To Whom Shall We Go? You Have the Words of Eternal Life

For the past month, I’d been torn up with trying to plan our escape from Mexico. This was not because I hated Mexico. I quite liked it. The people were good, kind and intelligent, I liked Spanish, and I loved the food. I lived in an apartment I liked, in a nice part of town close to a grocery store, good restaurants, bus stops, and a huge, beautiful park.

But the strain over visas become overwhelming. We had come to Mexico to teach and therefore needed FM3 work visas. Our school had taken our paperwork - apostilles, tourist visas, immigration forms - and our money, promising to have a proper visa soon. Weeks went by and no visa. Months went by, and no visa. We told the people who run the school over and over that we wanted out visas, that the time on our tourist cards was running out. Then it did run out. No problem, they said. The paperwork is in. We’ll pay the fine for overstaying your tourist card.

More months went by. No visas. Finally, faced with the avalanche of lies and bad business practices used by the school, we left. We were promised the return of our papers, the money we’d given for the visas, our last pay. We got nothing. Derrick Woods and Dan Martin at Thinking in English language school had ripped us off, just like they had done to almost every other teacher who had ever worked there.

Regardless of them, though, there was the very real problem of what to do. We were in Mexico illegally. We didn’t have the paperwork anymore to try and get FM3s. There was a huge fine racked up which, while not out fault, was still attached to our names. We didn’t even know if we could leave Mexico and come back with new tourist cards. If we tried and couldn’t get back in, our cats were stuck.

So we decided to just leave and not come back, which opened up another whole set of problems. How to get out? No one would let us drive a rental car over the border. One-way drop offs were incredibly expensive. But if we flew, it would open the door to all kinds of questions about out immigration status.

After days of trying to work out every kind of plan, I decided to just hack the Gordian knot down the middle and fly. At least it congealed all our problems into one place, instead of spreading them all over the states of Chihuahua and Texas. We bought tickets. It took a lot of our savings, but I was just thankful we had the money. It was a blessing from God, because my husband had gotten, without applying and totally out of the blue, a grant from his school. Then I waited, praying every day to Our Lady of Perpetual Help and driving my friends crazy with hysterical emails. I laid awake at night, and got distracted during the day, worrying.There were so many ways this could go wrong. Immigration could catch us before we left. We could get deported - what would happen to my babies? The airline could refuse to let us leave until the fine was paid. We could miss our flight. There could be something wrong with the paperwork for the cats.

The day loomed. We still didn’t even know how we were going to get to the airport. One by one, all the people we knew became unavailable. Then my husband called a taxi service and got someone who spoke English. We arranged to be picked up, and the taxi was not only not late, but a little early. We got to the airport with plenty of time to spare. We walked up to the check-in counter, ready to admit we had no tourist visas and get things settled in plenty of time, only to be told there would be no check in for another two hours. So we waited. I prayed. I played a video game. Then I prayed some more. My poor cats, trapped in their carriers, also waited patiently.

Finally, the time came. The airline searched our baggage. They looked out the papers for the cats. They charged us for the pet carriers, but not the overweight fee they were very much entitled to. The people who worked for the airline were never anything but kind and polite, and just when I thought it was all over, they dropped this: “You can’t go through security yet. You will have to wait for the man from immigration to come. He will be here about 1:20.” Almost an hour and half.

So we sat obediently, outside of the security area. I prayed. I said the rosary. I read the Bible. I went to the sparkling-clean bathroom about six times. I tried not to think too much about what would happen when the immigration guy came, or if he was late. At last, a young, clean-cut man in a shirt which read INS walked by. This was him.

We went up to the counter. He asked us why we had overstayed. We decided it would be the better part of discretion to not go into the whole sad saga, so we simply said we had lost them. He scolded us, gently, for overstaying a tourist visa and warned us to not do it again or they would levy the whole fine. We had to pay for new tourist cards. And then we were free. He was courteous and compassionate. He even got scolded by one of the airline staff for making us even pay for new tourist cards, which I was thought generous. Security was pleasant and sweet to the cats, checking the carriers by hand and not making us get them out of running them through the x-ray machine. We walked to the gate. Even though the flight had not yet left, I felt like it was over. The nightmare was over.

We didn’t even realize until we got to the gate that a plane had been hijacked in Cancun earlier. All these people had been so sweet and accommodating on a day when security and worry must have been high.

I had done my best, but there was and is no doubt in my mind that this was all the mercy of God. I had done my best, but so much was out of my hands, and I knew it. I didn’t make the grant come through. My charm had influenced the intellect of the immigration guy. It wasn’t my snazzy luggage or personal magnetism which had led the airline staff to be so courteous. It wasn’t me working in everyone’s hearts. It was God. God had saved us. God had led us out safely. Everything had been because of God.

I’m not saying this because I want to portray God as a magic genie who granted me all my wishes. I’m saying I was in trouble, deep trouble, and while I endeavored all that was possible for me, the rest was the grace of God. I didn’t force him and I didn’t deserve it. God didn’t help me because I was so worthy and superior. But I turn to him, every night, every day. And I did turn to the Blessed Mother. And that is the lesson: in all things, turn to God. I hope the experience had allowed me to embed this lesson into the deepest part of me, so that I do it in all circumstances and not just when things seem their darkest.

Signs and Wonders

Today’s Gospel reading:

Philip found Nathanael and told him,
“We have found the one about whom Moses wrote in the law,
and also the prophets, Jesus son of Joseph, from Nazareth.”
But Nathanael said to him,
“Can anything good come from Nazareth?”
Philip said to him, “Come and see.”
Jesus saw Nathanael coming toward him and said of him,
“Here is a true child of Israel.
There is no duplicity in him.”
Nathanael said to him, “How do you know me?” 
Jesus answered and said to him,
“Before Philip called you, I saw you under the fig tree.”
Nathanael answered him,
“Rabbi, you are the Son of God; you are the King of Israel.”
Jesus answered and said to him,
“Do you believe
because I told you that I saw you under the fig tree?
You will see greater things than this.”
And he said to him, “Amen, amen, I say to you,
you will see heaven opened and the angels of God
 ascending and descending on the Son of Man.”

John 1:45-51

One year, a long time ago, about ten years ago, a friend of mine bought me a session with a psychic for my birthday. This was before I had reverted to the Church, and while I didn’t put a great deal of stock in psychics, I thought it would be an interesting experience.
The psychic held her sessions in her own little house in a nice, working-class neighborhood. She took care of her grandkids in-between sessions and cooked. It was winter, and the house was filled with kids’ toys and crafts, presents, and a Christmas tree.
The woman told me several things. One, I would meet a man with a beard. He might be from the Middle East, or maybe he would just look like he came from the Middle East. But he was the one, my other half, the one I had been waiting for. We would embark on a business together and make our fortune. I would also have the opportunity to take part in a lawsuit, and I wouldn’t want to because I felt I had not been harmed, but I should because it would provide me with a good amount of money.
I left, feeling she was a nice women and meant no harm, but was not overly impressed. A little while later, I got laid off from my job. I couldn’t find another in the same field, so I took a data entry job in an infuriatingly inept company on the other side of town. There was one bright spot in going to work everyday - a handsome man with a beard who I soon developed a crush on. One day, I got the nerve up to talk to him. We were pretty much inseparable after that, and a year later we got married.

I never did get money from a lawsuit, though.

Was this a “sign and wonder”? It’s an interesting idea. Did she really see the future? Or was it a coincidence?

There are a lot of people these days impressed with signs, wonders, and miracles. They point to faith healers and people who say they have seen visions and those who preach that God grants every little material thing your heart desires, if only you give them money or pray a certain prayer or do a certain thing for a certain number of days. it’s easy to be impressed when it seems that someone can do, or has seen, something you just can’t explain, that is out of the ordinary.
But is that the point of today’s Gospel? Nathaniel was ready to fall at Jesus’ feet because Jesus said he had seen Nathaniel long before he arrived. Did Jesus try to wow Nathaniel with his powers?

No.

Jesus said his ability to see Nathaniel, far off under the fig tree, was not the thing to be impressed by. “You will see greater things than this,” he told Nathaniel.

Like what? What is more impressive than seeing into the future, or into things beyond physical possibility? “...heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending on the Son of Man,”, that’s what. Real or fake, flashy shows of “miracles” or psychic powers are nothing compared to the power of the Son of Man, the Messiah, the Savior. The real miracle is the coming of Jesus. We need no more show of power than that of the coming of the lord in the form of true man. We need no more miracle than his willingness to give himself for us, both as an example and as the ultimate sacrifice for our transgressions.

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Via Crucis: Jesus Is Condemned to Death

The church we go to in Chihuahua (which is called Espiritu Santo, I found out finally) has some quite nice stained glass in the ceiling and on the walls. The most obvious ones document the Way of the Cross, with an extra at the end of Jesus' resurrection, common in Mexico (I like this. Good to remember the story has a happy ending.)

Even though the Way of the Cross is usually promoted during Lent, I can't wait that long. I thought I'd share some photos of the windows in Espiritu Santo.

Number One: Jesus is condemned to death

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Milagro Died

The day before yesterday, he suddenly started acted sick. He vomited several times, including various things I wouldn’t have believed he had in his stomach, like big chunks of carrot and bits of plastic, and didn’t want much to eat. But yesterday, I thought he was on the mend. He ate, he drank some milk (a thin liquid made from low-fat milk powder), he seemed more alert. I held him, put him in my lap or had him close to me all day and all night while I worked on getting some freelance jobs.

Finally, I went to bed about 2 am. At roughly 3 am, he started meowing weakly and stirring. I thought this was because he just wanted to be closer to me, so I held him against me as I laid on my side. But after a while, it become obvious something was wrong. He kept meowing in a weak but strident sort of way, and when I picked him up, he was limp. He breathed heavily at first but got weaker and weaker.

I held him on my lap and prayed and prayed for him to either get better or die - just let the torment stop. After an hour, he was still hanging on, so I decided to say the rosary. I held him in both arms and started the prayers. By the time I got to the first mystery, he had stopped breathing.

Milagro was a beautiful kitten, with soft gray fur and bright green eyes. He was affectionate and very intelligent and tough. So tough. He was sweet and loving and wanted nothing but for someone to love him. And I do, and always will.

Goodbye, my little angel. I’ll see you again some day.

Milagro resting, a couple of days after we brought him home:

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Milagro

Saturday is usually our deportiva day.  We can go on other days, but on Saturdays, we HAVE to go.  So, last Saturday, we put on our walking clothes and went, crossing Universidad and going on to the park.  I made my best time yet around the entire thing, had some very nice whole wheat cheese gorditas, and started back home.

When we got to the Universidad crossing, there was a surprise awaiting us which had definitely not been there when we had first crossed: a little gray kitten.  The kitten was obviously sick and in pain, his legs flat, his back hunched oddly, his eyes scabbed over and shut.  He didn't move but meowed weakly.  My heart sunk.  I love animals, especially cats, and I couldn't believe someone would just leave a sick kitten on the side of a busy street like that. 

The light turned and it was our chance to go.  We crossed, and as soon as I reached the other side, I started to cry.  I wanted to do something, but what?  He was going to die no matter what, and I didn't want to bring anything into the house to make Pepper and Pico sick. 

But still, it gnawed at me.  OK, so he was going to die.  Was it better for him to die on the side of the road, in the heat, surrounded by cars and concrete, or in a quiet, safe, clean place with a full belly, with people who loved him?

I turned back.  "I'm going to get him," I said.  Kevin, who knows me very well, agreed.

When we got the intersection, there was a couple of farmer kids selling things during the lights.  "Is this your cat?" Kevin asked in Spanish.

"No," said the kid.  "It's dead."

But the kitten was not dead.  He looked up weakly.  I pet him and tried to determine the best way of picking him up without hurting him.  I finally got him up and held him in both arms all the way home.  Once there, we put him in a box on a bed of fresh towels and gave him food and water.  Then he slept.

I pretty much expected him to die before evening, but he lived.  He lived Sunday, too, and several times I cleaned his eyes, changed his bedding, and gave him food.

He's still here, getting stronger.  He ate more food today then ever before, and looked around and seemed more alert than I've seen him.  He still can't move very well, and I don't know what happened to him, but he's safe and clean and warm and petted.

So I named him Milagro.

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I Was Baptized

Another blessing from God is that I was baptized as a baby into the Catholic Church. 

This is big.  This is huge.

From what I understand, and I will be the first to admit that maybe I remember the story wrong, was against it.  He wasn't Catholic and, in fact, didn't especially believe in this God nonsense at all.  But my mother insisted (go Mom!).  She may have even done it while my father was occupied elsewhere.  Nevertheless, it got done, with my maternal uncle and grandmother as godparents.

So, what's the big deal over something I didn't choose and don't even remember?

It showed my family's love for me.  It brought me into the church in a lasting, spiritual way which goes way beyond merely being present at the parish bingo games.  It made me an adopted child of God.

Pretty big stuff.

And, now and forever, it put an indelible mark on my soul, showing that I belong to Jesus.  Nothing will ever take it away, and he will never let anyone or anything take me away from him.  Even the briefest glance at my life shows how true this is, and how without it, I would have been so very dommed.

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Good Things From God: I Was Born

"So now get up from the ground and praise God. Behold, I am about to ascend to him who sent me; write down all these things that have happened to you." - Tobit 12:20

I read this part in Tobit last week, and it struck me like a hammer to the forehead.  Everyone has  plenty of time to talk about how they got a good deal at this bank or a bad deal at this restaurant; everyone can talk about work and school and TV; everyone has time to talk about politics and shopping; everyone has time to complain and point out other people's faults.  Almost no one talks about the things God has done for them.

And by 'everyone', I mean me.

So, starting today, I will try and write down some of the things which have happened to me, good things from God, in order to praise him.

First of all, I was born.  And I was born healthy.

No, I'm not trying to be funny.  Mothers know - there are a staggering amount of things which can go wrong during a pregnancy.  If you want to make yourself appreciate the miracle of being born, and born healthy, just take a minute or two to look at a web site about birth defects.

Also, my mother had already lost one child to a miscarriage before I was born, and would again later on.  Plus, it was the sixties (cough).

My mother also had a bit of a difficult time getting me out.  The doctors threatened her with a c-section right before I finally made my appearance in this world.

And so, number one in the long, long list of wodnerful things God has done for me: I was born, to two loving parents, healthy, in a stable country with plenty to eat, a house over my head, and good clothes.  Not too bad of a brain, either.

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