In Good Hands

A reflection on family and community

“As it is, there are many parts, but one body. If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.” – 1 Corinthians 12: 20, 26

Victory Flags

“Hold your hands up high, if you will, for today we raise banners of victory in honor of a woman of God!”

The crowd felt warm around me, much like the breeze blowing all over under the morning sun. As soon as my father raised his right hand as if holding a flag, dozens of hands shot up to the blue skies and shouts of “¡Victoria!” defied the silence of the cemetery grounds. With his free hand he wiped off the tears pouring out of his eyes, as I felt my own raised hand shaking, my heart overcome with a powerful feeling of joy.

He stood there, in the center of the large crowd, flanked by his eight siblings. Only a few steps away stood his wife, my mother, engulfed as I was in a sea of emotion. As he lowered down his hand, it came to rest on the casket. Our eyes moved to that dark blue, wooden box, where the body of my grandmother waited to be lowered to its final resting place. After 93 years of trials and joys, ten children, and a score of grandsons and granddaughters, she had now moved on to the fullness of life. We all held each others’ hands as we prayed. On the quiet of my heart, I made a prayer of gratitude for her life, and for my father. And I said thanks for the gift of being here, now, by virtue of the goodness of the body of Christ.

Guardian Angels

Sympathies had been pouring in from many places, some actually quite unexpected. There had been so much to do at work all day that I had not had the time to really think through what was going on. My grandma had passed away, a year and a half since I had last seen her. I knew I was going to be there with my dad only through the phone line – like so many other times – for I really could not afford a ticket home. Everyone there had assured me that it was okay, that they understood… but looking deep into myself, I was not okay: I had feelings of homesickness speeding in and out of my mind faster than they had ever done in the last few months. In the end, though, I knew I was going to have to endure being away one last time. After all, like my parents said, I would be there for New Year’s. I needn’t worry. I had decided to call it an early night and go to bed when I got the call.

“Hey Jesús. I’ve been thinking about you, man, and, well, having some chats. You know we lost our grandma too last summer, and two of my siblings and I were out of the country and couldn’t make it back home then. Well, that was really hard for all of us, and for my mom. So I talked with her now, and she really thinks it’s important that you be home with your family this weekend. We know your situation, though, so she’s said she can help with half the cost.”

“Whoa, wow… thank you! That’s… I, uh…”

“And, well, I’ve been making some phone calls to my siblings and a few other of your friends. And we’ve made enough to help with the other half. So we’re wondering if you want to go home. Think about it, make some phone calls, and just get back to me when you can. It’s on us because we love ya.”

Wow.

All those unexpected sympathies I’d been getting earlier in the day started to make more sense now – they’d all been calling each other! – and I stood there in my room silent, a fresh tear forming in the corner of my eye. I was going home. I would be with family. And behind it was one family and ten friends who seemed to have just felt it. My friend said they were my guardian angels. Wow.

It was a gift that in only a few hours took on a life of its own. My older brother in Houston had made the hard decision to stay away as well. Once they heard my news, however, my father and sister decided that he had to be at home too, and they flew him in. It felt right. After a whole year scattered, this family of five would have a reunion again. My father says the guardian angels were my grandmother’s last gift, her last miracle. They brought us back together at the most meaningful time.

We Are One Body

Having the opportunity to say goodbye to my grandmother that weekend surrounded by family was something I valued immensely. Along with that, there were two more lessons I learned through this experience. I have been able to talk with others at length about these lessons since traveling back to St. Louis, and am certain that they will now remain part of who I am. I summarize them with a very simple statement: Trust and serve, for you are in good hands.

I learned a lot, first of all, about how to be a son who honors his father and mother. My grandmother was a really important person in the lives of both my mom and my dad. She raised my dad and taught him discipline and humility throughout years of economic hardship. She became a second mother to my mom once my parents moved to Puerto Rico 25 years ago from Colombia, where my mom was born and raised. She was a pillar in their lives, and they honored that. They did so through constant care and attention during her late years. They did so too, when she passed away, by fully embracing the experience of her departure, and inviting others to do the same. For them there would be no posturing; this was a time to be real: strong, yet humble; grieving, yet grateful.

Throughout the weekend they became hosts for every gathering, a consistent source of warmth and even joy. They challenged us, family and friends, to embrace every emotion while staying true to the real calling of the moment: to celebrate a life well lived, and to be grateful for the gift of life. It was invaluable, and before I left I made sure to tell them what I had learned. At some point, I said, my siblings and I will have to say goodbye to them too. This had been a great lesson on how to do that. They can rest assured that they will be in good hands.

The second lesson I gained is already woven through this whole reflection. It was not a shallow motive that moved my “guardian angels” to stretch out a helping hand. I truly believe that it was something much closer to what my friend’s mother said herself, “You know, Jesús, I think God was really present in my heart that night, and what I heard was that you really needed to be home, and that I was going to play a role in it.” Without ever having met my parents, yet as if a common nerve tied her to them, she felt the same hurt they were feeling, not having their children home. The rest of my friends were moved to help accordingly. One of them said, “This is a true testament to how you have impacted each of our lives.” I must continue to trust and serve, then, for I am in good hands. I will be well. We are indeed connected.

We are one body. For all the times I have heard those words throughout my life, I am still and always amazed at how they ring so true to me in the most precious of times. Through experiences like the weekend of my grandmother’s death, I’m called to remember that my life is both source and destination of an active flow of love: life-giving veins connect me with family and community. They are the same veins that connect my communities with my family, that make them all one and the same, all living parts of a body, all going through the same blessings and the same pains. Together, not strange, all scattered, but no one apart. I belong with all together in the body of Christ.

To my family, my community, my guardian angels, and our God: I am forever grateful.

I was only 5, and I’d be sitting by her as she showed me how different words make similar sounds when you say them out loud, how I could put each of those words at the end of a line, then put the lines together, and the result was nothing short of music to the ears.  “Poetry is in your heart,” she’d say, and I’d look up to her, wondering where that was.

15 years later, she sat and listened closely, surrounded by some of her best friends and family on the day of her 50th birthday, as a now-young-man took up a guitar and sang the first song anyone had ever written for her.  “You are all that I am / See yourself here in my eyes, see yourself just one more time”.  A tribute to creation and the gift of life.

It was my father who taught me how to write.

Hundreds of books in a back office spoke of a former literate on his college years.  Studies in philosophy and letters, and a vocation for the teaching of ethics and faith gave me many a chance to listen to matter-of-fact treatises dictated to an absent pen.  There were only a few actual writings.  A letter during my college years, for example.  “You must know, son, what I’ve come to realize long ago: You are an extension of my own self.”

Not many years later, I’ve come to realize myself something that he may have also come to know: his treatises were not meant for an absent pen.  I’ve been the scribe all along.

The time is always now.

Let us create.

I always wonder why the US is virtually the only country in the world where soccer is not a major sport – not even in the top three.  Part of the price Puerto Ricans have paid for retaining our US citizenship is never embracing the love for soccer that’s all across the rest of Latin America.  Instead, we play basketball on our driveways and love Lebron James, send our few remaining good baseball players to the MLB, and either hate or pretend to understand the NFL, just like a real American sports fan.

And yet, nowadays I hear talk about the World Cup all around me – here, in Cardinals land! – and when I’m asked, I also respond with an ironical “I’m not a soccer fan, but I’m definitely a World Cup fan” kind of line.  I’ve watched all three games so far and felt that rush of adrenaline that I so often hear about from my Colombian relatives.  I’m sure many here have too, or will once the US game begins in about fifteen minutes.  Even if the chances of the US team winning this cup are very low, the hope is definitely in the hearts of many of Uncle Sam’s nephews.

So all I wonder is whether there is something about the game itself that’s what’s attractive?  Something about watching people kick a ball back and forth with no apparent outcome for most of a 90-minute-long couch-sitting?  Or instead, maybe, something about watching a story weaving itself all over a field, with ever-rising anticipation for that moment when a miracle will happen that can touch the lives of a million people all over the world?

Or is this something to dismiss as another once-in-an-election-cycle craze of us trying to be part of everything global?

Below is a link to the original blog post that inspired this. Read on and see what you think.

World Cup 2010: The Last Time You’ll Care About Soccer Till 2014?

p.s. Good luck challenging your former colonizers.  We haven’t had very much luck with you…

May you live every day of your life.  – Jonathan Swift

What would you do if you suddenly found out that, for the whole day and night of tomorrow, every single person in the world will have their eyes fixed on you – all day?  How would you spend that day?

Two years ago, I asked this question to almost 500 people, as I prepared a spoken-word presentation for the annual “Mr Wash U” program and fundraiser at my university.  The answers were definitely something to talk about.  This morning, while cleaning up around my room, I came across the DVD from that event and decided to watch it one more time.  The words of all those people who responded two years ago came back and flooded my mind, shaking me up for a minute as if they were talking to me right now.  “What are you doing, Jesús,” they said, “what are you doing today?”

Today I post this clip from that presentation two years ago in hopes that those voices may speak to others as well.  What are you doing today?   What would you do tomorrow, if the world was watching?

May you live every day of your life.

When I was little, I wanted to grow up to be an operator of one of those excavators at construction sites.  I lived in a rural, hilly neighborhood, and there was usually some new house being built or a road being repaired.  A few people nearby owned excavators and would charge for the service of digging up the foundations (or whatever kind of hole was needed).  In my five-years-old world, these machines were majestic.  I had my own little Tonka excavator (like this one) and I would dig out dirt on my yard and pour it on my play bowl.  It was great.

Every time I told that story to friends, they would inevitably tell me about those playground sandbox excavators that seem to be all over the place here.  I’ve never seen one, and I would always swear that if I ever got any close to one of them, I’d jump on it at once and get some excavating going on.  They are that cool.

Then a month ago my dad calls me and asks me if I remember what my childhood dream always was.  I told him right away: I wanted to have an excavator.  He chuckled on the phone and said, “Well, your dream’s come true, because I just bought one!”

Turns out my uncle had an old excavator he bought from a friend to do some renovations around his house, and was getting rid of it.  My dad will occasionally pay people to come dig holes around our house for whatever new thing he feels like building (usually large terrace walls, or an outdoor stairway for a studio he built on top of our garage, for example).  He heard that my uncle was selling and decided to buy the thing for himself.  Who would have thought!

I say that it’s his version of a midlife crisis.  Some people buy Corvettes.  My dad buys excavators.

And I’m so excited to use it whenever I go home!

Thanks, dad!

2011 UPDATE: I finally hopped on the excavator on my last trip home!  What a machine.  Here are some pictures of a long-awaited rendezvous of loved ones:

Luxury digger

Watch for it!

The Definition of Awesome

“Once in awhile, right in the middle of an ordinary life, love gives us a fairy tale.”

Something unusual happened to me this morning, and I loved it. Instead of the normal rush of sleeping in and hurrying my way around before either of my rides left the house, I actually had an extra minute or so to spare today. Didn’t plan for it; it just so happened and, really, I was pleasantly surprised.

I looked around for things to do in that extra minute or so and chose to tear out the crossword page from the paper and give it a try, for about the third time in my life. It was exciting and really hard – a good old Sunday crossword after all. The thrill didn’t last very long, though: I was bored out of clues in five minutes or so and my co-worker was ready, so I just folded the page and took it with me for the ride.

I glanced at the page in the car and realized there was a horoscope on the flip side. A horoscope! Most unusual: hadn’t seen one in a long time either. I quickly went for the June twins… and was readily affronted with a stunning premonition: The quality of your day will be: Three stars – Average.

“Great.” I said cynically after reading it out to my co-worker. “What a way to start my day. I hate average!”

She shrugged and shook her head at my off-hand comment, knowing me as rather more outspoken than superstitious. The day has happened to be everything but average, to be true (I’m writing on my blog, for example), but the thought of what I said today has stuck around my mind for longer than I’d expect.

The average. The usual. The ordinary. Over the last month or so I’ve come to realize that these are words I’m not really comfortable with. Whereas I’ve known for long that I’m not a fan of routine tasks that involve much repetition, I’d not yet seen how the very idea of boredom is anathema to me. I can’t deal with it. Inside my chatty, monkey-mind, every second is meant to be a high; every hour a sensation. I jump from branch to branch looking for the joy that I missed out on while being on the previous one. Every spare moment of my life is a chance to be almost hyper-alive, no matter what.

Sure it sounds great to wish off all boredom and most routine from life, but the fact is – I’ve painfully found out – that every other day is more likely to be full of the usual and ordinary activities than of anything else. And what I’m now learning is that the cost I pay for avoiding the ordinary is not entirely null: that the more I run from it in search of thrills, the less I am likely to find the real thrills and real joy I’ve been looking for all along.

If every time I’m in the middle of a good conversation that’s starting to wind down I let my mind wonder how the next one’s going to be like, if every time I have the last bite of a chocolate snack I quickly move on to the next great taste, or if every time I meet a beautiful woman I let myself wonder whether it’s actually the next one whom I’m really looking for – if I do all or any of that just because the initial thrill is gone and I’m afraid things will get “boring”, then I’m poised to always be one step removed from real joy. Why not, instead, stay on that present moment for just another breath, however ordinary or average it may first appear to be, and appreciate it for what it is, for the beauty it still may hold. The consequence of living on the edge is that every peak precedes a valley. If I will to love the peaks, I must grow to love the valleys, and everything in between.

As hard as it may be, I want to believe that the real thrill of life and joy is subtly hidden but altogether present in plain sight: in the long gaze of a friend’s eyes, the aftertaste of a good meal, the routine beating of your heart throughout a quiet night. And I won’t find that by thinking that the grass is always greener somewhere else. If I really want to find it, I do have to love the thrills, and I also have to love the ordinary life.

As we enter the season of life replenished, I feel a call coming from somewhere within that invites me to slow down and appreciate the chances I’m presented with every day to choose to truly come alive. One of the things that make me come alive is music, and tonight I had a chance to choose music. My friend has been learning to play guitar for several months and decided to bring his to my workplace today. There was another guitar in the house, so I grabbed it and we sat outside for a spontaneous jam session. He’d play some, I’d play some. He learned some new stuff, and I did as well.

I honestly never expected it to go for a whole four hours. But that’s how good things happen, as if with a soul of their own. Every hour or so we’d join with a new guest at our table, so that by the end of the night we had a nice group of six or so students and co-workers simply hanging out. We each had our playlist of favorites; I threw in some Spanish songs to the mix, for the curious of heart. When the music faded, conversation ensued. And every now and then, a moment of silence: just enough to look up at the immensity of the sky and be quietly grateful for the gift of friendship and music in my life.

I’ll look forward to these moments over the next few months, as I begin to prepare for a most-likely departure from St. Louis and the Wash U community for the second time in just over a year (even as I write this I am unsure as to whether I’ll leave or stay for a bit, but for now it’s safest to expect a way out). These are the days and the evenings I’ll crave for: chances to come alive through music, dance, conversation, and every form of the gift of presence and the choice of love. It’s my resolution for the season… to make one too many memories, and to say thanks for all beauty and all life.

My dad, a teacher at the high school I went to, always tuned in to a politics radio show on the way back home. I was in the car with him for the greater part of six school years, and became used to the daily commentary of the radio show hosts – one from each of the three local parties – on current political events. They would often speak of the need for a new generation of leaders who would be bold enough to bring hope and encouragement to a crassly unengaged Puerto Rican society. The more I heard it, the more I thought it was me they were speaking to.

I became involved in the school’s Student Council, and eventually had two years of successful races for the Treasurer and Vice-President chairs. As my first taste of “politics”, I liked it a lot. I saw a passion for service evolving in me. I’d think of the real-world issues around me and wonder, with a dose of idealism, whether I could maybe pull off something meaningful in the future, you know, if I got serious enough.

I wonder how many people had such an aspiration when growing up. A politician can be a figure that commands admiration and respect, for they pledge a commitment to serve and work for the common good. Our history books (both here and back home) are full of political figures that we have grown accustomed to look up to in one way or another. I would not be surprised if I learned that a vast number of our youth has at least for a brief moment considered it valuable to grow up to be a servant for their people.

If it were only that simple. Once I started college and took a closer look at things, my passion for politics took a rather ironical twist. I have grown to love reading and following politics (especially American politics) more and more every year, while my desire to become a member of the political landscape, or to look up to those who do, has dramatically decreased. I have become both fascinated and frustrated by the intricacies of the democratic process, and am uncertain of why I somehow end up back in the Politics section of the news every morning just to punch myself in the face out of sheer disappointment over and over again.

There are many ways to elaborate on this, but one reality stands out to me more than most: it hurts me to see how a political seat can steer someone so far away from living up to their potential. Take the most enthusiastic, genuinely committed individual, elect him or her for office, and sooner or later they will get so bogged down by the process that you’ll wonder if it was a good idea for them to get into all this in the first place. They can too easily become a miniature version of what their best selves would look like. The system seems exhausting, overbearing, almost unbearable itself.

I realize I’m making a major generalization here, but I do see this happen across the board and, again, both here and at home. And the fact is that I am not a fan of seeing people settle for anything less than their best selves, mostly because I hate every time I put myself in a spot where I’m tempted to settle (more on that here). To me, politics can too easily hinder someone from growing their gifts, and from their own capacity to grow. It takes extraordinary strength to make a meaningful difference in office when your peers are desperately seeking to keep a hold of their jobs at whatever cost.

Then again, somebody has to help run a country, and it’s the politician’s job to do so.  And every so often, you do come across extraordinary people.  If it only were any simpler, I wouldn’t be wondering right now whether this political rant is my own way of settling for less. I hope it’s not. But I’m also fairly certain that tomorrow morning I’ll be back to perusing a new wave of the same news. Maybe all I’m hoping for is someone bold enough to rise up to the occasion and help me see that there’s reason to believe in politics after all. Impossible?  In politics, that’s not even a word…

Being one of the four interns, I became part of this tradition this week.  The question we were posed was simple: “What are you learning from your own suffering these days?”.  I have chosen to share my reflection here tonight in the hope that it may serve as an aid to others in their own journey of growth and self-awareness.

————–

Longing to Belong

Remarks on the Feast of Ash Wednesday

February 17, 2010, Wash U Catholic Student Center, St. Louis, MO

If you know me at least a little, you may well know that I’m a people guy: I get plenty of energy from people, and find it easy to strike a conversation with really anybody, if the setting’s right.

What you may not know about me, however, is that over the past two years, people guy and all, I have struggled with loneliness many times, even in the midst of a great community.

I felt lonely all too often last year as a Senior in college, when even after having met hundreds of people here, I sometimes felt as if no one out there really knew me, after all. As if they were too busy to really care about me.

I’ve felt lonely often this year as well. It’s been tough to transition out of the student life, to remain away from my family, to see most of my classmates move out of town. My busy days still end with me back in my room, by myself, wondering what all this might be about. That longing for connection that I experienced last year has only increased… it’s like a deep hunger for an intimacy that I can almost taste, but can’t quite grasp. I’ve felt lonely, and it hurts. Almost every day, I hunger.

I know this hunger won’t go away placidly. One thing I’m learning from much reflection and conversation, and from experience, is that this one is a hunger that I cannot quell with a quick fix, with any kind of fast food for the soul. No, this one’s a hunger that I have for something real: real intimacy with others, with God in all its manifestations, and with myself.

I’m learning that this empty space I experience is a space that I can choose to fill with real gifts: the gifts of prayer, of service, of community. This hunger is an opportunity for me to reach out to others in service and conversation, and to reach inwards in prayer and reflection, so that each day I might get at least a glimpse of that intimacy and connection that I so long for.

One thing I know for sure is that, ironically, I’m not alone in this train of feeling lonely. Maybe you can relate to my story. Maybe we can relate to the story of Jesus in the Garden, alone, hurting, but evermore hopeful that right here, right now, I’m really where I’m meant to be, and my choice to embrace my suffering is in itself a gift to the rest of the world.

~~~~~ o ~~~~~

My friend was getting ready to leave for another friend’s place.  As we finished our lunch, he suddenly got to sharing with me how his new 9-5 workday schedule has made it more difficult for him to spend quality time with friends and family.  ”Sometimes it’s overwhelming to see the way my life is being pulled in so many different directions by the people in my life,” he said.  It’s like, he’d like to have enough of himself to give to all the people he cares about, but there’s only so much time and so much energy per day.  There’s no way out, I thought.  It’s a tough balance.

Back in Puerto Rico, my friend told me by phone about a carjacking and another homicide that happened around his neighborhood last week.  I asked him how he sees the situation there, more generally.  ”If you want to get depressed, come live here for six months,” he answered.  Crime is high, politics are stalled, people are generally resigned to say “things ain’t going alright”, then go on with their business.  I asked again, “And with all the bad attitude you see there, how much love do you feel you have left for your people?”  We’re both Puerto Ricans.  ”Oh, I have plenty of love for these people,” he said, “I get frustrated and pissed off because I love my people too much.”  He’s a patriot with no country at 22.

A week ago, I finished a book about thoughts on the Native American experience.  A white writer from the Midwest was asked by an old Indian from Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota to help him write a book about some of his thoughts.  On their first meeting, the old guy went on a brief rant about what some white people made him feel like.  Then he asked the writer, “Now, how much do you like white people?”  ”I’m not much thrilled with the culture we’ve created,” he answered.  ”Yeah, okay, but how about white people?”  ”I like white people just fine.  After all, I’m one of them.”

“That’s good,” the old guy finished.  ”That’s good.  If you hate your own people you can’t be a very good person.  You have to love your own people even if you hate what they do.”

My love for my people at home is an ember that keeps glowing yet yearns for rekindling.  Like my friend said over lunch, sometimes it’s overwhelming for me, too, the way my heart’s being pulled in all different directions by so many people in my life.

So many directions.  About a half-million people are expected to have died from Haiti’s earthquake and aftershocks.  My friend talked about the situation in Puerto Rico as he considered pausing his law studies to spend a semester or two in Port-au-Prince.  We had a second collection for them at church.  Meanwhile, in Kibera, Kenya, about 850,000 people live on just 25km of sewage pipelines in the second largest slum in East Africa.  The ratio is about 1,300 people per toilet.  My co-worker, one of the leaders of a service trip team that spent three weeks there this month, speaks of the hope people there had for a better future, hope that the Kenyans, along with “more of us”, could build some more bridges.  On Pine Ridge Reservation, about 50,000 Lakota people make up the poorest of 3,100 counties in the US.  Their houses are overcrowded and without access to basic utilities.  I’m a leader of a service trip going there in March.  I’ll go there and come back.  Then who knows.

From Bogotá, Colombia, my friend calls to say thanks so much for the present I sent her – a CD and a Potter book.  She just got back from a trip and found them ripped apart by the house dog.  From Managua, Nicaragua, my friend sends a handwritten letter talking about her first week of a 2-year stay.  Spanish is kicking her butt, she says, and she misses home… but she has to let the seeds take root and bear fruit.  From her dorm room in St. Louis, Missouri, my friend wakes me up with a phone call in the morning.  She’s wrestling with time and friendships in her last few months of college.  ”It’s so frustrating,” she says, “that there’s so many people I want to be with, yet I feel like they might not have enough time for me now.  And I don’t know how to make time for all of them.  It’s like I’m being pulled in all directions…”

Take a second, world, would you?  Take a step back.  Feel the rhythm.

~~~~~ o ~~~~~

It’s been raining outside.  The stillness of the snow has changed into a clear stream of water.  It goes where it pleases, takes as long as it needs.  It’s spontaneous.  It makes its own sense on the go.