FULL
Services were wall to wall. After a couple days, it struck me who Padre Francisco reminded me of: Captain Kangaroo! Oh, back in the day, we grew up with this lovely creation of actor Bob Keeshan. Sometimes, if I felt a little “sick,” you know, I’d plop myself on the couch and start watching the show before my mother could change her mind about keeping me home for the day.
And like the Captain, Padre Francisco had his bag of tricks. He did several things we’d never seen before. For example, in the Washing of the Feet on Holy Thursday, he washed one person’s feet, who washed the next person’s feet, etc., etc. That we had seen, but then he invited couples, or brothers and sisters, or parents and children to come up and wash each other’s feet. I could see what was coming; he looked over at me, “Michael! [he didn’t like “Miguel”] Whose feet will you wash?” I had already noticed Guillermina, the sweetest, humblest person in town, sitting at the end of nearby pew, so I approached her, invited her, took her by the hand up to the altar, and washed her feet. A few tears were shed.
Another innovation after the Mass, the “Procession of the 4 Tribunales,” the four “trials” of Jesus before Annas, Caiphas, Herod, and Pilate. Little “stations” had been set up throughout the town; we sang our way from one to the other with Chauco as the bound and blindfolded Jesus, and then a Gospel reading and a commentary and prayer. Believe me, no one in Las Vegas could doubt that this was Holy Week, not just Spring Break! When we finally returned to the church after an hour or more, Chauco said, “I was amazed! When I took the blindfold off, the church was full! I couldn’t believe everybody made the whole circuit!”
Good Friday—besides a three-hour Stations of the Cross, with Cristian as Jesus in the sweltering heat, and the liturgy in the morning—Francisco planned another ceremony that I for one was sure would not work, the “Procession of Silence,” at nightfall, where we would carry “Jesus,” a crucifix, that is, to the cemetery. I thought folks would be scared of “ghosts”! But no, once we arrived—a big crowd, yes—Padre Francisco offered just a brief prayer, then invited everyone to visit the graves of their loved ones. With the full Passover Moon shining, it was nearly as bright as day; folks loved it!
Holy Saturday / The Easter Vigil is the biggest liturgy of the year, and Padre Francisco had a plan that really should be standard practice throughout the world! First, he moved the altar out into the aisle and arranged the pews around it, leaving a big open space behind. That’s where he had all the kids gather. After 11 long Biblical readings, including responses and songs, covering the whole history from Genesis to Jesus, he said, “OK, now we take a break!” We had been told to bring sodas, juices, rolls, snacks, whatever, and a table laden with all these goodies was ready. “Kids first!” They lined up so politely, and everyone was served. Afterwards, most of the kids went home, you see, bedtime! And the rest of us were fortified for the other “half” of the Mass.
Several people literally interrupted Francisco’s sermons to praise him: “You speak truth, Padre! You don’t mince words, we’ve never heard anyone like this before!” I don’t know that he was breaking any ground theologically, but his enthusiasm, his clarity, his unflagging sense of humor, above all, his applications to daily life, indeed set him apart. Maybe he had received some of Archbishop Oscar Romero’s spirit when the future saint confirmed him as a youngster. In every Mass, he’d invite someone to give their own “testimony” to the love of God, starting with Anibal, a prime spokesman for Alcoholics Anonymous. (In our little town, no one is “anonymous”; in fact, most members like to show themselves as an example of what A.A. can do for you.) I guess, ultimately, he reminded us of POPE Francisco!
We spent the rest of the month traveling, two full cycles of Morazan, Progreso, Tegucigalpa. April is the hottest, deadest time of year, but it seemed to make sense at the time: Morazan, where both Fermin and Maria were recovering from chikungunya; Progreso for Nangui’s knee operation and his team’s last home game (which they won! with an earnest mix of scrubs, their first victory in a month); and Tegus for the birthday of Chemo’s brother Markitos.
When Chemo saw that his very most favorite singer, Romeo Santos, was giving a concert in Tegucigalpa, well, we had to go. Romeo is “The King of Bachata,” a more romantic and appealing rhythm than reggaeton, or rap. It became a family affair, since Markitos, his mother-in-law Dora, and his wife Yessica would be selling a popular snack, French Fries topped with a special sauce and a sausage, at a stand just outside the stadium. So we all gathered there, to chat and visit, and round up customers, till it was time to go in, 6:30 p.m.
A “crush” at the entrance turned out to be a trap; I was pickpocketed of about 1000 Lempiras, which I had been saving for a birthday present for Markitos. (I don’t why I didn’t give it to him right away!) Fortunately, I had told Chemo we’re not taking any cell phones, any wallets, any credit cards, any cameras. Fortunately, too, they didn’t get the tickets, which were in the OTHER pocket. Fortunately, I had hidden some money in my socks—I should have hidden ALL of it! OK, so I’m shaken and angered and discombobulated by the theft, and I top it off by tripping over my own feet and falling headlong on the pavement. Chemo helped me up, he was probably more alarmed than I was. I noticed immediately that my knee hurt, almost doubling under my own weight. “Oh, great, now I’m gonna need the same operation Nangui got!”
Romeo did not appear till 10:00 p.m., and by 11:00 even Chemo said, “Let’s go—it’s dangerous here.” Bless you, Chemo! We went outside and sat again for a while with Dora and Yessica and Markitos. When we told them about the robbery and that all we had left was cabfare, Dora sprang into action, going from cab to cab to find us the cheapest fare.
But I was sick! It had all the marks of chikungunya, fever, aches all over, no appetite, just dead in the water. Now, can you get chikungunya from a pickpocket? or from falling on your face? I may be making medical history here! At early Mass the next morning in the Cathedral, I just sat like a lump, trying to pray, till I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Miguel, how are you?” Is this an angel? Well, it was Regina, Elio and Mema’s daughter, undoing the meanness of the pickpocket’s grabs. She invited me to a little breakfast with her daughter. (Chemo was still fast asleep back in the hotel.) Gracias!
By the time we limped home to Las Vegas, we had already heard of the murder of the Chief of Police in Victoria, apparently because he was investigating some cattle rustlers. They caught three “suspects,” and Chemo and I felt a chill when we recognized one of them as someone who had brought a boombox to Elvis for repair. So now who wants the job?
All I wanted was my bed and a fan. But the electricity was off—someone knocked down a pole in Yorito or somewhere. I was so far gone, I didn’t even care. I slept in my street clothes about 15 hours, and finally took the advice I’d been giving everyone else: Gatorade! At “room temperature,” it was hardly refreshing, but it got me back on my feet.
Thank YOU for your ever gentle hand!
Love, Miguel
