Good Friday Musings

Good Friday morning, I am outside with ten wheelchair-bound girls, aged 18 through 30. It is just me with them and I take them on walks and spin their chairs as they smile and giggle....or, honestly for some of the girls, as they continue to wail and rock back and forth, as my presence does nothing to change the torment in their lives. I am often alone with the girls and I like it because I imagine myself as the oldest sister in charge while parents are out of sight. When I am in their shared sleeping space after they`ve gone to bed, I read stories and tell jokes as if we`re having a secret slumber party even though lights are supposed to be out.


Mariana--one of the girls who weighs about sixty pounds and has a body composed of gnarled limbs--begins crying due to the sun, and I pull her chair into the shade. I leave the group and return to find Mariana sobbing as Corazon and Neddy try to comfort her. Corazon is one of the only girls who can walk, though she does it by quickly pushing her 90-pound frame forward in a clumsy manner that suggests she`ll fall over any minute. She is always eager to help out by pushing wheelchairs and she loves giving and receiving affection. Neddy, who is wheelchair-bound, is one of the few who can talk, though she rarely does it in the presence of visitors like me.

Corazon is hovering over Mariana`s wheelchair while clinging to it for support. Neddy is saying something unintelligible and extending her limp arms toward the chair. It is both beautiful and heartbreaking to see. Despite their own severe handicaps, the two girls posses something within them that makes them love and try to aid others, but they are still helpless. I wheel Edith back inside and she stops crying once she has reached her bed.

I sometimes have doubts about what I am doing in Mexico because I often feel like I am doing acts of charity that bring momentary aid rather than long-term change or relief. That moment with the girls is a reminder of how blessed I am just to be able to make small differences.

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In the afternoon, the church is packed with people and happenings. I attend a reflection on Jesus`s final words on the cross such as when he asks God to forgive His tormentors, His cry of abandonment and His thirst. I see portions of the Passion Play but the church grounds are so crowded that it is overwhelming to try to keep up with the crowds as they move from place to place trying to keep up with different scenes.

I forgo watching the Crucifixion reenactment in order to return to work. The children are alone as, ironically, everyone is attending a Mass about Jesus`s suffering. I try to juggle crying babies around while Vickie (who is six, paralyzed and one of the oldest children) gives me orders about where to put them. I bring her water, attempt to read her stories in Spanish and we count off the numbers in both English and Spanish.

While changing her, I inadvertently cause her pain by tugging on her diaper too hard.

``Bruja,`` she says. (Witch)

``Como?`` I ask.

``Bruja,`` she repeats firmly.

Her pronouncement may have something to do with me dressing in black from head to toe for Good Friday, but it`s funny how perceptions are. At that moment, I view myself as the person who cares about her most in the world, while she sees me as bullying and insensitive. Again it`s a sisterly moment, since as a younger sister, I know that`s how it works sometimes.

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In the evening, I go to another service, only by now I`ve lost track as to what it`s about. It`s packed and I don`t have a seat, so feeling tired and hungry from fasting, I decide to sit outside and read the missal.

``Caro!`` squeals Danni, a pint-sized sixteen year old girl who makes up for it with a loud voice that she utilizes often. She runs toward me and wraps her arms around my waist.

Danni has taken a liking to me and Jess and we get that reaction every time we see her. She likes to hold our hands when Padre takes the church on protest walks and she`ll invite herself to our house or the office while we are working. She once asked me why I don`t play in the streets at night like she does and she`s sported bruises from her fights there. She is usually in the process of chasing someone or being chased while she is at the parish.

Upon seeing me, she finds a missal and sits next to me and reads quietly. For about five minutes. Then she decides we should move to a shadier spot. She shouts out to groups of guys and makes plans with friends. She abandons reading for playing games on her phone. She follows me back to my house and I give her one of my sweatshirts as it`s getting cool and she has on a hot pink strapless shirt. She goes out to play in the street. I join Padre and a group of parishioners who are carrying statues of Jesus`s dead body and a veiled Virgen Maria through the streets as one of the boys beats a drum.

If I were ten years younger and Dani and I were in high school together, I would want to be a lot like her. As I was quite shy and had few friends as a child, I would have sat by myself in study hall reading a book, watching her flirt with boys and trash-talk with friends, and I would wonder how her extroversion comes so easily. Here and now, she finds herself struggling to be calm like me.

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Four days later, after everything has calmed down, I am with the girls during a field-trip to the zoo. I push Edie along and seemingly entertain her by singing songs and reading signs which I try to translate. When she jerks her head when I am paused for too long, I tell her that it`s important to learn.

Really, I am amusing myself and I realize that my solitariness as a child has given me the ability to survive when I feel as if I am on my own here. All those times I felt left out growing up have prepared me for what I am doing now.

When I was in sixth grade, I had a teacher who wanted to fix my quietness and would call on me in class often, saying, ``This is the year that you come out of your shell.``

It wasn`t for about seven more years, through travel, acting lessons, weight loss and a study of college friends, that I harnessed the ability to be more social and outgoing.

However, throughout my adult life, I`ve had all types of friends and I was always going to parties and dinners. I don`t think that others thought of me as the girls who was an outsider as a teen. My decision to do mission work required a certain amount of confidence in myself socially, as I knew I`d be in a foreign environment where I`d know nobody.

Still, I often feel as if I am alone here, be it in actuality or due to communication problems.It is as if God shook me out of the shell I once inhabited and molded me for a new, more durable one. Only now, I pull others in with me and let them rest for a while as I push ahead.

Crosses to Bare

Following evening mass on Palm Sunday, I stop by the rectory and find Arturo there alone, sitting and smoking cigarettes and staring into space. As I mentioned before, Arturo is a parish groundskeeper of sorts who has a disheveled appearance (long uncombed hair, missing teeth, baggy clothes) and an aloof personality. He tends to ask me question that require complicated answers at inopportune times. (The other day while I was on the office computer working on taxes, he asked me to explain, through a closed window, why the economy of the United States is so bad and what can be done about it.)

Though I find him frustrating, I appreciate the consistency of my dealings with him. Like when working with some mentally ill people, I can count on Arturo for bizarre questions and unusual thoughts. It´s better than being on the edge around friends or bosses who make weird requests out of the blue.

Recently, Arturo told me that I should practice my Spanish since he can´t understand me. He advised me of this after saying that he would pay for someone from the United States send him a coat through me. I tried to explain that products in the two countries are about the same, only cheaper here since real estate is more expensive in the United States. Since his directives was based on not being able to grasp what I was saying, I told him he should be the one to practice with me. Since then he has showed more patience during our chats.

Upon encoutering Arturo, I tell him that I am losing my voice from bad cold, and he seems concerned, which is surprising since generally he only cares about debating things with people.

¨Do you want anything?¨ he asks. ¨Water or coffee?¨

¨No, thak you. I´m fine,¨ I reply.

¨You´re not fine. You´re sick.¨ Then he awkwardly extends his hand to touch me, lightly brushes it against my arm, and then quickly pulls away.

I smile and assure him that I´ll be okay before leaving. I find his attempt at showing affection rather touching because it´s out of character for him.

In Mexico, displays of endearment are so commonplace that they often serve more as means of convenience for the people who give them rather than kindness to the people who receive them. If you don´t know someone´s name, she won´t notice this because it´s normal to call someone a variation of ¨Senorita Bonita Linda¨ (Little Miss Beautiful Pretty.) If you need a better view of something, or a place to wrest your hand, it´s okay to put your arm around the shoulder of an acquaintance.

However,Arturo takes pains to physically distance himself from people. His slight touch reminds me of the story in the Bible in which the poor woman who gives her away her few coins is deemed more charitable than the rich people who donate thousands of dollars to the church, because she gives all that she has. Arturo´s act means a lot because it requires of himself to make.

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Overall, Palm Sunday was quite a lavish affair. Outside the church, vendors sold palm leaves which have been twisted into the shapes of crucifixes and other religious objects, and decorated with jewels in order to be blessed during Mass. It´s very different from the States where simple palm leaves are distributed before Mass.

At six in the morning, biblical theater began taking place. Men dressed as Jesus and his various apostles made house calls, and walked down the main street of Santa Fe with followers. Stories from the Bible were acted out on parish grounds, with hundreds of people lined up to see them, despite blistering heat. (Ironically, during the scene where Jesus overthrows the vendors´ tables outside the temple and says that God´s house is not a marketplace, real-life vendors sold Popsicles to spectators.)

Though it was interesting to see, a personal scene of my own repeated itself--I felt too sick, exhausted, and confused by Spanish to really be enthusiastic about what was going on, and guilty for feeling this way. When I sat down for breakfast with a group of parish friends and everybody but me was talking while eating eggs and ham, I felt like the others were thinking of me--¨¨You don´t fit in and you´re not trying to.¨

However, I was comforted by the Gospel in church today, as it was the Passion of Christ were Jesus is crucified. As missionaries we have been encouraged to be like Christ in that we should share experiences with people, offer our time and befriend those who are neglected and poor. The Gospel was a reminder that it wasn´t always good times for Jesus in terms of his dealings with people--he felt (and was) rejected and humiliated by others, but kept going in pursuit of something greater.

¨We all have our crosses to bare,¨ is a phrase that I heard throughout my childhood, which means that we will suffer like Jesus, though far less. For now, my crosses are health problems and communication barriers, but they are quite small when compared to those of the people I work with, most of whom have been abandoned, have crippling diseases and can´t speak. Other people in Santa Fe carry different but heavier burdens than I, as poverty and a lack of education cause other problems. All the pains I face give me more compassion towards those who are worse off.

Jesus´s sufferings were eased a bit by connections with people that seem a bit out of place--Simon of Cyrene carried his cross for a while, and (according to Luke) Jesus was crucified next to a thief who asked for His forgiveness and a place in Heaven. My small brush with Arturo this evening was a reminder that there all kinds of ways to connect with people, and it made my own crosses feel lighter.

Feliz Cumpleaños, Jessica!

If every little girl wants a pony for her birthday, than every young woman must secretly want a horse, even if she learns to hide this desire upon realizing it´s impracticability. However, for her 23rd birthday, Jessica´s dreams came true (at least for the afternoon) as our friends brought a horse to our door for her to ride on to Mass. Upon reaching the entrance, the service was held up so that Padre could come sprinkle holy water on the duo.

From there things seemed to be going pretty typically for a parish party--everyone ate chicken and mole, and Jessica was able to avoid the Mexican custom of having her face smashed into her cake. Things got a little unusual when she was pulled into a small side room, blindfolded and stripped.

Once, Jessica had told Padre that she felt left out because she had never experienced a quinceaños--a ¨coming-out¨ party for Mexican girls on there fifteenth birthday. Padre took it upon himself to remedy this situation, and Jessica´s girlfriends squeezed her into a puffy, sparkly, white and pink gown and presented her to her friends and Mexican family. She first waltzed with Padre (her surrogate Father) and then all the males in the room, including two ten-year old boys that she danced with at the same time.

Guests were called up to give her presents, most of which were flowers and chocolate. The sweetest gift was from our little friend Luci who gave her a cartoon drawing of Jessica. Padre and Gallo (in deference to the fact that Jessica is constantly begging me to allow her to get a puppy) were responsible for the funniest thing-- a stuffed dog that sings, in English, ¨I love you more than I can say. I´ll love you twice a day,¨ and dances.

Festivities continued well into the evening, ending after the rondalla (a choir consisting of guitar players) that plays at the 7 p.m. mass serenaded Jessica with birthday tunes, and paid themselves for their services by finishing off all of the party´s whiskey. We returned home exhausted, wishing we had a beast to help cart all of the loot.

Though I´ve told Jessica that a having dog would be too much upkeep, I´m still trying to think of a way for us to permanently keep the horse. Happy birthday, chica!