judgment. He sang loudly, hymns of redemption and grace, praising God for what he called, “His too-quiet voice, which I didn’t listen to.”

Our thin, reedy voices, singing along, lifted his heart to Heaven.while we rode safely to school. Ramon seemed to be content—but we were children and knew nothing yet.

The morning that Ramon didn’t come, my mother drove me to school. I wished I’d stayed home. My classmates, teachers, and staff were crowded around a mystery at the corner of the playground. When I got closer, I saw that it was Ramon, or what was left of him. He had been so savagely beaten that his dear face was no more. The Police did not know of him, but we did. He was called Ramon. That was all—no last name, just our bus driver and God’s friend.

All these years later, I tell this story to my children, as Ramon told it to me. I ask them: “Is it honest to take something of great value if you find it?” Oh, but they are children with no interest in such a question. I wave to them as they board the school bus.