She waited until the final evening to catch my eye across the dining hall. Everyone else had left except for the few clearing tables. She came over, sat down, and started talking in her best English. She shared her heart, her worries, her concerns, her fears. She tapped into Google Translate when the words got too hard. She clenched her fists against her eyes when the tears got too much.
She’s the one who I know to be an artist. She may not get algebra, but she can create beauty with her hands. She’s the one who’s a mama, like me – only her babe is holding her heart from heaven.
She’s the one who wakes early every morning to prepare breakfast for others. She makes fresh tortillas from scratch, knocking on our door with an offering.
I take her hand and ask for the Peace that transcends all understanding to fill her heart and mind.
That evening when we say our good-bye she tells me “thank you for everything” and sobs in my arms.
There was this theme that emerged this past summer, situated on four pillars of truth. We found ourselves clinging to them one weekend, and then choosing to hold on throughout the every day.
Yo soy perdonada
She still has my backpack, the one I carried to Mexico holding laptop and journal and read alouds. She filled it with clothes for the weekend retreat. The months before had prepared her for the moving forward, the giving up, and the letting go.
When you’re almost eighteen and you’ve had your baby pulled from your arms, and you find yourself surrounded by others who have had just as crazy of a story, you hold your hands turned upward, ready to receive all the grace and redemption that is waiting for you.
Yo soy fuerte
There’s this juxtaposition of the weak and the strong and how the weak become strong through the rescuing.
How the weak become strong through the giving up on the old and moving toward the new.
How the weak become strong through the getting up every day and choosing to find joy in their space.
Yo soy sanada
When you are in survival mode, there is no space for dreaming, there is no space for hoping, there is no space for healing.
The wounds are wide open, the pain is hanging on – the need to just make it through again is all that can be maintained.
Healing begins with a safe space. It begins with a secured care.
It begins with room to laugh free, to run free, to sleep free – a space where there is no room for fear.
Yo soy hermosa
She was the quietest, so I made sure to notice her. She’d sit beside and do a crossword, while I’d write in my journal. She’d show me her fractions and wait patiently for me to approve. She’d come and stand beside me and we didn’t have to say anything.
It was noticed that all her clothes were covered with paint. Each time she went out to join in on a house build, she’d put on a new outfit.
I rummaged through the donations and found her some non-painted jeans and solid tops – just like my own fourteen-year-old would like.
She tried them on and modelled them for me, smiling and hugging when she saw my smile and heard my "muy bonita".
Beauty is the wonder of the personhood, the created being that is uniquely one.
It’s the smile, the hug, the helping hand, the creative hand, the quiet spirit, the loud spirit, the playful spirit, the sincere spirit, the opening heart,
the one who just longs to be loved.
~ Summer 2019 ~
