Twenty years ago, my son was in first grade,
my daughter in preschool. I was content working for a school district at the
time and taking graduate classes, on track with the 10 and 20-year-plan I
outlined for my family and myself. However, God had other plans. I did not
realize at the time, but he was calling me home, back to the Church. His
accomplice, my husband who faxed in my résumé to the diocese, helped me pay
attention.
When I started in 1998, I did not know what
to expect. I thought I would try it out for a year. Fast forward to 2018 where
April 6 marks the 20-year anniversary of my first day on the job. But the word
“job” no longer fits, as the journey taught me that my work here is a ministry.
Likewise, these years have served as ongoing catechesis and provided some
life-changing lessons.
Learning to surrender ranks as one of the
most impactful lessons. Connected to this came lessons in patience and
humility. Also, I count the gift of each encounter with the people in our
diocese which continually reinforces the intricate ways God connects us to one
another.
The pilgrimage continues and I still have
much more to learn. For now, I leave you with two poems from my manuscript
titled Somewhere Between Surrender.
The Painter Stirs Each Moment
He paints
pink oleanders in my backyard, blends
greens
into shade, into palms, basil, bougainvillea,
adds
salmon into the mix. He stirs blues of the sky
with
grays, oranges, pinks. He creates colors we
try
to name, gives light, whispers his directions.
The
path sometimes blurs in my eyes. He wakes
me
with aromas peppered with spice, the perfume
of
gardenias, the voice of love, the cries of my
babies
gone now, making their own ways,
the
premonitions afloat en el Rio Grande
with
songs from la frontera.
Mixed media on canvas. Los consejos de mi mama,
la industria de mi abuela, the chess moves my
father
tried to teach me, the birdhouses I painted
with
mis pequeños, their laughter a contagious tint.
He
holds some colors in reserve. Offers hues we
might
not dare. He gifts the lizards their own
paintbrush,
these chameleons that scale my
porch
screens. He, the master painter, in the light
of
the Resurrection. I, his apprentice, his groupie,
his
skinned-kneed child. I paint with bloodied palms,
color
all over the page. I cannot sing, hold a tune,
tantas
las canciones, but I write, try to capture
lightning
on the page, try to end the hunger, try
to
keep from catching fire, catch daylight, answers,
hear
the symphony of the hours in each moment.
A Work in Progress
Our
expectations falter, critical selves of missteps
and
falls. He picks us up, trusts us, again
and
again and again. He wants to hear our laughter, cheers
us
on, wipes our tears. Abba, I am your work in progress.
Yet
you deliver surprises with a bouquet of red
kalanchoes
wrapped in Sunday comics.
He
does not count promises, disappointments; he picks
us
up, gathers our dandelion florets scattered by
day's
wind, nudges us in the direction, through hikes
in
el Valle's wild, witness the gold blooms on the huisache.
If
cactus flowers bring spring to the desert,
I
offer my day, my poems, in prayer, in thanksgiving. Ni
el frio de Abril, ni la
inquietud del miedo me quita
el
ánimo. I wake each day for you Lord, incomplete I look
to
discover your work in progress, your surprises, todas
tus
maravillas. I surrender. May my pilgrimage walk
give
witness to his love.
