I’m baaack! I’m here in the Lou till October 15, 2013:
at Teresa Jorgen’s house (731 Simmons Ave. Kirkwood 63122 (314-966-5782);
my cell: 314-210-5303
No open house scheduled, just open arms!
In “GUILLERMO IS AN ANGEL NOW,” I told the story of Guillermo’s valiant final days. The funeral was just as brave, as celebratory as his son’s wedding, thanks mostly to his wife Erlinda. She kept everyone focused on our faith in the Resurrection. “We’re going to sing the whole way to the cemetery.” There was a huge crowd as we wended our way behind the pickup carrying the casket. When folks started wailing, and even the oldest son fainting dead away, Erlinda stood at the edge of the grave like a Joan of Arc, quietly repeating the meaning of this event: “We all must go the same route, death is part of life, but as Saint Paul teaches us, while we are alive, we live in the Lord, and when we die, we die in the Lord. We are always in God’s hands, and God will not abandon us but raise us up to eternal life.” She just kept talking in a normal tone of voice till all was calm and everyone could hear and understand. I hope you don’t imagine her a woman in denial, clinging to religion only to assuage unbearable pain. Hers is a strength born of a lifetime of fighting for herself, from the first years of their marriage when Guillermo was an abusive drunk and Erlinda finally learned to stand up for herself. You don’t raise 12 kids--6 boys and 6 girls--by faking it. She’s an artist, too, a poet, performing her works at public events like graduations. She instilled in her kids a sense of style and presence that makes them attentive to others‘ needs. She opened the path of grace and conversion for Guillermo, who thanked God and his wife with his years of service as a lay pastor in Paraiso. At the wake, his best friend Godo (Guillermo died in Godo’s arms) told the whole story of Guillermo’s spiritual development into a kind of prophet. Indeed, Erlinda, who commented every day in the novenario on the scripture readings, told how intense and intimate their final days together were. “They killed me, with the chemo, they killed me. I’m so sorry, my dear wife.” “I know, I know, my dear husband, and I’m here, I’m here.”
The next day, a valiant woman, Santos, one of Guillermo’s parishioners, as you might say, died in Paraiso. At 56, she was even younger than Guillermo, 65, but she succumbed to the complications of diabetes, like her sister Petrona, whose death in 2011 united the community as never before. Did she wait for Guillermo, to show her the way? Her funeral drew an even bigger crowd, now that we were all moving in the same direction already.
So two novenarios played out in tandem, 3 p.m. in Paraiso for Santos, 4:30 p.m. in Las Vegas, our “little flock,” as Jesus called his disciples, crossing back and forth across the bridge that connects our villages. Then the bridge collapsed! Partially, that is. Unrelenting rains and huge floating trunks of trees battered at least one concrete strut off its base and put a big wrinkle in the roadway. Folks ventured across anyway, first on foot, then motorcycles, and finally pickups and cars. No one wanted to be the first bus or heavy truck to tempt their fate, but then they brought in an enormous bulldozer with a shovel attached to pull apart the clog of debris, and nothing happened, no more cracking or collapsing, so I think we’ll be using this bridge a long time yet. After all, this bridge was built in 2005 to replace the bridge that Hurricane Mitch had downed back in 1998.
September 15 is Honduras Independence Day, and for the first time Chemo marched in the “peloton,” or formation. A block of 55 students trained and practiced all week under the direction of Profe Fefo, a military veteran himself, who imbues the kids with a sense of discipline and camaraderie. Now, I heard someone complain, “These are children, not soldiers, they shouldn’t be ‘militarized.’” OK, fair enough, but maybe soldiers should do more marching just for the fun of it, instead of a more dreadful purpose. In thanking Fefo, I teared up, reminding him that we first met when he was even younger than Chemo, and I was just so grateful that someone had enough faith in Chemo that he could accomplish the tricky routines. We borrowed the long-sleeved shirt from Dora’s son Tito, the dark glasses from her brother Oscar, the necktie was a relic from Pablito and Chepito’s First Communion; we had to buy the “boina,” or cap, and new shiny black shoes. Another nay-sayer says, “See, it’s just commerce, exploiting the poor.” Yes, of course, the poor we have with us always, but for one day, if your child can shine like a star, maybe the future looks brighter.
Topping off the novenarios, Lucas was born to MariEla, who is the daughter of MariCela, who is the daughter of Guillermo and Erlinda--the first great-grandchild of the family! “Lucas” was a nickname Guillermo was known by. Everybody doing fine. We thought, ah, too bad Guillermo did not live to see his bis-nieto; then we thought, no, he smoothed the way, Lucas to Lucas. We can’t stop smiling. You, too, I bet, for all the good you have done for this family!
Love, Miguel
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