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Mi abuelita

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  Si la calidad de nuestra vida solo se midiera en años, podríamos decir que mi abuelita tuvo una muy buena vida. Si agregamos otros factores: dónde nacimos, dónde crecimos, la relación con nuestros padres y nuestra pareja, nuestras oportunidades, la suerte de nuestros hijos, la salud, etc., etc., la vida adquiere los matices que la convierten en un complejo y no siempre venturoso recorrido. La vida de mi abue no fue la excepción. A lo largo de sus casi 98 años, mi abuelita sufrió penas que hicieron mella en su felicidad. Durante esta última etapa de su vida en la que las limitaciones físicas la obligaron a la inactividad, recordaba a menudo momentos de maltrato y de conflicto, de abandono y vulnerabilidad con velada tristeza y visible rencor. Con sus palabras, intentaba convencernos de que no le había dolido tanto (como si en lugar de corazón hubiera tenido un caparazón), y que los insultos y desaires se le habían resbalado. Mentira. Mi abue se sobrepuso a los reveses de la vida...
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Segundo encuentro: El misionero

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Si no hubiera sido por el misionero, muy probablemente mi familia seguiría indiferente a la religión y a Dios. Uno se acostumbra a vivir con ideas vagas y repeticiones culturales que a veces ni siquiera son capaces de despertar la emotividad. Algunos, como mi familia, se mantienen ajenos, mirando desde afuera (o desde adentro) lo que otros hacen, lo que otros creen, lo que otros dicen, sin que nada interrumpa la monotonía de nuestros pensamientos y creencias.  Recuerdo su figura alta, de piel blanca y ojos claros, que delataban —junto con su acento— que era de otro lugar. Tocó la reja de la casa de mis abuelos y mi tío Martín salió a ver qué quería. Ya de por sí era extraño que un fuereño llamara a la puerta, pero el motivo lo era todavía más.  Haroldo Figueroa era un misionero  bautista  de Chiapas que, por una razón que desconozco, escogió a la ciudad de Iguala, Guerrero, para abrir una iglesia. Mi tío lo recibió de buena gana y él y mi abuelita comenzaron a asisti...
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The Prophet

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"If you hope to raise baby spiritually or faithfully, the name Daniel may be..."  "That probably didn't work..." interjected Daniel with a mischevous smile as he got out of the car. The interrupted phrase was part of a spiel for the name "Daniel:" Daniel is a baby boy name of Hebrew origin. Meaning "God is my judge," baby may be inspired by this phrase every day...  I had asked Daniel about the meaning of his friend's name. "It's just a name, like mine."  "Well, your name has a meaning related to God," I explained. He looked at me surprised and with suspicion. "Hey, Google what does the name Daniel mean?" Google's friendly female voice answered as stated above. But neither Daniel nor I expected to hear that choosing that name was a great idea if a mother wanted to raise her baby "spiritually." "That probably didn't work..." "Oh, I still have hope that the child who told me...
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Autorretrato

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  Autorretrato   Se levanta entre semana a las seis y media a duras penas, porque no le queda de otra, porque se le va a hacer tarde. Se toma la hormona tiroidea como cada día con el estómago vacío y un poco de agua tibia. Se sienta en el rincón destinado a la oración. Intenta, pero le ganan el sueño, los pensamientos y los afanes. “Perdón, Señor”, dice adormilada. Por fin, abre la Biblia y lee un salmo: “Cuídame como a la niña de tus ojos, Protégeme bajo la sombra de tus alas”. Cierra los ojos de nuevo y repite el verso, en una oración apenas susurrada. El tiempo corre. Ni modo. Hay que interrumpir la calma: Se hace tarde y el chiquilín de 17 años sigue dormido. Asume, entonces, el papel de generala y comienza a darle órdenes: “Levántate, apúrate, tómate la medicina”. Lo regaña, pero da el brazo a torcer como casi cada día. Le prepara el desayuno, lo atiende, lo consiente. Así comienza el día esta mujer moren...
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Is it Love?

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His concerned eyes were fixed on me for reassurance from the moment we were called in. He looked so small in the dentist's chair, in spite of it being a pediatric office. I stood by him throughout the visit. Once the check-up and cleaning were completed, his little hands explored the toys and trinkets the dental hygenist held in the prize box that day. He was only three years-old, and he had been brave.  We took the elevator down, and to Daniel's delight, we discovered there was a coffee shop on the bottom floor. After such a successful first visit to the dentist, I could not possibly deny him a treat. The coffee shop opened to pretty Centennial Lakes. We took a seat outside, and suddenly Daniel noticed the music coming out of a speaker hidden behind some plants. "Mami, ¿quieres bailar?" He stood up and took me by the hand. There, with a smiling couple as the audience, my little boy led me in a simple dance step right-to-left, left-to-right to the tune of some piece b...
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Leaning On Other People's Faith

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This is the season of darkness, literally. We go from about 15 hours of sunlight a day to ten then six. I appreciate the beauty of this season: the golden glow of the turning leaves, the angle in which the sunrays hit in the morning on my drive to work, the way sunlight extends its arms to reach into my special upstairs corner. Still, I prefer the summer solstice.  With the drop in sunlight comes a drop in my energy and a downcast mood. My anxiety rises as if dark days were a prelude to bad things happening. There is no rule which stipulates that the things I fear have to come to pass during this dark season, yet evil and fear grow larger in my mind.  What to do, then, to keep fear in check in the long dark months ahead? I am already on anti-anxiety medication. It helps, but it is not enough. I noticed that as the days started to grow dark my need for reassurance of God's presence increased. The activities I enjoyed in the summer lost their appeal, including my appetite for re...
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A Day When Everything Makes Me Think of You

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With a pang of guilt I confess you are no longer my first thought when coming down the stairs each morning. I don't think of medications to prepare, formula to mix, and diapers to change. I don't always look at your picture in your special corner and say "good morning." Nor do I play your Pandora station every day. It makes me sad, and I don't want to feel empty. This morning I leave for work as always — a few minutes later than I had "planned." I turn on the radio and catch the weekly news round-up from 1A on NPR — Roe v Wade, the January 6th attack... I decide to play some music instead. It's an old CD with worship songs from Woodland Hills, the church which was my refuge after you were born. I think of you. I get to work and head to my first assignment. A boy about your age is getting his GJ tube changed in radiology, like you before the central line was placed. I watch him on the table, the trach protruding from his neck. You would have needed on...
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