Testimony Tuesday is a special series from LDS Daily that highlights the miraculous ways God has touched the lives of our readers. This week, Mario Jimenez shares how one friendship opened his eyes to the blessings of humility, gratitude, and love.
It’s been so, so many years since I last ate beans from a hubcap.
It was in the early 1960s, I was in the third grade, and we lived in a rural village in central Mexico. Our family was very well off, and we lived in a palatial, spacious home with all the modern conveniences and commodities replete with servants and horses.
As many of the town’s inhabitants strolled by our front doors, I was convinced time and time again by my aging parents that the “locals” only wished to abide inside of our grand beautiful edifice, dreaming of leisurely strolling through our vast manicured gardens. How could they possibly not want to?
Growing up as the single child of much older parents, (and not as a member of ANY church) I was consistently and cunningly tutored in life through the myopic and malignant lenses of arrogance, emotional frigidity, intolerance and worst of all – the deepest of religious famines.
While our elegant lifestyle and formal dinners were prepared diligently and served on the finest of China and crystal, they seemed all too often to not only anchor the lingering aromas of contempt and guile but from time to time even deposited the dark vapors of callous disrespect, false witness, mutual indifference and pernicious, inflammatory insults.
One of my childhood friends happened to be the son of our gardener. He was my same age, and we spent many hours happily playing together not thinking once of whose father was more important.
As he helped me celebrate a birthday, he humbly asked me if I would like to come over to his house and have dinner. I knew that if I asked my parents, the existing social caste system would have immediately and forcefully prevented even the thought of such an occurrence, yet it was with deep conviction and grand personal desire that I sneaked off one afternoon to eat at Rodrigo’s house.
A long walk away and a steep climb up some rural foot trails led us to a mountainside shanty. To my surprise it was no bigger than our tool shed. An aging thatched roof, walls made of rough timbers with holes that bravely dared the eventual rains, neatly swept dirt floors and only a few simple, old beds and chairs.
There had been no thought for the convenience of an indoor bathroom or kitchen. How could they possibly live there? As I met the rest of his family, I quickly counted the number of people and soon realized there were not enough beds in the two small bedrooms inside.
Rodrigo, noticing my look of incomprehension, quietly explained that the five children took turns sleeping on the floor. A large pile of colorful blankets in a corner of the room quietly and humbly echoed his confession.
On a small table was a well-worn black book. Rodrigo proudly shared with me that that was his family’s bible. Interestingly enough, it was the first time I had ever seen a bible in a home, and left me wondering why they would even have one?
Soon his mother was busy stoking the coals of their small fire just outside the front door. In a matter of minutes, the fresh tortillas were made, and the main course was lovingly prepared over the open wood stove. Beans cooked in a hubcap from an old truck, her only pan and her only way of feeding her family.
The meal was simple – fresh chili peppers, tomatoes, onions and cilantro from her garden, water with lemons from the nearby creek. Yet I was absolutely captivated by the beatified ritual the entire family went through that summers’ midafternoon.
Respect, tolerance, patience, gratitude, it was obviously not orchestrated for my benefit; it was amazingly evident that this was indeed their everyday way of life; it was an ingrained event, an autonomous evolution. Rodrigo was asked to say a prayer and he asked for blessings in my behalf since it was my birthday.
I was stunned; I didn’t know what to say. I just felt that my chest was going to explode any minute; I knew that I felt something I had never felt before.
I felt the Spirit testify of real gratitude and fervent discipleship, of unending hope and colossal faith – even in the face of such insurmountable odds, of unfiltered goodness and sweet mercy, of true forgiveness and everlasting empathy, of overt tolerance and unblemished Christlike love.
How much have I over these many, many years, wished to abide inside that thatch roofed edifice and while partaking in the Spirit of love, stroll peacefully and joyfully through Rodrigo’s gardens once again.
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A heartfelt thank you to Mario Jimenez for sharing this deeply moving experience. His story reminds us that, even in the most humble circumstances, the Spirit of love, gratitude, and Christlike discipleship can change our hearts.
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Holly Wallace is a writer and storyteller drawn to meaningful questions and overlooked details. Her work explores Latter-day Saint life and culture through faithful inquiry, inviting readers to pause, consider, and engage more deeply with what matters most.
