I Celebrate the Wonders of the Day

A prayer of sorts.
I open my eyes to the fresh wonders of another day.
I inhale the quiet.
I whisper “hi” to the barely moving morning.
I lift my face to greet the sol  and smile.
Lightly ribbed leaves pirouette in the wind. They show off with blinks and winks of brilliance. The trees they belong to have names I haven’t yet learned. Still, I give thanks for their gifts of shade. Their gentle sway reminds me the earth continues to breathe.
On the line, clothespins stand at attention. Two well-worn tea-towels, left to hold sway throughout the night, are ready to return to kitchen duty.
The buzz of early rising bees indicates the winged workers are already on the job.
Just over the cracked and spackled brick wall that separates us from the neighbor, roosters crow for show. Free-range and free-spirited, they announce daybreak any time they choose.
I move from back door to front. I open the door and stand just outside, with freshly brewed café con leche in hand. My garden thrives with roses, lavender, geraniums, lilies, aloe and others without names. And with so much color. Another wonder.
Movement just outside our gate. Matted orphaned dogs shake their heads, scratch their ears and, without hurry, stretch their legs then move into the street for another hit-or-miss day.
Six-thirty on the dot we enter the street as well. David and I, each with a leashed dog in hand, accompany Katherine to her bus.
We pass dozens of pint-sized uniformed children, wearing backpacks, toting projects, and clutching hands with their pajama-clad mamas. Our part of town is casual dress so no one bats an eye.
Down Calle Gran Columbia, we pass the Parquedero de Jesus. I smile. Jesus went homeless and only had one coat. Yet in Cuenca he has a parking lot.
Right next door, Iglesias Sangre de Jesus, a Sister brings a flowering plant as a fragrant offering. She enters through the massive, hand-carved church doors. The priest nods and smiles. Devout grandmothers cross themselves as they move to their pews for daily prayers. Outside, taxi drivers and passers-by make the sign of the cross as well, a visible reminder that many here acknowledge that a greater force is at work in the world.
Our morning walks set Katherine free to speak her mind. She talks of the boy she likes, who may or may not like her, and what she plans to do about it. She questions the existence of God one day and ponders the Big Bang theory the next.
I hold my tongue. I listen to the wonder of my growing child. The forming of her own ideas. The shaping of her quick mind. The working out of who she wants to be and what she believes.
I celebrate the many small and amazing wonders in each day.

Garden of Peace: Jardin del Cajas

 

A number of weeks ago, I spent a lovely Sunday morning in the Jardin del Cajas. And if you haven’t yet been there, my friends, I encourage you to go. Pronto.

Our landlady, Margarita* had just returned from a six-week trip to see her daughter, ex-husband and friends in Germany. We informed her a few days before she arrived home that we planned to move at the first of November.

Our reunion was met with tears and bitter disappointment…on both sides. I have grown to dearly love this woman with a beautiful laugh and will miss her. She felt blindsided not only by our move but also the unanticipated departure of another tenant on a different piece of property.

“Everything seems so unstable,” she said.

She arrived home on Friday and asked me that Sunday morning if I wanted to go drive to church with her in the mountains. I didn’t hesitate.

Ten minutes later, we were headed out of Cuenca to the Cajas National Forest in her silver Hyundai.

The 20-kilometer drive  was breathtaking. To say the mountains were beautiful is an understatement. They seem to go on forever. They tower beside the road, poking their rocky heads through the clouds. Fields planted up the side of the mountains resemble a patch-work quilt. As we gained altitude, I spied giant vegetable gardens behind small adobe homes. Lettuce, cabbages and radishes were ripe for the picking. We’d find them later in the week at the local market.

We passed lush green areas continually watered by the gently flowing rio tomebama and any number of crystal-clear mountain streams. Black and white dairy cows managed to stay on all fours while they grazed on impossibly steep inclines. A few were tethered just an arm’s length from the road. I could almost pet them as we passed.  The cool air carried  a hint of eucalyptus and jasmine.

Along the way I saw red-cheeked children playing around and under the feet of parents busily  winding up weekend tasks about their homes. Laundry hung in the sun, on bushes, on the grass along the river banks. And the sun felt hot while the air grew cooler as we gained altitude. Brilliant white clouds contrasted beautifully with the bluest sky.

All was well in this beautiful world outside our car.  Inside, however, Margarita talked of fear and disappointment and shock.  I felt awful.

Her reaction to our move far exceeded that of an experienced landlord losing a tenant. I felt she was experiencing a mid-life crisis and our decision to relocate was the catalyst that set the crisis in motion.

She questioned what she’s done with her life, the decisions she’s made in the past few years. She misses her daughter who lives in Germany and she regrets the distance between them.  Her former husband and she have had time to rekindle a good relationship. Her parent’s health is failing. Her bakery business is, too. Her employee of 15 years will have to be let go. This time of her life is muy dificil.

We drive the 40-or-so minutes to the Jardin del Cajas (Garden of the Cajas). This is a bit of land off the main highway that leads to the coast. The Jardin has become a site of spiritual pilgrimage for thousands of people in the past few decades after an Ecuadorian teenager girl was visited by  the Virgin Mary on several occasions. The Catholic Church built a simple wooden church as a place for pilgrims to worship.

Margarita had told me nothing about our destination other than it was a quiet church. We arrived at a spot just after 11 am. We parked the car walked past a dozen or so booths,staffed by vendors of odds and ends. Freshly fried  empanadas. Ponchos, dolls and trinkets. We stopped at the stall of a man selling candles. Margarita bought 7 — five for her and two for me.

Just as the booths ended,  we walked across a small wooden bridge into a wide open area. Before us, a low, rustic chapel sat in the middle of a clearing.  To our immediate left, the 12 stations of the cross began, leading worshippers through a small strand of trees that circled the church. Further ahead and to the left, statues of Mary and other saints doted the landscape. Sheep grazed nearby. I noticed a family of llamas on the hillside.

Dozens of  people, families, couples, single men and women, walked the stony path ahead of us, many heading to the chapel, others to visit the icons and offer prayers.

We entered the church a few minutes after the service had begun. The rough wooden pews were full, so Margarita and I made our way to the front. At the left, she and I lit candles for our families and each other. We  took our seats along the side of the sanctuary.

The service was all in Spanish of course. I’m making progress in my studies, but I still missed much of the homily. However, I understood enough to know that the message was perfect for Margarita. We looked at each other, smiled and held hands. God was with us in that chapel in the mountains, in the priest’s words and in the songs of the congregation.

Afterwards, we walked the pebbled paths to visit the shrines. Margarita washed her hands and face with water from a spigot–the source of water that many had blessed before taking home with them.  I sat and watched. Prayed. Observed the beauty of nature that surrounded this quiet place. Gentle animals grazed nearby. Children ran in the open spaces. Elderly men and women sat on the benches and prayed. The sun shone over the mountains. Wind stirred the tall pines. Families walked together, some bringing picnics to share on this sacred place.

Margarita faced the statue of the Virgin Mary and said her prayers. I waited and prayed nearby. After about 20 minutes she nodded and we walked back past the church, across the bridge, past the vendors and to our car.

The drive back felt lighter. Brighter. More hopeful.

I visited a holy space that morning. The surroundings felt drenched in prayer. I imagine the hundreds of people that visited that day returned home, like me, with greater peace and hope.

In the past few weeks, David, Katherine and I have moved from Margarita’s home to a new place that suits us much better. It is half the rent and offers much more sunlight. We have been given a dog — to Katherine’s delight and David’s chagrin.  Most importantly, Margarita and I have been able to  work through some very tense moments with grace. Who pays for what, what needs to be replaced, how much one owes–the things that can destroy relationships–have been handled with grace and love.

Margarita and I shed tears, spoke harshly at times, but were able to apologize and get back to being friends.

I feel I could have easily lost my first friend in Ecuador but because of our visit that day to the Jardin del Cajas, I did not. Prayers were answered in ways she nor I could expect.  She found new renters within days.  We got a house that feels like home.

And I found a holy place to return to in the Cajas.

God is good.

 

 

*Our landlady’s name has been changed for privacy.

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Llama family
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A place of prayer
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A holy place in the Andes
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A peaceful setting
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One of many mtn. streams

 

plow season

i have a problem. a big problem.

i, who espouse peace, have discovered i am not much different than the haters.

and that is not good.

because i believe the truths in the bible, that puts me on the same level as the guy who carried the A-15 into the bar in Orlando and killed 50 innocent people.

courtesy-urbanertslings.com_it’s all the same in God’s eyes.

the thoughts, the actions. the things done in secret as well as those done in public. all the same. all equal.  jimmy carter knew that. remember his honesty about lust and adultery. it made him the brunt of many jokes. i thought him heroic and profound.

the shooting in Orlando triggered my thinking. as that awful tragedy has brought out the haters of all that is supposedly Muslim and supposedly Christian, LGBT, pro or against Obama,progressives and conservatives, pro or anti guns… the whole drill. senators quote bible verses, presidential candidates say “I told you so”, Fox news-lovers regurgitate nonsense (it seems to me) and Franklin Graham steps in and causes all kinds of commotion in God’s name.

and me?

i move from shock (not again!) to sadness at the senseless loss of life to anger. i fume. i fret. i grow irate. i respond to posts with brittle, harsh words. i long to smash things and shout at people who have the audacity to think differently than me…those who obviously are so very wrong in their thinking.

and then i see it.

i’m just like those i despise. self-righteous. judgmental. condemning. ready to erase any opposition i can.  with my voice, not a weapon.  yet my tongue can be weapon. and my words can be vicious.

pause.

that is not who i want to be.

and here i am, just beginning a study on contemplative prayer. moving towards developing a deeper, richer inner life. making time for silence and quiet in my life. i’m taking intentional steps to draw closer to God as I know God, in order to become more of who God created me to be.

and into this contemplative state crashes vengeance and anger and impatience and loathing.

pause.

i am that house divided and i’m falling.

what is the right response?  my friend Joss reminds me to love. that starts with the littlest of things. to refrain from belittling others.  not to poke fun of  someone–the way they dress. the news they watch. the junk they believe.  at the very basic level, she says, we can begin to build love. then that love grows. and grows.

how did Jesus continue to care for the poor and the sick, those who  were hurting and those in distress when so many around him jeered, threatened and eventually killed him?

he went away and spent time in prayer for one.  he connected to his source of strength and purpose and got what he needed from there.  he had support.  12 odd fellows who, though they didn’t fully understand what he was about, ate, slept, traveled and worked with him day in and day out.  he was not alone. Jesus turned the other cheek and kept on with his mission.  he loved and loved and loved and loved.  he brought people to life through his actions, his words, his being.

that’s who i want to be like.  not a self-righteous bitch on Facebook who answers (what i deem to be) stupid comments with cutting words.  not a woman who, with her tongue and her ideas,disturbs the airwaves, internet, breathing space of those who don’t see the world as i see it.

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it’s time i turn my sword into ploughshares.  seek peace and pursue it.  not accept the awfulness in the world but find a more effective way to deal with all that i see is wrong.

it’s time to put the A-15 down. to turn my words of anger into prayers for all.  it’s time to shut up and start putting forth prayers for this world of ours.

Lord, have mercy.