Tag Archives: spanish

The Light that Hurts and Heals

“Es muy triste,” Gloria said to me, her arms elbow deep in dishes in the backyard. Returning from Xela, I had been greeted at the door by her young son and then it was straight up the stairs to the kitchen and out to the back yard to announce my return. Finishing the dishes from lunch, Gloria had asked me about my trip, and I had told her that my head was full. I explained that I had talked to a lot of people at Cafe R.E.D. and learned a lot about coffee, immigration, deportation, and history.

“You learned the history of coffee or the history of Guatemala?” she had asked, and I had explained that it was the history of Guatemala. Then I told her about the book, Bitter Fruit, that Cesár had me read, and that it had explained to me how the United States had been involved in instigating and later funding the civil war in Guatemala. There was something special about that book, for it had opened the conversation up first for Cesár and I, and now for Gloria.

“Es muy triste,” she said. And then it all came pouring out, the book acting as a key to unlock what people were carrying. It was as if people wanted to talk about it with me, but without knowing that I understood at least the foundation, it was too big and too painful to explain to a novice who would only ask insensitive questions in stuttering Spanish and still be incapable of fully understanding. Knowing that I had now read over 300 pages of in-depth research on the topic, however, Gloria felt like she could talk about it… finally.

She told me that it had been a time of great sadness, and I felt in her words that this was the cause behind the sadness that always seemed to linger in the back of her eyes. She told me that it was a big part of the story both of her family and of Jose Felix’s family, that there were many, many stories that would take a lifetime to tell. She had grown up and raised her oldest children during the years when soldiers, funded with US military aid, patrolled the lake region, searching for indigenous guerrillas; from time to time raping women; assassinating or kidnapping community leaders; and, on occasion, massacring civilians in ethnically targeted actions.

She said that her mother used to cry and cry and plead with God for the safety of her three daughters. With all that the soldiers were doing to women in the area, it was her mother’s greatest fear that something would happen to her girls. Gloria did not say exactly what her mother was worried about, but a significant look exchanged between us and we understood one another. There are some things in life that women do not need words to communicate. Thanks be to God, they were protected.

The family lived in a rural part of the mountains, far away from others, and their father had died, leaving them without the protection of a man in the house. So they were always listening, always listening. Often they would hear the sound of gunfire at night. They would spend the night in darkness, only occasionally using the dim light of candles; trying not to be seen or to attract any notice. Learning to live life in silence, hoping to be invisible. It sounded like a terribly traumatic way to grow up.

After she and Jose Felix married, he experienced many terrifying things she said, while he was teaching in another region. Soldiers came and put guns to the heads of teachers where he was. It was a very dangerous time, and many teachers died throughout the decades. Teachers, along with priests, were people who empowered others, and thus were targets for assassination. She said she was not with him at the time. That they were living apart while she stayed in a safer area with their baby girls. It made sense now why the couple was such a serious pair. Why it seemed that everyone of their generation around here, with the exception of the jovial Vincente, was so serious.

She told me that Jose Felix had lost 3 cousins to the massacres and disappearances, and that she had lost 2 of her cousins. The loss of one cousin seemed to impact her in particularly. She kept saying that he was so intelligent and so full of promise. He sounded like he had been quite the “golden child” of the family. She said they never knew where he went, his body could be in the mountains or at the bottom of the lake. It reminded me of the stories Vincente had told me. She said that his father refused to give up looking for his brilliant son. From sun up to sun down he thought about him and searched for him. Once, she said, he heard that a corpse had been found and he rushed to the scene certain that it was his son. But it was not his son. His son was never to be found. Finally, one day, the father was found sitting in the street, appearing to be asleep with his arms folded. But he was not asleep, he had finally died there of a broken heart.

Just then Gloria’s son came running in, a toy motorcycle in each hand – one red and one black. He had waited until his little niece was not around to show them to me because he knew that nice toys did not fare well around the baby. Then he fetched his toy trucks and we ran them across the floor.

I finally understood what this ultimo hijo meant to this family. This last child, this unexpected child, this child born late in life, who might as easily be mistaken for a grandchild. This was a child that she had given birth to in freedom. This was a child that had come into her world during a time of peace. This peace-time child was an unexpected blessing. A child for whose safety she would not have to cry and plead with God for, as her mother had for hers.

This child was joy. This child was hope. This child was the fresh beginning that her husband sang about in his songs. It was possible, after all, for someone to exist who was completely untouched by the violence that had dominated their lives.

As we finished playing, I stood up and looking at Gloria said only “Gracias…. gracias.” And she understood.

I wandered around the streets of San Pedro for the rest of the day, feeling like a time bomb had gone off in my heart. Everything was so beautiful and so painful; so tragic and so hopeful; so sad and so joyful. I was reeling, like someone walking into the bright light of day after weeks in the dark – the light proving to be both beautiful and illuminating while also being a bit painful and difficult to adjust to.

I had let these people into my heart without knowing what they carried. And now I had to deal with processing what they had gone through.

I could feel that something about me was different. I had left the door to my heart wide open to them, and they had carried memories of such pain and such sorrow and such fear in with them; but they had also carried in all the healing and all the hope and all the strength that had helped them survive.

C.S. Lewis says that “to love is to be vulnerable….” I had been vulnerable with them and they had been vulnerable with me, and we would each carry a piece of each other on our journey forward.

It has been a year of feeling new things for the first time. That was the way it all started, and I feel sure that will be how it will all end. My heart is in training; for what, I do not yet know.

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Words were meant to be Spoken

“Pato. Duck.” She taught me, as I repeated it to her delight and we fell giggling against each other on the deacon’s bench in my mother’s living room. It was my first and my favorite Spanish lesson. We were five years old, and we were the very best of friends. To my little literary mind she was the Diana to my Anne of Green Gables, the Jane to my Elizabeth Elliot, and the David to my Jonathan. When she moved away, she would leave an imprint on my heart of such devoted love that it would take a good decade before anyone could come close to the legend of Nina in my mind.

Over time I would pick up other words and phrases here and there. “Pato,” which humorously held such power over me throughout my childhood, would be replaced by words whose power was rooted in meaning rather than memories. Phrases like “La vida es la lucha,” whose force would hit me like a bucket of cold water to the face when those palabras opened to me the powerful truth that life is not about escaping struggle but engaging it. Phrases like “Vaya con Dios,” that millions have heard from the lips of priests with varying internal responses.

“Vaya con Dios,” indeed. “Vaya con Dios,” the words I had worn on a ring given to me by a couple at the first church I pastored. “Vaya con Dios!” the last words from my brother-in-law Jorge as I boarded a plane to Guatemala this morning to continue the journey that the word “pato” began. “Vaya con Dios…” the words that I fervently prayed I had the courage to live out as I left behind family and friends for more than a month to journey alone. “Vaya con Dios.”

I have been collecting beautiful Spanish phrases my whole life long. The problem is that like many collections of beautiful things, they become somewhat ironic when not put to their intended use. Like the collector acquiring, as time goes on, more and more beautiful specimens of stamps or cars or stones, I have transitioned my collection from words about farm animals to words about God. I have treasured the words, and admired the words.

But words are not meant to be curated, words are meant to be spoken. I don’t want to polish them and preserve them like artifacts. Unlike stamps and books and baseball cards, words don’t become less valuable with wear; they become more beautiful and powerful when they are used well.

I do not know how to use my words, to speak all the beautiful specimens and sentiments in my head, but I will learn.

I am weary of the privilege of my language, the language of the modern empire, that expects all the world to learn it and speak it, while we do not learn the heart languages of others.

One would think that the more languages a tongue bears, the heavier it becomes, but the reverse is true. The more words one puts to use the lighter the tongue flies, converting each syllable from collector’s curios to communal energy.

At this moment, as I fly on a plane over borders and lines, I once again traverse the man-made boundaries and walls that mar and divide the face of God’s one creation. I once again do so with the full knowledge that whatever struggles and obstacles lie ahead of me, the risk that I am taking to cross this border is minimal and the hospitality that I will find on the other side is almost guaranteed. As I cross this border with only the belongings that I can carry on my back, I do so with the full knowledge that there are others doing likewise – crossing in the opposite direction at the risk of their lives to reach Los Estados Unidas.

I risk very little to be a citizen of God’s world; I risk very little to say “the world is my parish”; I risk very little because I carry national privilege between a folded piece of blue cardboard in my backpack. This month, as we watch the lines being painfully redrawn in Crimea, I recognize that I too come from a country that has historically taken up the sword and the pen to draw lines on the face of the earth that others must obey. And while I may claim the identity of the Irish, a people that “have never been free,” I still benefit from the actions past and present of my nation, as it stumbles forward on the world stage, attempting to balance ethics and profit and all too often lurching into the latter at the expense of the former.

I risk very little as I enter this country tonight with nervous excitement, to experience and enjoy and learn, with the full knowledge that people are dying on their way into my country while hoping for the same things.

I do not have all the answers, but I know that I sure as heck need to be able to say more to them than “pato” when they reach my side of these man-made borders. If I want to live in a world that uses words to heal rather than to harm, than I have got to broaden my vocabulary. I have got to take my words off of the collector’s shelf and have the courage to use them, not only in the cause of compassion, but also in the cause of justice; not only in the cause of hospitality, but also in the cause of solidarity; not only in the cause of teaching, but also in the cause of learning; not only in the cause of giving, but also in the cause of receiving.

Thankfully, I carried with me more than one sheaf of papers fixed between folded cardboard. In addition to the small blue folder with United States of America stamped on the front, I carried a small bundle of paper and words and heart and truth fixed between a folded piece of simple brown paper. As I turned the pages in seat 26B my heart fell and then soared as I made my way through UP NEXT: The Epistemic Power of Spoken Word Poetry. In this small volume by Erica Granados De La Rosa, “hot off the presses” as it were, there was contained the story of the Spoken Word, the power of the Spoken Word.

As Granados De La Rosa shared in Chapter IV, “Spoken Word as Spiritual [Art]ivism,” about her own journey from the oppositional perspective to the non-oppositional spiritual activist perspective, I had one more of those flashbulb moments in life when something changes inside. My breath caught in my throat as she wrote of the oppositional perspective, painful memories flooding in and choking me; memories of feeling pushed away and trapped on the other side of the oppositional border by how I was born. But then my eyes widened as her words tore that wall down, and freedom flooded in as she wrote of discovering the nuances and complicated identities that each of us possess and carry and can share through the Spoken Word.

I sat blinking, as someone who had found what they were seeking at a moment when they were not looking for it. Healing. Freedom. Courage. Inspiration. That is the power of Words.

The written word – my first love – and the Spoken Word are the most powerful tools at our disposal for creating the world of peace and justice that God desires. Words are what we are; when accompanied by action, they are how we show who we are.

All of this brilliant, beautiful world was cast into view when God emitted the Spoken Word, “Let there be light!” And as we lived and breathed and spoke in this beautiful word, God could not resist becoming a part of the conversation. So the Word become flesh, and walked amongst us, and spoke amongst us, and listened amongst us. Just as the poet at the open mic, the Word made flesh chose to become weak and vulnerable and honest for us, so that we might know truth and love and justice. The Word made flesh was the most powerful thing our world has known. The Word said to a woman, “Go and tell!” – and those of us with the courage to obey have not shut up since, though it has meant torture or death for many who came before us.

The Word is not meant to be curated, the Word is meant to be spoken.

They say that you will know that you understand a language when you know when laughter is the right response and when tears are the right response. I am not here in Guatemala to add more beautiful Spanish word specimens to my collection. I am here to learn when to laugh and when to cry – and when to snap – so that I can do both when the Word is Spoken.

On a warm day twenty six years ago, a little tow headed girl laughed herself silly on the hard wood of an old bench, next to the best friend she felt sure she would ever know. If I could experience such deep love through the word “pato” used so very well, how can I not long to use words like Dios y lucha y vida to share that love with others.

The Word is meant to be Spoken.

Mi hostel in Antigua
Mi hostel in Antigua

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