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.

Sick Day

Today was a miserable day. I woke up with light cold symptoms, but felt worn-out and exhausted. I decided to sleep in an hour before heading to work.

After managing to get out of bed, I pulled on my last remaining pair of clean pants and then went down to the kitchen and spilled coffee all over them. I changed into less-dirty clothes, and scared myself by looking in the mirror and seeing a round puffy face, small squinty eyes, and limp stringy hair. When I tried to put my contacts in, my eyes stung so much that I had to give up. I decided that it just wasn't meant for me to go into work that day, and I went downstairs with a blanket and Spanish book.

I spent the day the puttering around, studying Spanish and doing errands. I cooked, went to the bank and did laundry. Still, I felt lonely and sick and also guilty for skipping out of work. In the past, I've managed to make it into the office with worse symptoms, so I asked myself if I truly didn't go in because I lacked the physical and emotional energy, or if the lack of a boss and deadlines was keeping me away.

All my feelings were ingredients ripe for creating depression. To counter them, I thought back to magazine articles I've read giving advice on how to snap out of a bad mood. As I recalled them, I also thought of excuses not to utilize them.

-- Call a friend -Here I don't really have any that I can carry a true conversation with.
--Go for a walk-It's smoggy and dangerous out.
--Exercise--I feel to sick to move.
--Volunteer--This one makes the guilt over not going into work come back.
--Prayer--Well.....One of the reasons that I chose this program is that a want to grow in faith. And there's a chapel in my house. Or rather, I live in a chapel, as the house used to be part of a larger church that was torn down except for the chapel that now has a my house attached to it.

In any event, there's no excuse not to pray so I spent about twenty minutes talking to God with statues of Jesus and Mary next to me, while pedestrians on the street walked past, making the sign of the cross and putting coins in the donation box.

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It makes things a bit better, but I also have to him admit that I'm dwelling on a fight I had with my ex-boyfriend. He wanted to come visit but I thought it might blur the lines of the friendship we're trying to maintain. Feeling lonely, I'm regretting the decision, and I miss the days when we were friends living in the same country and I could call him up when in a bad mood.

There are lots of reasons why things didn't work out between us, but I start listing all the things about me that make me a bad girlfriend. I skirt around from job to job, I like to go out drinking, I'm flaky and get times, directions and addresses mixed up. Mostly, I think of his biggest issue with me--that I'm not driven or passionate.

Family members and co-workers have said the same thing about me--that I have potential but need to find something to be wrapped up in. I wonder if they're right, and that's why I am sitting alone and sad. Surely, if I were really passionate about helping others, then I wouldn't let the sniffles hold me back from going to those in need. So, I decide to compile a list of things that I want (besides clean clothes and hot water) hoping it will spark a passion:

I want to go to the beaches of Greece, the villages of my ancestors in Ireland and to temples in India. I want to work on a kibbutz in Israel and teach English in a prison in America and write about my experiences. I want to go to graduate school and adopt children. I want to be in love and have someone I can always talk to. I want to learn Spanish and French. I want to feel closer to God.

It's not hard to come up with things , but I am waiting for one thing on my wish list to strike me so deeply that I am willing to pursue it all costs because it will bring me happiness. I realize that though I'm very concerned with figuring out what I want, the question I should be asking is, ''God, what do you want from me?''

This is what I hear:

I want you to love people. I want you to be happy. I want you to give of yourself. I want you to feel bad when you need to. I want you to love me. I want you to forgive yourself.

I can't criticize passion, because it's been responsible for great works of art and literature, vital innovations and political systems. But it has also led to war and murder and can cause people to neglect relationships. I think that what God is telling me is that if I wasn't born with an obsessive desire to achieve something, that's it's okay and I shouldn't try to force it. It's enough to love Him and others and when I fail to do that, he wants forgive myself.

We'll see how much better I get.

The Way I See

Friday night, I was supposed to go salsa dancing with Jess, Javier and some other friends, but my right eye suddenly turned sore and bloodshot. Afraid that smoke and bright lights would make the situation worse and inflicted with a headache, I stayed home alone while everyone else went out. Though I may not always be living like those in poverty here, I definitely feel a kinship with the sick.

Despite plenty of rest, I am still not feeling much better the next day, but I make it out of the house to attend a luncheon for a Bishop held at a small convent. (The nuns are sweet, but they parish is more exciting.) So afterward, we stop next door at the parish. Jessica recounts her night out with the Soledad and Lupita, the mother and daughter we are friends, with who collect money and distribute toilet people as people enter the restrooms. I sit by somewhat grumpily as my eye hurts and I am hungry since I didn't eat any of the carnivorous lunch. Intermittently, chicken feet (the cheapest form of meat) are fed to the dogs the dozen or so dogs that hang around outside the parish. I shoo them away from licking my legs, as well as brushing off the parish worker who keeps greeting me in an attempt to get more hugs.

When Guillito- the church's natural healer who lives in a small cottage in front of the church-greets us, I ask him to examine my eye. He peers into it and tugs at and then determines that I have an infection and need eye drops to have it cured. Miraculously, Soledad pulls the needed drops out of her purse and applies them in my eye, after which Guillito holds my head back, so that the drops will take effect. He gives Jess and I shoulder rubs and then we all go separate ways. Generously, Soledad gives me the drops to keep.

Jess and I need to talk to Father Salvador and we catch him wandering out of the parish house, wearing red and white robes, on his way to say Mass. After discussing financial issues with him, he asks if we had a good time last night. Jessica explains that she did, but that I couldn't go out anywhere because of my eyes, but says Guillito recommended drops.

Father says that I could use the leaves of a plant that is growing in a pot in the courtyard as a cure.

He picks a leaf off the vine and then decides "No, it's probably better to go with Guillito's advice.'' Then, he pops the leaf into his mouth and walks off, and I wonder just how bad of shape my eyes are in.

The Ups and Downs of Mission Life

As a foreigner in Mexico, I always feel like I am leading a life out of my control, and the addition of cold medications and a fever last week heightened that sensation. My illness kept me quarantined from work and made me feel like a puppet, being pulled in these directions:

Down, face-flat, backside-exposed, with a nun hovering over me while holding a syringe. After a quick check-up, Sr. Angelita diagnosed me as having a throat and ear infection and determined that penicillin would be the best course of treatment. The situation made me nervous, because everything Sr. told me was through translation and I couldn´t get all of the information I would have liked. Additionally, at the time we weren´t actually sure of Sister´s credentials as a doctor, as the term is sometimes self-imposed here. (Since then, we´ve learned she has a medical degree.) Feeling awful, I made a few calls to the States and my family confirmed that there would be no harm in taking penicillin. Except to my dignity, as Angelita injected penicillin into rear everyday for a week, meaning that I´ve been exposed to a woman I don´t know that well but who sees me on a daily basis.

Up, on the dance floor, during a church party for Guillito´s birthday party that is laden with family, mole (a complex salsa that contains 23 ingredients) and tequila. Guillito is Father Salvador´s 76 year-old helper who is a cook, natural healer, chain-smoker and everybody´s grandfather, as he always offers hugs, handshakes and kind words spoken in a growly voice.Since the three of us are among the few family members there,I feel a bit out of place, and while making small talk with a nephew about his fondness for Vegas, gambling and cockfights, Guillito calls me toward him. I think he wants to introduce me to a family member, but instead he grabs me and starts salsa dancing. I am not big on dancing, but I go along with it because it´s his birthday. Then relatives and parish staff members start cutting in, gesturing that they can outdance Guillito. As I am spun about and my picture is taken with various partners, I realize that as a young, white woman in a Mexican parish basement, I am somewhat of a novelty act. My presence is similar to a Budweiser Girl walking into a sleepy, neighborhood bar in the United States. Though helping old men regain their youth isn´t exactly the mission I came for, raising my cultural awareness is important, so I master a few more steps of salsa.

To the side of the metro I am pushed, during a Saturday shopping excursion with Sr. Angelita. Originally, I was supposed to help Sr. start a nutrition club, but when the first meeting feel through, she invited me to go to the city with her to buy medical supplies....8:00 in the morning. Sister Angelita is no nonense, so during the busride to the metro station she pulls out an English-Spanish dictionary and we attempt to teach each other our respective languages. Once on the metro, the vehicle is so crowded that all we can do on it is try to hold on and stay standing. In the city, Sr. decides she´d like to take me to a museum that has yet to open. We spend an hour waiting in a nearby church (she behaves like a nun while I fall asleep) and then return to the museum. She then finds out it´s only free on Sundays, not Saturdays, and decides not to go. I spend the rest of the morning following her in an out of medical shops. She purchases a scale while I try to master parts of the body in Spanish using posters and I have my blood pressure taken three times as I help her pick out a reader. (It´s low.)

Up, to a chapel on the hill. Deacon Felipe invites us to a mass for four girls who have become lectors, and after a bus ride and steep upward walk, we attend the service taking place a small white building containing plastic chairs, a stereo, and a statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe garbed in glittering green and red robes. Wearing white t-shits and black track pants, the girls smile throughout the ceremony and I do my best to stay awake.

Afterward, Deacon Felipe brings us to the church to eat. In the kitchen are people who make up a sort of parish family--single woman away living on their own or separated from their family, developmentally handicapped young men who work at the parish, clergy members and Guillito. Though the women are always friendly as they cook in the kitchen, and the boys eagerly chat with us, I never quite feel like I belong there. The people who have found a home their are among those who are most looked over by society and I am glad they have a place where they feel comfortable and have companionship. However, whether it´s a language or lifestyle barrier, or the fact that there always offering me food that contains meat and dairy, I have difficulty spending too much time there, so it´s an early Friday night.

Now, it´s back to work and while I appreciated the break, I missed being with the kids. Sickness has made me appreciate my health and the fact that I can now choose where to go each day and I feel like things are looking up.

p.s. Up, up and away I cast my ballot. Since I am voting absentee, I had to send it out early. Go Obama!!