When I first went to Jamaica I was assigned to work on a pew construction team. Not because there were no pews, but because the existing 80-year-old pine pews were literally being turned to dust by the ever-present termites. We would end up using arsenic treated pine to spoil the appetite of those pew-loving termites. The new termite free, poisoned pews now resolutely rest where riddled benches once groaned under pious parishioners.

I revel in learning new terms, facts, and traditions so I listen carefully when our Jamaican friends tell their stories. At the Falmouth infirmary, Matron Icey explained to us that, “Ivan only finished what Chi-Chi had begun.” She meant that last summer’s hurricane Ivan ripped off a roof because the timbers that supported it had been weakened over the years by termites. Chi-chi is the term Jamaicans use to refer to those lowly, pesky termites.

The next day while I was being wheeled in my wheelchair a few blocks to our construction site at the infirmary, a sudden rush of youthful energy joined us to assist my pusher. The children on either side were robust and noisy, their damp hands grabbing the arm rests gave us all a burst of speed. After a few blocks and some totally unintelligible conversation, our little friends tired and were diverted to other mischief. When you travel by wheelchair an adult is eye level with children and one can easily gauge the intensity of the fire that supports such exuberance. These children were full of joy.

Later at lunch I again encountered my slightly soiled and slathered boosters. It was here that I learned from others that their names were Peter and Chi-Chi. Someone even commented that the name of a termite was an unfortunate moniker to bestow on a child to carry through life.

After lunch it was back across town to our worksite. On the way we were again joined by Chi-Chi and Peter, both full of enthusiasm and more un-requested assistance. Despite our coaxing, the pair persisted and when we arrived we had attracted a small entourage including other little Jamaican playmates just out of school.

Our worksite is at the infirmary, which is home to society’s cast-offs: the mentally unstable, the physically deformed, and the abandoned aged. Matron Icey has a heart for her job that matches her large physique and can deliver a Jamaican hug that leaves one with no doubt regarding the excess love flowing here. But as Peter and Chi-Chi arrive with us it is obvious that Icey is not pleased. She watches as the other children begin to taunt Chi-Chi. His friend Peter quickly disappears.

Angry words are exchanged between the children, and one of them delivers a smack to Chi-Chi’s face. His wail gets the attention of all. Icey quickly dispatches the younger, neatly uniformed school children with stern words and matter-of-factly tells us that Chi-Chi must leave as well because, “He is retarded, you know, and has even been hit by a car; he is a danger to himself.”

We ask Chi-Chi to leave; he follows us to our work area. We tell Chi-Chi to stay back; he gets too close to our power tools. We deepen our voices and more loudly demand that he go home; he stays and laughs at the game he has created and the attention he is getting from us. An infirmary guard overhears our plaintive efforts and chases the smiling Chi-Chi away.

Later, back at the church dormitory compound, we compare notes about this encounter.  Chi-Chi is, we agree, a smiling, innocent, developmentally delayed, yet largely unsupervised seven-year-old. Unclean, unkempt, with weeping nose and saliva-slathered hands that will quickly attach his malodorous body to any convenient adult with the goal of seeking the attention that every child desires.

I ponder my earlier actions. Was my work here so important that I couldn’t have taken a little time to entertain this child? Was my construction task too time critical to stop and build on a teachable moment? Were his running nose, saliva-soaked fingers and food-encrusted cheeks so disgusting that I resisted a loving caress with even a moist towel? Obviously so, as I had taken the path of least resistance and joined the chorus with, “Chi-Chi GO HOME!” How many times has Chi-Chi been turned away by potential playmates and possible adult authority figures like this? When and from whom does he get the hugs he hungers for?

Was I just one more piece of treated lumber brought here to resist the “chi-chis” of this world? Have I been poisoned to keep from letting chi-chis into my heart? What have I preserved at the expense of enjoying the Chi-Chis of our lives?

In retrospect, I resolved to give a little extra money to one of Chi-Chi’s relatives and asked that he take him shopping and buy him something he might enjoy. Typical American. Do I really believe that a material diversion will fill the emptiness and change the course of Chi-Chi’s life? Or can I still step outside my comfort zone and really find an action that could positively affect this child’s life?

And now that I have left Jamaica, Chi-Chi will need to chew his way into the heart of someone else until I am given a second chance. Next year, I hope that I can prove that I am not poisoned to his needs. And let a little termite turn old wood into new life.

Kurt Wullschleger lives with his wife Jane in Nebraska, where they have raised four boys. A retired marketing executive, he found time to volunteer with an annual one-week Jamaica medical mission after he became disabled with MS.