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Emptied Out

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I was a little over an hour away from Dallas, where I’d planned to stop for the night, when three warning lights popped up on my dash.

Panic. I’m on an interstate surrounded by nothing but ranchland. I still had about another 10 hours of driving to get back to El Paso. Plus, it’s Friday night of Memorial Day weekend.

After pulling over to peruse my manual and check my engine, I offer a prayer to get somewhere safely. Then I decide to calm down. I decide to trust that whatever happens, it’ll be OK. And I let go of any expectation to make it back to El Paso tomorrow.

This is not a typical response for me.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been getting a lot of practice in learning to trust over these past several years.

Maybe it’s the effects of listening to CDs on Meister Eckhart and the art of letting go while taking this incredibly long roundtrip drive from El Paso to Virginia.

Maybe it’s because, from the beginning, this journey has been about ridding myself of what is unnecessary. Of letting go of attachments and outcomes. Of learning to say yes to what is in front of me.

And there’s no doubt it’s because of what I’ve seen and experienced along the way.

Days earlier I had emptied out the extra bedroom at a friend’s house where I’d stored boxes I couldn’t get to before leaving Virginia last January. Sorting through years of family photos and other memorabilia filled me with gratitude for the blessed life I’d had.
A life I couldn’t return to. No matter how appealing it seemed.

And appealing it was. Visiting friends who were settling into a simpler life with their husbands, their kids now grown and out of college, yet still living close enough for family get-togethers in the beautiful rural countryside of central Virginia – I’ll admit, it was attractive.

This physical emptying out, I realized, was a metaphor for the internal releasing and emptying that has been going on. An emptying of attitudes as well as possessions, of the way I would like life to show up. The way I would like things to be.

Like not having car issues on the interstate, for example. Or not having my husband die so young. Or living so far away from my son who’s remaining in Alaska for at least another year.

Yet I also saw how, the more I “empty myself out,” the more I have room for God. And for “the other.” Room for true listening. For opening to the grace that’s right here.

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The next day, as I sat in the customer service area at the Dallas Sewell Subaru, waiting to get the news about my car, I pulled out a letter I’d received from Martin, a 27-year-old Mexican journalist who’d come here seeking asylum because his life had been threatened. He was stuck in the El Paso detention facility, awaiting the results of his case.

I’d begun writing to Martin, hoping to encourage and visit him soon. I was considering my response to his letter when I received a text from a friend in El Paso saying that Martin had been denied asylum for the second time! Losing hope, he’d decided to give up his case rather than appeal and remain in our prison-like system. That means he’ll be returning to Mexico where at least half a dozen journalists have been killed in recent months. His young life is surely in danger.

Suddenly my minor inconvenience is irrelevant. My calling to follow my heart clearer than ever.

It may be that every time I step out in faithfulness, I’m taking a risk. But my risks are insignificant compared to the risks taken by those I’ve accompanied, my brothers and sisters running for their lives. People who live in constant fear and danger.

Living with an open-hearted stance is not easy. I feel the pain of the other as I grow in awareness that my life is not about me.

But this is what I choose. And I need grace to succeed.

“Grace leads us to the state of emptiness, to that momentary sense of meaningless in which we ask, ‘What is it all for? What does it all mean?’ All we can do is try to keep our hands cupped and open. And it is even grace to do that.”       Richard Rohr

I hope that I am being “emptied out” so that I can be filled with the very fullness of that grace.

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Blessings & Burritos

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The anxious young mother from Guatemala asks me for the third time how long I think it will take to get to New York. By bus. From El Paso.

Depende.”

I’ve tried to explain. Depends on a lot of things.

She asks how many hours. I tell her it’ll be two days. Her facial expression pleads for a different answer.

In reality I think it’ll be three. But I don’t tell her that.

She and her adorable 6-year-old daughter Alison will be spending tonight in the Greyhound station. Their relative back in NY bought tickets for a bus leaving at 4 a.m. Getting them a ride to the station at 2:30 a.m. would be impossible. Our volunteer drivers are great, but everyone has their limits. The best we can do is get them to the station tonight.

And pack them sufficient food and liquids for the long journey. That’s my job. And I take it seriously.

Used to be that the migrants and refugees who came to our center could access cash from Moneygrams wired by relatives in other states. At least that’d give them a little money to buy food on these long bus rides.

But not anymore. The local Moneygram has changed its policy. They now want a “legit” ID. Like a driver’s license.

We all know that’s not possible. Which means we often send our people off with nothing more than an extra set of clothing and a small bag of food. And blessings for the journey.

Vaya con Dios,” I say. “Bendiciones para su viaje.”

Que Dios te bendiga,” they respond. God bless you. Like I’m the one that should be getting the blessings.

Alison and her mom aren’t unusual. In fact, another mother and her two children are leaving tomorrow by bus. For North Carolina.

So, when I search through the donations of tote bags, I try to find two sturdy ones to hold enough food for these moms and their kids.

Pickings are slim tonight. Only a few large bags left that could possibly hold everything I want to pack. But I know we’ll soon have more donations. We always do.

I pull some “care packages”—each filled with peanut butter crackers, granola bars, chips, a bottle of water, and juice box. All the snacks, and even the Ziploc bags, donated by local residents.

Then off to the kitchen with the walk-in fridge. I grab apples, burritos, fried chicken, anything I can stuff into the tote bags to sustain five people for a 3-day journey.

Every Monday a local restaurant delivers grocery bags filled with dozens of homemade bean burritos. Wrapped in sturdy foil and ready to go. Another vendor donates apples and oranges. Who knows where the fried chicken came from? Sometimes it’s pizza I find on the shelves. Or baloney sandwiches.

All this food – donated. Anything and everything we need. Just when I notice something starting to get low, next day – or soon thereafter – the supply is replenished.

It’s kind of like the loaves and fishes story. Only it’s not Jesus sending down the blessing. It’s folks like you and me. Blessing the snacks, the clothing, the toys, the toothpaste – everything they donate – with their attitude. Their generosity. Their grace.

Later that night, I think about Alison and her mom. They’re headed to the bus station right about now. I think about the food I packed for them.

I worry it’s not enough.

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Then I remember the burritos. The commitment of that restaurant owner. The endless supply offered.

And I send out a prayer. May these families meet others on their journey. Others who will be that kind of blessing.

Alegrίa

Joyful mysteries

Joy.

Have you ever been surprised by joy? Felt it come out of nowhere and suddenly overtake you? Yet you can’t fully explain it?

That’s been happening to me since returning to this desert border town.  I’ve been experiencing a mysterious joy.

Despite not knowing for sure what I’m doing here. Not knowing where I’ll settle. Still trying to sell a house in Virginia. Looking for a paying job. Aware that my temporary living arrangement will soon expire.

So many unknowns. Enough to send anyone into a panic. Or at least an anxious spin.

But surprisingly I feel peaceful. And happy.

Maybe it’s because I’ve done this so many times now. Uprooted myself. Leapt off into the unknown. Taken risks. And come out the other side, assured once again that I have everything I need as I listen and trust my inner guidance.

But I know it’s more than that.

Joy is the infallible sign of the presence of God,” said Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, the French philosopher and Jesuit priest who wrote The Divine Milieu.

God has been showing up a lot lately.

Just two days after arriving in El Paso, I returned to volunteer at the Nazareth migrant hospitality center where I’d served over a year ago. As soon as I walked through the door, took in the familiar surroundings, saw the people, I felt this inexplicable happiness spread inside of me.

Nothing had precipitated it. Other than being in this place.

It was the presence of joy.

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A Presence letting me know that I was exactly where I needed to be.

 

Then last Sunday, I attended a Spanish Mass. A joyous celebration, the walls reverberating with lively music and handclapping. Pews packed with Hispanics. Many others standing along the side and back walls. And this was only one of six masses held every Sunday!

I went because I love being among the people. Saying the prayers in Spanish along with them. Celebrating the combination of their rich spirituality and connection to the earth. Seeing their faith in action both delights and humbles me. I can’t explain it, but they possess something special.

I was standing there, silently taking everything in, when suddenly I recognized something. I recognized the Presence of what it is they possess. And it filled me. This unnamed Presence.

Tears sprang to my eyes. Joyful tears.

And I knew. This is God. This is the Presence of God.

In these people. In these tears I’m shedding.

In this overwhelming joy that has taken me by surprise.

In this awareness that I am standing in the midst of grace.

In the knowledge that every leap I’ve taken — even when it didn’t feel “right” at the time — has been a perfect piece of the process of my life. Taking me where I needed to go. Helping me to heal.

In that moment of recognition, a Scripture verse came back to me:

“Count it all joy when you are involved in every sort of trial.” (James 1:2)

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Two years ago I was struggling in San Antonio. Trying to make a go of a promise I’d made to serve there. Feeling very alone and uncertain, I’d written a blog post about the “life in abundance” God wanted for me. The promise of joy. Knowing it was possible, but feeling a million miles from anything close to joy.

Now I understand.

My heart knows why I am here.

“That my joy may be in you, and your joy may be complete.”

La alegrίa. That’s Spanish for joy. Now I understand. A joy no one can take from you.

 

A Stranger at the Table

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That would be me.

For six weeks in Bolivia. I was a stranger at someone else’s table. Living with a family I didn’t know. In a country where I could barely speak the language. In the midst of a different culture. Where everything looked, smelled, and tasted different.

It didn’t take long to realize, “I’m not in Kansas anymore.” Or Virginia.

Or anywhere that even resembled the home I knew. Everything felt different. And I felt so alone.

True, that was months ago. But the memory of those feelings has stayed with me.

I actually think the mother of the house where I was living in Bolivia had a preconceived image of me as an American. And maybe she had a little attitude too.

Now the tables are switched.

I’m the one with a little attitude toward foreigners.

Yes, me.

You might find that surprising. After all, why would I travel so far from home to return to the U.S.-Mexico border to serve migrants and refugees if I had an attitude?

Truthfully, I’m happy to be back serving at the Nazareth migrant hospitality center. It feels right to be here.

I knew it the first day I walked through the door and was among “the people” again. I found myself smiling for no particular reason throughout the day.

Even though I never stopped moving from the moment I stepped inside the place. And was exhausted by the time I left.

The thing is, so many people are coming. More than I’d ever seen when I was serving here last year.

It’s not so easy to spot those in desperate need this time. It’s not black and white. If it ever was.

Immigration is such a complex issue.

What got me was I was noticing some conflicting feelings arising. A judging, critical side.

I mean I’m aware that I have this side of me, but I didn’t like the fact that it was coming up here, in relation to the migrants whom I’ve felt such compassion for. In a place where I’m serving alongside some of the kindest and most generous people I’ve ever met. The people of El Paso. People who still, after more than two years, continue to fully operate this center through their donations and volunteer hours.

So, the other night I went to bed with these questions on my heart.

“How do I keep my heart open and let go of trying to be judge and jury? How does love respond to this situation? What do you ask of me?”

On the verge of sleep, an image of Jesus in his passion came to me. The pain and suffering he endured. The terrible loneliness.

Then I “heard” his question: “Did I do this only for those who deserve it?

Such a powerful and humbling response! The truth of it hit me hard.

Because I knew. I certainly don’t “deserve” this gift. In fact, I often take it for granted. And I doubt I fully appreciate it.

In that moment, I understood.

Love has nothing to do with fairness or with who deserves it.

Love invites everyone to the table. No one is excluded. And preconceived images are left at the door.

Granted, it’s challenging to love as Christ loved.

I don’t know if I can do it. But this is my practice.

This is why I am here.

All Lives Matter to Me

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It’s the early morning hours. The day before the memorial service for the Dallas police officers.

I awaken in a hotel room just outside the city. Photos of the five officers and two African-American young men who were killed appear in my mind. And tear at my heart.

I think of their families. The ones who’ve loved them and are left behind to grieve.

My heart breaks for the pain we cause each other, for the violence we resort to so easily to resolve our differences, to make our voices heard.

There is another choice.

But it’s harder. Because it involves letting go of our own agenda.

It means putting aside our pride and our judgments. And our preconceived notions about who is “right” and who is “wrong.”

It means being willing to see and listen to the other person.

And letting Christ’s love guide our steps.

That option seems so far away. Especially in the midst of the ongoing onslaught of hate-filled insults, of angry words and demeaning lies raging over social media and throughout this political campaign.

So I do the only thing I can do. I offer prayer. And ask where God is in this.

A familiar question pops up.

“Have you been with me all this time and still do not know me?”

It’s a question Jesus asked of his disciples along their journey together.

And this is the response that comes.

I am African-American. I am Mexican American. I am Native American. I am Muslim. I am Christian. I am Buddhist.

I am the police officer who risks his life every time he protects yours.

I am the youth calling for peaceful protests after his father is killed.

I am the man with knotted hair standing at the stoplight with his cardboard sign asking for help.

I am the undocumented little Guatemalan girl languishing with her mother in a Texas family detention center.

I am the young mother in Bolivia who abandoned her baby because she could not feed yet another child.

I am the 10-year-old boy stolen from his family and forced to become a soldier.

I am the Syrian who fled his home with his young son after their lives were threatened.

I am the family in sub-Saharan Africa unable to eat tonight because there is no food.

I am in you. I am in the neighbor next to you. And in the neighbor across the ocean whom you have yet to meet.

All lives matter to me. Because I am all life.

I am compassion. I am understanding. I am love without borders.

I am peace in a world that does not know peace because it does not know me.

I wait for you in the stillness. In the silence. There you will see me.

And know me for the first time.Mother-Teresa-Peace

A Journey into Love

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My little darlings at el orfanato in Cochabamba

I’ve been away for  a while. From writing, that is.

Even though my heart’s been brimming with all I want to say.  And I find myself at yet another crossroad. A crossroad where I’m being asked to surrender it all.

I find this to be a hard post to write. Because how do you express the inexpressible?

Maybe an image will help.

The other day, Emma, the director of the orphanage where I volunteered in Cochabamba, emailed a couple of photos of the babies I’d cared for. We weren’t allowed to take pictures of the children while working there, so this was the first time I’d seen their precious faces since I’ve been back home.

I cried when I saw them.

Especially little Teresa.  She was my favorite. But I loved them all. And not only for the short time I was with them. I still carry them in my heart. I suspect I always will.

It’s easy to love babies, isn’t it? Even when they’re crying inconsolably. I mean, for the most part. We just love them. Inexplicably. Even though they’re totally useless. They can’t do a darn thing for themselves. Completely dependent. Open and waiting. Helpless and vulnerable. They’re surrendered to us. And yet we love them even more.

Lately the image of those babies has been really speaking to me.

It’s a metaphor. My relationship with those babies. An image of something much deeper. A metaphor for my relationship with a God who is always loving me. A God who loves me most especially in my helpless, vulnerable, open, and completely surrendered place. And this love has been overwhelming and powerful and hard to fully take in.

And also a bit scary.

Because if I surrender completely, let go of all my roles and my self-images, my thoughts and ideas about who I am or who I should be, then what? Then who will I be?

It’s a place of naked vulnerability. Of meekness and humility.

And the “little me” wonders, Do you really want to go there?

All alone in my precious prayer time, when I go down into that deepest, most silent place within me, I know that the answer to that question is yes.

I know I am here to surrender to love.

And I know it’s OK that I can’t get there on my own.

As Richard Rohr says, “Authentic prayer is always a journey into love.”

I want to take that journey. Again and again and again.

You’ll Never Be the Same

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It happened to me again. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

When the subject came up, I felt a familiar passion rising in me, seemingly out of nowhere.

And it wasn’t like I had instigated it.

The incident happened  last weekend.

I was at a gathering of people from my church community when a woman I hadn’t seen in about two years came up to me. She wanted to know how my “mission” at the border had turned out.

Wow. The border. After just having spent several weeks in Bolivia and being back home in Virginia for a year, that experience seemed so far away. And yet it didn’t. Because as soon as I started to talk about the border, I was right there again.

I didn’t know where to begin. How to tell her everything I had witnessed. How to share the stories of the people. How to explain the misinformation and downright lies that have been spreading across this country about immigrants.

But her friend cut in. “I don’t have anything against immigrants, as long as they come here legally.”

And I could tell by looking at her face that this woman had no interest in what I had to say on the subject.

Our mutual friend — the woman who’d engaged me in this conversation — looked sympathetic. But then she admitted that she agreed with her friend.

I felt myself reacting to such a blanket statement that puts the problem in a neat little box. “If they want to come here, they should follow the rules.”

I started to argue that, yes, we need rules and regulations but do you know what it takes to get here legally? And how impossible it is for many people who are desperate? That what we really need is immigration reform to fix our broken system. But I’d lost her, too.

So, I stopped talking.

But inside, I felt the fire again. I experienced again the injustices of what’s happening.

And how ignorant we are of our role and responsibility.

And how American companies — privately-run detention facilities are just one example — benefit off the backs of immigrants.

And how the migrant poor, who have clearly suffered a lot, have more faith and generosity than I’ve ever had. I remembered their stories and their faces.

And I remembered again why I say that I can’t be at peace with a completely comfortable lifestyle anymore.

And why I can never not listen to my heart again. I’ve experienced too much to go back.

Recently, when I was on the plane heading from Bolivia to Miami, I discovered one of the Maryknoll priests I knew from Cochabamba was on the same flight. We chatted for a while about Bolivia, the people, the culture, the poverty.

“You will never be the same,” he said.

Little did he know. God had already awakened my heart. Three years ago. In the border town of El Paso.

I haven’t been the same since.change-the-world

My Lesson in Love

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A sign I encountered daily in Cochabamba reminds me, “Love is patient and kind…”

A new baby arrived last week at the orphanage. When I got there on Wednesday, I found her sleeping in a crib — a tiny dark-haired bundle wrapped in a yellow blanket. She was less than one week old.

Adriana.

Her name was printed in black magic marker on the placard above her crib. The women who work at the Salomon Klein orphanage named her. Abandoned, she came with nothing. No first or last name. No birth date. They think she was born on Easter Sunday.

When I changed Adriana’s diaper, I noticed the brown remains of her umbilical cord. What a way for this precious new life to begin.

But the sad truth is, Adriana’s situation is not unusual. During the four weeks I volunteered, three new babies appeared. Either they’d been abandoned or removed from an unsafe home. Now their home is a room lined with cribs filled with babies and toddlers under 2. There aren’t enough arms to cradle these children. Not enough voices to coo their names and let them believe, even for a little while, that the world revolves around them.

That’s what I normally try to do. But, for whatever reason, this day was different.

I changed more diapers than usual. Rubbed ointment onto red, raw bottoms and wondered how many more little ones lay in their cribs or sat in the play yard with wet, coarse cloth wrapped around their behinds waiting for someone to discover their need. But I couldn’t keep up while tending to tears and keeping toddlers from crawling on top of each other.

The mood was anything but tranquilo.

Babies who normally lay quietly in their cribs cried uncontrollably. I picked them up, one after another, cooing, cradling, calling their names, but the crying didn’t stop. My friend and fellow volunteer noticed the reason first.

“Look at the time,” she said. “They’re hungry.”

It was nearly 5:30 p.m. Well past the time for their second bottle. We mentioned it to one of the staff and she said the bottles were coming. But not soon enough.

During the next 15 to 20 minutes, my friend and I tried to console inconsolable babies. We carried them around the room, rocked them, sang to them. Feeling helpless all the while. We both remarked that this must be what it’s like for migrant and refugee mothers who can’t feed their hungry children. The experience was short-lived, but very vivid.  It has stayed with me.

And, it brought another insight. Something even more powerful.

As I held little Pablo, his tiny mouth quivered, he was crying so hard. He couldn’t hear my voice calling his name so sweetly. With his eyelids squeezed shut, his face tight with the pangs of hunger, he couldn’t possibly take in the love I was offering him. His hunger and pain were too great.

Now I understand.

This is how it must be for a loving God who is trying to get through to me when I am hurting. Because I was hurting and crying out in Cochabamba. I’d experienced some painful challenges, and I felt abandoned and alone. But like these children, my hunger and pain kept me from recognizing the presence of the love that’s been holding me through all of it. I couldn’t see it with my eyes squeezed shut.

And like I did for these children, the One who longs for me simply held me in my spiritual blindness. 

This love is so patient. It is kind and compassionate. It is willing to wait with me. Until I finally take in what I need. What it’s been offering all along.

A Simple Gift at Easter

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The “floor flower”  (alfombra) we created at Maryknoll for Semana Santa

Another adventure. This one involving a ride in a taxi trufi to an unfamiliar area “off the beaten path.” (I now have a clearer vision of just what that term means.)

Since arriving in Cochabamba, I’ve been wanting to visit my Bolivian friend, Maria Laura, a tía (auntie) at the Villa Amistad for children. I met Maria Laura back in November when I visited Amistad and I have been praying for and writing to her ever since. Seeing her was at the top of my list during my six-week stay, but so far, I’d been unsuccessful.

In the first place, getting to Amistad isn’t exactly easy. Although public transportation in Cochabamba is cheap and easy to use, with buses, taxis, and taxi trufis (sort of like an old van or VW bus) running constantly throughout the city, there’s only one taxi trufi you can take to the outskirts where Amistad is located. Taxi trufi #119. And it doesn’t run very often. Apparently not many people travel in that direction.

I discovered this the first time I tried to take #119. As I waited and waited and waited on the main Avenida Simon Lopez, taxi trufis bearing every number BUT #119 passed by: 101, 123, 120, 118, 19. Their numbers just close enough to #119 to instill both hope and frustration in me as the sun beat down on my unprotected head. Within seconds of each other, taxi trufis with the same number passed by, only adding to my frustration. I finally gave up and took a taxi — a lot more expensive than the 2 Bolivianos a taxi trufi requires, but, hey, I wanted to get there sometime that day.

Maria Laura was not at Amistad that afternoon. But at least I got to play with the children. And I discovered that taxi trufi #119 really does exist because I took it back to the city. The key, apparently, is to have patience and perseverance.

On my second attempt, I was ready. Armed with the knowledge of how #119 operated, I waited patiently as, once again, what seemed like hundreds of other taxi trufis zoomed by. Finally, #119 appeared. I stuck out my arm and waved it down like an experienced Cochabambina. But Maria Laura was not at Amistad that afternoon either. She’d had to accompany a child to the hospital.

You might think my third attempt was the charm. And it was. But not without incident.

On the Saturday morning before Easter I tried calling the Amistad office to let them know I was coming. Nobody answered. I decided to go anyway.

This time #119 came relatively quickly.  A good sign, I thought. But the rickety van was nearly full, requiring me to sit behind the driver facing backwards. We soon veered off the main avenida and headed up the rocky dirt roads I’d come to recognize. As we drove along, I kept turning my head to watch for the Villa Amistad sign. It wasn’t until the driver parked under the shade of a lone tree and turned off the motor that I realized I’d missed my stop. He put his hand out, waiting for his 2 Bolivianos, expecting me to get out of his van.

“Do you know the Villa Amistad?” I asked him in my best Spanish. He did not.

“Do you know the name of the street it’s on?” he asked me. I did not.

He said some thing else in Spanish, and I knew I had to get out. I stepped onto this dirt road in the middle of who knows where, with no idea of how to walk to Amistad from there. Was I concerned? Just a little bit.

Then this woman in a white sombrero with black braids and missing teeth ventured over. Somehow she knew I didn’t  belong here. When I asked if she knew the Villa Amistad, which, of course, she didn’t, another driver overheard, and called out to me.

I finally make it to Amistad only to find that the guard at the gate won’t let me in. I’m not expected after all. And it’s Saturday, so the administrative staff isn’t working.

“You need to call the director on your cellular,” he says.

“I don’t have a cell phone,” I tell him.

He can’t let me in.

Then this little angel appears. Madelyn, one of the young girls who lives at Amistad and knows me from previous visits, saunters by, and I call out to her. She explains to the guard that she knows me and that it’s OK for me to see Maria Laura. He agrees to retrieve my friend and bring her to me.

What followed turned out to be my best Easter gift. Maria Laura met me at the gate. I got to embrace my friend. Touch her. See her eyes smile back at me. Ask about her health. Share some simple but precious words.

It lasted maybe 15  minutes. And then I turned and headed back down the rocky road to wait for taxi trufi #119. My heart full of joy. And fully aware of the gift I’d just been given to culminate Semana Santa in Bolivia.

 

La Música de la Vida

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Blind musicians outside cathedral in main plaza

Another full day on the streets of Cochabamba where women openly bare their breasts for their hungry children. They breastfeed while walking, talking, carrying groceries, crossing the traffic-filled avenue, sitting on their mats selling their wares — whatever is needed while they tend to the most natural every-day activity of nursing their little ones.

Most people don’t even notice.  I do.

But that’s because I seem to notice everything here. It’s as if I have recently regained my sight. And all my senses for that matter.

I’ll be walking along and all of a sudden some unusual scent fills my nostrils. Maybe it’s the sweet smell of unidentifiable flowers. Or the overpowering odor of raw sewage that affronted me one afternoon. Worse than anything I’ve ever encountered. I literally couldn’t take a breath until our vehicle was a few blocks away. And the sewage was located right up the street from an elementary school!

Then there are the colors that pop into view at every turn.  Quechua women wearing bright pink shawls with multi-colored stripes that bulge with the weight of their cargo– usually a baby. The school girls in their sparkling white uniforms that look like doctors’ coats. Yellow, pink, and red hibiscus plants that line neighborhood streets. Grand green weeping willows that hang so low their delicate branches brush my forehead as I pass.

Green. It’s definitely the predominant color in this city. Islands of trees and green grass flow through the middle of main avenues. Parks filled with topiaries and vibrant plants appear everywhere I venture. Palm trees tower above the street life.

And what life there is in Bolivia!

It came to me one day while I was sitting in the garden at the Maryknoll language school. What the richness of life here is like for me.

It’s like a full symphony playing inside of me. Not just in my head. In my entire body. And it’s waking me up to the music of life. I pray my eyes remain open.

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