The Bishop Comes Home

You have to wonder about your stamina for being a foreign missionary when you are standing in the mud and rain, squeezed and squished on all sides, as you wait for the bishop to finish greeting his old neighbors and begin the mass to celebrate a plaque unveiled on the house where he was born.

The folks organizing this surprise "block party" for the bishop had insisted we HAD to be there, and even sent a guide to make sure we didn't go astray as we drove through the tree covered hills and mountains to the suburb of Mendoza, the Barrio of the Station (train) where he and 3 of his 11 siblings were born. The house is on one end of the block, the train tracks at the other end, the street market right there, and the only remaining textile mill down the street.

Just when I gratefully sank into the wooden chair provided right up front for me, and thought I was home safe, a crew of about 15 tall young men arrived, spiffy in black suits and blue shirts, carrying about 8 guitars, a bass fiddle, and other instruments. It seems their designated position under the tarp protecting the altar at the end of the street from the rain was right in front of me! I got a lot of meditating done during mass since I couldn't see a thing. But their singing was heavenly. Strong young male voices sang perfectly in tune, in several parts. Before long Dick was encouraging the people to sing and the choir (called a "rondalla") were enjoying his voice too.

The center aisle had been completely decorated with a floral carpet made from colored sawdust- a great labor of love since it is destroyed as soon as the bishop walks on it. Mothers are busy keeping the little kids off it. An elderly man wandered under the tarp, realized it was "church" and quickly removed his sombrero. The official welcoming matrons raised the customary clay chalices filled with copal, a very smokey incense, as the bishop pulled up in his new Jeep, and the junior high drum and bugle corps struck up a breathtaking cadence to accompany us all up the aisle to the altar.

The bishop's elderly, still handsome parents, some aunts, uncles, cousins and old friends and neighbors were all there, many standing patiently in the rain, sharing umbrellas. He told the story of when he first came back there right after ordination to celebrate his first mass, when the terrible earthquake of 1973 struck, and he felt death near for the first time. We were, strangely, also nearby during that earthquake- on vacation with the 4 boys. I woke in the dark night hearing a "freight train" roaring underneath our room. Then the building started shifting back and forth, and then, the worst part, up and down. Before I could find my way out of the room to where the children slept, it was over. We were safe, but there was a lot of destruction around here then.

Tonight, after mass, and unveiling the plaque, we made our slow way back to the car in the rain. One more elderly man was still looking for a few bananas in the market. The traffic cops kindly told us how to get back to the highway: "Just go back the other way on this one way street and you'll find it." With that carte blanche, we got safely home.