Page 108 - The 5 Love Languages: The Secret to Love That Lasts

Dominica. Our purpose was to study the culture of the
Carib Indians, and on the trip I met Fred. Fred was not a
Carib but a young black man of twenty-eight years. Fred
had lost a hand in a fishing-by-dynamite accident. Since the
accident, he could not continue his fishing career. He had
plenty of available time, and I welcomed his
companionship. We spent hours together talking about his
culture.
Upon my first visit to Fred’s house, he said to me, “Mr.
Gary, would you like to have some juice?” to which I
responded enthusiastically. He turned to his younger
brother and said, “Go get Mr. Gary some juice.” His brother
turned, walked down the dirt path, climbed a coconut tree,
and returned with a green coconut. “Open it,” Fred
commanded. With three swift movements of the machete,
his brother uncorked the coconut, leaving a triangular hole
at the top. Fred handed me the coconut and said, “Juice for
you.” It was green, but I drank it—all of it—because I knew it
was a gift of love. I was his friend, and to friends you give
juice.
At the end of our weeks together as I prepared to
leave that small island, Fred gave me a final token of his
love. It was a crooked stick fourteen inches in length which
he had taken from the ocean. It was silky smooth from
pounding upon the rocks. Fred said that the stick had lived
on the shores of Dominica for a long time, and he wanted
me to have it as a reminder of the beautiful island. Even
today when I look at that stick, I can almost hear the sound