Pastoral Visit, Chapter 2

After finishing at the Open Air Cathedral (see last blog) we piled in the Jeeps and headed to a tiny chapel just starting construction, then past humble shacks, walls fortified with old bedsprings and anything else the homeowner can get hands on. Then on to another chapel, former warehouse donated by owner, who proudly recites the history of the place. She then presents the bishop with two giant red roses. I have a counseling session for an abandoned wife, then with a second woman in similar straits. How does God pick such seemingly ordinary people to draw toward heroism in the Faith?

The train tracks divide this suburb, and we catch our breath while an endless freight zooms through. There is little or no evidence of concern for citizen safety; every man for himself and the lame and slow beware! As we wait,I enjoy observing a middle aged woman in flawless indigenous outfit: bare feet, black long skirt, pure white ruffly blouse with red ribbons and embroidery, a red sash around the waist. Hair blacker than midnight sternly parted and braided frames a classic face. I feel I've seen many of these faces before, but only in movies. Perfect type casting.

From there we go to a very nice home, where a tree covered mountain rises in the back yard. Teams of young men and women in white start serving the table for the bishop, his team, and parish dignitaries. The deacon is detained in the bathroom, so after the bishop has told them of the many songs sung in church written by the Deacon, rather than disappoint, I teach them a couple simple ones and we get down to eating the banquet of endless Mexican dishes. I notice the lovely chicken broth with veggies also contains feet, gizzards and other unidentifiable innards. So I cannily request broth with NO chicken. Not up to dealing with the crustaceans in the alternate soup.

After the long, very tasty meal, I rest in a rocking chair brought from another house just for me, while my Hero arranges to take me home since I'm still recuperating from a fall a couple nights ago. Then he will return for the rest of the day.

He comes in to get me, but announces: "The car won't start." Not a whine or a cluck, totally dead. This is a clarion call to the Mexican male and he was soon surrounded with helpers, and urgent summons went out for "Berta's brother, he knows cars." "My cousin, an expert", etc etc.Meanwhile, I pulled together my shattered hopes for a nap, climbed in the bishop's car with the rest of the team, and headed for the next chapel. That story in the NEXT blog. I'll just tell you the title now: "The chapel of the 50 Steps." Does that tell you anything?