Author Archives: mariasotolongo

The Goodness

–I stopped asking WHY long before the hurricane hit. Instead, I ask NOW WHAT?  Or simply WHAT? What is it I need to learn? Change? Adjust? Delete or modify? Especially now that it’s a new year. I latch on to the feeling of a blank slate and endless possibilities. I sometimes sit with the weight of the uncertainty of our lives and just sit. Without trying to do anything other than BE. Be in this moment of our lives fully. Feel it all, deny nothing, accept everything. Surrender. TRUST.

We may never know the WHY of things in life. Our minds are too limited to understand the divine order. But before more time goes by, I want to write down details about the heroes that have shown up in our life after Harvey. Maybe we had to lose everything to gain a new perspective, to see the orchestra of angels God has planted in our lives to help us in times of dire distress.

Fourteen days after the hurricane, on September 10th, 2017, we were finally able to walk through ankle-deep brown water and slushy ground to get to our flooded home. We could only imagine what it would look like. We wore masks, goggles, gloves and white protective suits. I turned on the video on my phone as we walked, breathing heavily into my mask, wanting to record the moment. For myself and for FEMA. Here’s the video:

https://vimeo.com/235471407

The smell wouldn’t be imprinted on the tape but it would penetrate every crevice of my being, towards my brain, to file it under one of the most foul scents I’ve ever smelled.

We got through the initial shock of seeing our home blackened, violated, like a horror movie, as if someone had shaken the ground and muddy rain left mold on everything it touched.

We walked outside to BREATHE. Then my husband got a phone call from his brother who had an emergency and he had to leave. This meant that I was left alone on our front lawn, wondering what to do next. I thought about leaving. I couldn’t handle going inside by myself to move or document anything. And then it was my turn to get a phone call. My high-school friend told me that two men from New York had driven down to Houston to help wherever they could. She had given them my address and they were on their way. WHAT???

I paced in my front lawn and spoke to a few neighbors who also seemed pale and shocked at the trauma of seeing their home in such a rotten state. And then, the New Yorkers from Rockaway Bay arrived in a gold pick-up truck. They got out and walked towards me. I dropped my mask to hug one of them and I couldn’t control my tears. “We are here to help”, John said. “You’ll get through this”, George assured me. Both of them, blue eyes, rosy cheeks, honest smiles, looking at me as if I’d met them before. I trusted them. I felt like I would be ok. They stepped into action quickly, asking me if I had tables and chairs to set a staging area. They came from St. Francis Church. My dad’s name was Francisco. I got the connection right away. My earthly father and Heavenly Father were working together up above to send help our way!

John and George had gone through the devastation of Hurricane Sandy five years ago, so they knew first-hand what we were going through. They worked for days to gut our house and help heal our souls. They brought supplies and gift cards. They even brought underwear! 🙂 What heart and humor you guys instilled in us! Thank you Rockaway Bay! You’ll forever be weaved into our story! And after sweating in the foul-smelling heat of my home to clean it out, they gifted us the pick-up they used to drive down to Houston! Numb, in disbelief, feeling unworthy, I took the car keys they offered me. How does this happen? What a tremendous blessing! Thank you guys for an indescribable sense of peace that you brought to our lives. And thank you to my sweet friend, Samantha,  for sending them our way!

They were the first angels that came to our aid. We’ve had many after them, and we don’t take for granted that it’s God’s love and grace being sent to us through them!

We also received tremendous help from all of you who made donations. Wow! We cried almost every day with your generosity, with the gift cards, the packages, the offers we got from friends of friends willing to help… the lemonade stands your kids had were heart warming and inspirational Shelley and Mary Frances! My Duchesne high school friends/family started a youcaring account and took care of us with meals and gift cards!! You guys are amazing! My sister started a gofund me account! We got checks and cards  from people we’ve never met, and cards from those who have also experienced the wrath of a hurricane. We are deeply grateful!

Here is a quick recap of other angelic experiences we’ve had. (I hope you don’t mind I use your names! And I have Harvey brain, so I’m sorry if I misspell or forget someone!)

-A volunteer who came to spray our moldy studs told me that he came in the name of Jesus. A lady I just met during the storm told me God loves me. Another volunteer handing our popsicles reminded me I’m not alone. A man who power-washed our driveway told me he served God by serving us. A lady passing out hand-made cards from her kids at school hugged me and said I was going to get through this.

-Chip and a 2 rugby players also showed up the first day of “cleaning our house” to take everything out. Compassion and love on their faces.

-Ninfa and Monica came the second day. Ninfa saving my dad’s night-stand, cleaning the wood and treating it, (which has now become my only piece of furniture to survive the flood). Beyond touching. And Monica carefully took out everything from my drawers in my bedroom, closet, and stench-infested bathroom. I couldn’t get myself to do much of that. Too gut-wrenching.

-Trey also came the second day. Confident, strong, and faith-filled. He had helped many other families from St. John Vianney and I felt like he knew exactly what he was doing. He came every day. My heart can’t tell you enough how grateful we are to you and Christine!

-Jayro, a family friend I hadn’t seen in years, showed up the second day too. His muscles and heart helped tremendously! Juaquin and Charlie came after work. What man-power and support they provided. Thank you!

-And on the third day, a large crew of my girlfriends came. Crissy, Gabi and Monica came smiling early in the morning, followed by Sandra, Victoria, Maricela, Eu, and Elsa (who later brought her powerful cousin Nabil). The ladies took care of my kitchen dishes and china that survived. They laughed in the sunshine and filled tubs of bleach and water to wash all my things.

-The following days, Gonzalo, Elisa, Michael, Sherry, Allison, Joyce, Marianne, Ivonne, Marina, Gaby, Father Eamonn, consecrated women Charlene and Kathleen, Ramon, Maria Laura, Marga, Liam and Marie…and many husbands, neighbors, and volunteers came. Gracias!!!! If I didn’t mention you by name. You know I love you and truly couldn’t have done it without you!

– Our church St. John Vianney has been unbelievably supporting through prayer and donations… and the mamas from St. Anne’s brought us lunch almost daily. What a treat! You truly made a difference in our day! And the volunteers from SJV who came on Saturday. Moved to tears!

-Our families were constant rock of support. We couldn’t have survived without your jokes, company, shoulders to cry on, and your home Sofi and George!! Thank you!!!

-Churches from all over Houston, Alabama, and South Carolina came daily to provide man-power or prayer. Thank you!!

-Those of you who couldn’t come help in person, but reached out in other ways, made phone calls for us, sent help our way, and showered us with love from afar.

I could go on and on because truly so many amazing things have happened… I simply wanted to focus on all the good that has come our way after such a tragedy and focus on THE GOODNESS and abundance and joy that remains and always will reign over us thanks to you all and God’s love. Cheers to rebuilding one day at a time. Next blog, I’ll explain what exactly we have decided to do after changing our minds a hundred times. Thank you!!!!

 

Fifty Days After Harvey

IMG_6192–I am changed. My neighborhood is changed. My life is changed. Our routine, our memories, our space is forever altered. I don’t doubt that some day we’ll have a new reality, but please, let’s not use the word “normal”. As anyone whose house has flooded will tell you, there is nothing normal about our lives. And the phrase “being back to normal” is one that makes us cringe. Here is a list of others we highly despise:

At least you are safe.

Thank God you didn’t have to be rescued by boat, or that would have been traumatizing!

You have your health, and that’s the most important thing.

Material things can be replaced, it’s your safety that matters most.

You’ll replace your stuff!

We were lucky! We didn’t flood!

I could go on. But you get the picture? I hope. And I know you mean well. So, here are suggestions for what to say to us:

What stage are you at?

I can imagine how hard it must be.

I’m sorry that happened to you.

How long do you expect it will take to rebuild? ( we don’t really know, and it will likely be a long time, but this questions shows concern and curiosity).

Anyhow, this is the first week I can actually sit down at a computer and write. What a thrill to buy a new computer. Though it’s refurbished, and not the huge screen Mac I had before, I’m truly grateful to be sitting here, typing. This feels a little normal, I must say. I’ve missed normal. And I’ve missed writing. I sit in a rental house. My kids asleep, my husband watching TV. I must admit, it really does feel pretty damn normal. Wow. It’s taken fifty days for me to feel a semblance of normality. And just a minute ago, I was asking to please not use the word normal. Ha.

So where do I start to narrate this novel called “Losing Everything”, or “What the Flood Took from Us”, or “Lessons after the Flood”, or “Angels after the Storm”. Not sure what to call this period of my life. As devastating as it’s been, there has also been such light and love. Mysterious joys have been injected along with the shock and tears of losing our belongings.

I knew every smell, every texture, every sound in our house. The front door cracking in the middle of the hot summer months, the washer’s particular thump, our daughter’s closet door moving when the air came on.

We had to kick our door down to come into the house after the storm, since the wood had swelled so much that we couldn’t open it. The washer, upside down from the five feet of water that made it float. The smell in my daughter’s closet turned my stomach as I saw her dolls and ballet shoes covered in gunk.

When we first saw the house back in 2009, we hesitated a bit because it was in bad shape. Weeds everywhere outside. Unkept and lacking major TLC, we weren’t sure we could transform it into our home. The couple that had lived there before, had gotten divorced and hadn’t cared much for it in three years. But my husband and I saw something in it. I loved the light, and the back yard sat right by the bayou. With a hill I imagined our kids climbing. So we bought it. Weeds out, LOVE in! We were pregnant with our second child. Our boy, F, who was born on our bathroom floor. My husband and I delivered him, unexpectedly, by ourselves. And our third child would be born in our bedroom, under the loving supervision of our midwife. We turned our home from a place of love-broken, to one of love-born.

Who would have thought that Saturday, August 26th, would be the last day we would be in our home? Knowing that now, I wish I would have taken just a minute longer to say good bye. To the house that saw me become a mother of three. That celebrated 21 years of marriage in the backyard, that heard the joys, saw the tears, heard the celebrations, the sharing, the telling of so many stories.

I told the kids to put all their toys on top of their beds. To make sure NOTHING was left on the floor or it would get wet! Naively, I put bowls underneath our tables and sofas. I’d heard that in case we flooded, the bowls would preserve the furniture. Little did I know that instead of 5 inches, we would get 5 feet of water inside our home! We took a backpack of clothes with a few changes for each of us, and left to my sister’s house, thinking we would come back Sunday for more things. That day never came. We didn’t even take our passports/birth certificates/important papers nor valuable items.

By Sunday night, with the dam releasing water slowly, and our house being so close to it, we flooded uncontrollably. The water would sit and soak our things during 14 days. (Picture above shows our house marked by a red arrow.) Will continue to write our story little by little. Thanks to all of you for the messages, the support, and the love!!

 

 

Just Write

DSC_0408–“Let’s sit and talk about death, shall we darling?” said no one ever!
It feels like all year, I haven’t been able to write about much more than my dad, and the feelings I have after his death. I guess people don’t talk about this much because it’s so tough to digest and share. The year seems like an eternity, yet at the same time, it is as if just yesterday, I hugged my dad when I got to Spain to celebrate his birthday in June. He was “fine”. Well, we really didn’t know just how sick he was. I know people are tired of hearing about my feelings, because I’m sick of it myself sometimes. “Get over it Maria”, “He’s in a better place”, “He lived a long life”, “I’m lucky to have had him for so many years.” But suddenly, there’s a heavy feeling in my chest, and I can’t breathe, I can’t swallow, I can barely talk. Panic. Sadness. Sheer madness at the thought of spending the rest of my life without him. Am I exaggerating? Am I a drama queen? Do I need therapy? Maybe yes to all of the above. But that’s how I feel.

I don’t know where I thought I’d be ten months after his passing. I don’t know what I though it would feel like. But this is where I am. We just “celebrated” June 12th, what would have been my dad’s 81st birthday. There was such anxiety prior to the date. That day last year,  I walked into his room in the morning to wish him a happy birthday and he struggled to breathe, telling me he felt horrible. I told him we should get an oxygen tank. He said to get one. To call the doctor and get it right away. We called the doctor, explained to him how he felt, and the doctor advised us to call an ambulance and take him to the hospital as quickly as possible. It was day 3 after my dad’s first chemo, and the doctor thought he might be having a negative reaction to the chemo, a heart attack, or some other brain related event. So all of us got ready to go to the hospital, and thus began the journey of my dad’s 50 days in the hospital. That’s how long he lasted. He passed August 1st.

I think I had the goal of finishing my documentary and releasing it this year, because after watching my dad pass away, I decided I would do whatever it took to make my dreams a reality. To follow my passions. To do what I say and say what I do. To not wait until another time when I’m not as busy to do things I love. To enjoy every second I am given.

It’s been a rollercoaster of a year. I’ve had numerous moments filled with joy and abundance. But I’ve also had deeper sadness than I’ve ever experienced.

And now, my grandma fell and broke her hip at 97 years old. I sat with her for so many hours at the hospital, watching her breathe. Her mind playing tricks on her. And I thought about the places she’s traveled, the extravagant people she’s met. The novel-like stories she’s shared with us. Does any of it matter when you’re hooked up to fluids, your body filled with pain medication, your bones broken, your heart racing with fear at the thought of being alone in the hospital room? YES. The moments we laugh, travel, dance, eat, relish. That’s all that matters. Because life is short. And our memories are all we have when we sleep in the hospital.

Things in the hospital, the wheelchair, feeding my grandma, helping her get to bed, and so many other details while I visit her remind me of my dad’s last days. I am being forced to go to those memories which I haven’t quite processed yet. Like when I would take a wet sponge to clean my dad’s cracked lips from the medication and lack of moisture in his body. He would feel such relief from such a small action from my part. And now, I am wiping my grandma’s cracked lips and seeing flashes of my dad.

I make a vow to sit and write daily about more than just sadness over my emptiness without my dad. I will write every day about what he taught me, what I’m grateful for, what I dream about, what my kids teach me, and so much more that is good and beautiful in life. But I’ll still miss you everyday, papi.

Screening Day is Here

This is it! I feel like I’m going to have a baby, present a dissertation and get married all at the same time. My documentary will no longer be a project on my computer, something I’m working on, what I want to finish this year, or what I hope to do someday. It’s done! It’s going to be seen!

I have always struggled with being in the spotlight. I yearn for it yet I don’t know how to be in it comfortably. I sometimes feel inadequate, unworthy. But after all these years of working on this, I truly feel I am birthing a new me. One that has gone through so much these five years of “production”. These nine years of motherhood. These twenty years of marriage. These fourty-four years of living. I am proud and confident in releasing this to the world. I only hope it will have some impact on a future mom or a couple who is looking at videos to be inspired for their own birth.

It’s not perfect. But it’s finished. And it tells a story. My story. And a message. That birth is safe. I am happy to have walked this journey. And I’m eternally grateful to the couples who allowed me to be present at their births. Those are experiences that I will carry with me forever, and moments that have changed me. 

I’ve learned a lot along the way. There are some things I would maybe tweak if I got to do it again. But there’s always my next project, right? One that hopefully doesn’t take five years to complete!

Thank you for the support! If you want to have a screening, contact me and we’ll make it happen!

La La Life

IMG_9767–I’m very late to the party. But I get it now. The hype. The awards. The buzz. If you can get past the first 45 minutes, La la Land will change your life. I only lasted that long the first time I started watching it because it was a weeknight after a long day and I wasn’t really in the mood to even watch a movie. But since P said I could pick what we watched, I thought we’d give it a try. We both agreed that it was kinda slow and felt like a high school play. Ok, maybe better acting. But the story wasn’t Oscar-worthy! After 45 minutes, we stopped watching it and went to bed.

Now, here I am, on a plane coming back from Spain. I figured I could watch 2-3 movies. I usually can’t sleep on planes. So I finished watching La La Land. And…what a gem.

I had stopped at the part where they first talk about jazz and Emma Stone’s character, Mia, makes a Kenny G. reference. If I had only stayed with it a few more minutes, I would have seen where the film turns into the beautiful love story that it is. 

Made me think about life and creativity and love and following our dreams.

I miss the kids and P. It’s been 6 days since I’ve seen them but it feels like longer because these jet-lagged days have been packed with activities, wine, and deep conversations. 

It was hard to go back to a dad-less Spain. I choked back tears when we landed. First trip where I wouldn’t go to my papi’s house. But I focused on celebrating my sister’s 50th and remained grateful to have this chance to take a break from my routine while spending a few days with my exuberant siblings.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe my life. The drama. The struggles. Are my dreams going to come true? But then I look at P and the kids… and I see they already have. It’s my career and professional dreams that I’m afraid of never achieving. Or have I already gotten all I’m going to get out of being a communicator?

My documentary is in post-production, things have come together organically, fluidly these past few months. After 5 years, it’s done! I am beyond thrilled at the location where we’ll hold the screening in May. I’m excited and nervous. Like Mia in La La Land felt about her one-woman show. What if no one comes? What if it’s not well received? What will I do after? Is this really worth it?

I’ve spent so many years putting my energy amd thoughts into the documentary. What will my next project be? And then I think, “enjoy the moment!”, “don’t over analyze”, “keep dreaming”.

So I will. I belong in La La Land.

Here’s to the ones who dream
Foolish as they may seem
Here’s to the hearts that ache
Here’s to the mess we make

She told me
“A bit of madness is key
To give us new colors to see
Who knows where it will lead us?
And that’s why they need us”

So bring on the rebels
The ripples from pebbles
The painters, and poets, and plays

The Arrival

IMG_8844–My dad’s things are arriving from Spain tomorrow. It’s taken this long for them to get here. Six months of filling out paperwork and dizzying instructions to ship boxes filled with objects that were in his home. Big things like paintings and his drafting table. Small things like pencils and cups he used daily. Why do we cling to material things? How do we decide if they are valuable or dispensable? My dad’s orange dish towel has become so important to me. I wasn’t even going to bring it with me this past summer, when we were making the tough decisions of what to do with his belongings. But it caught my eye as I was walking out of his kitchen. There it hung. The last dish towel my dad used to dry his hands. I grabbed it as if I were grabbing his hand.

We each took turns choosing items we wanted. So many books, photos, clothes and memories. How do you pick it all apart and dismantle your father’s life in just the few days we had to go through everything? I’m grateful the five of us were together and we behaved like the loving, respectful, passionate children that my parents raised. There were some things left over that no one “wanted” or “needed”. It broke my heart to leave behind some of my dad’s suits. I don’t know why. Maybe because he took such pride in dressing well and investing in expensive suits, shoes, sweaters. He had impeccable taste. He had an artist’s eye. He was quick to point out the beauty in something or the imperfections in a structure, a painting. He was blunt. He knew more jokes than anyone I’ve ever met. He loved order and schedules. He had a reason for everything he did and that’s why each item in his home weighed so much on my heart. Because I knew everything had a place. He had a story for everything. He had traveled, read, shared, and seen more than most people. He, he, he, he, he… my papi.

I’ve been anxious just thinking about the day when my dad’s things would get here. And now it’s here. The thought is suffocating and liberating at the same time. Part of me wishes they’d never get here. All of me wishes it was HIM. His arrival. I want his house to be intact. For this to be a dream. For us to make plans to see each other this summer in Spain. For me to tell him about Y opening up with her friends, F learning division in kindergarten, and S talking up a storm. Instead, at least 50 boxes, paintings and furniture to split between the three of us that live in Houston is on its way here as I write this. From Madrid, to Valencia, to Charleston, to Houston. God! Give me strength to go through each box with love and the knowledge that my dad had a good life. That we were blessed to have him for so many years. And we can now use these things to keep his memory alive. To tell our kids stories. To laugh and not let the tears drown us.

His home now must be full of art and the books he always wanted to read. The best wine available at all times, seafood and steaks for breakfast. I imagine that my minute mind cannot begin to fathom the glory that must surround him. I sometimes get stuck in the tears. In the flesh. In wanting to hear his voice. Call him. And then count down to the day when I get to see him. Scratch his back. Hug him. My papi. Today is tough. May tomorrow be better.

 

This time of year

Life is unpredictable. Though we try to make schedules, follow routines, plan and arrange our lives around holidays, work, or our kid’s school, let’s face it: We have NO CONTROL. That’s pretty much how my life has felt this year more than ever. I have felt an emotional tsunami. It’s un-arranged everything I thought I had in place. It’s flooded my senses, brought in doubt, sadness, and what feels like an un-fillable void. 

I used to not think about my dad every day, every hour. But now I do. How sad that he had to pass to be truly alive every instant of my life now. Whether I’m chopping onions, reading a book, or at the park with the kids. I hear him, I feel him, I remember the way he walked, how he folded his clothes, how he would have a comment about everything, the jokes he told, his scent, his hands, his hugs!

How I regret not calling him more, not going to see him more, not making him stay longer when he came from Spain to see us! My dad was an enormous influence my life. He just lived thousands of miles away and I only saw him once a year. Twice if we were lucky! But we talked weekly by Skype, and emailed a lot. I just knew he was there. How is it that somehow, we become comfortable with the idea that our loved ones are healthy and that we still have a long time with them? Now, people say “he’s always with you”, or “focus on the positive memories”, and I do, it’s just not enough. Experiencing the death of a parent forces one to analyze everything, explore why we do things, think about what we want to change, how we will keep their memory alive, and how we can possibly survive without ever hugging them again.

I used to spend a lot of Christmases with my dad when I was younger. Since my parents are divorced, I would go summer and Christmas to see my dad and stay about a month. It was always a special time. But he hadn’t come to Houston recently, and we hadn’t gone to Spain in quite a long time. He would spend it alone, or with his girlfriend, and it killed us that he would spend this time of year by himself. If we had known that last Christmas would be his last alive, what would we have done? How would we have adjusted our schedules to do everything in our will to be with him? Well, we can’t stay in that space of regret, so I choose joy, like the Christian radio station, KSBJ, reminds us!

Parties, shopping, festivities and so much more take up our time during this glorious month. But what are we really getting all worked up about? Put down the wine, turn off the music, and say no to an invitation, unless the reason you are celebrating is because JESUS IS COMING!! And he wants to be born inside of us,  in our work, our homes, through what we say, and what we do. He wants to fill that void that is left so wide and raw after a loved one dies. So are we prepared for him? 

Sometimes I tell my kids that Jesus could come tomorrow. “Would you be ready?” I ask them. They smile and say “YES, I want to go to heaven, but will you come too mama?”. I hope and pray I do, so I can hug my papi again and meet Jesus face to face. So today, on the feast Our Lady of Guadalupe, I ask for her intercession. She knows better than anyone what it’s like to wait for the coming of Jesus. She was thoroughly prepared. I pray that you and I can take a sliver of Mary’s determination and faith, to submit to God’s will. Have a holy Advent and REJOICE, Jesus is coming!

Thrown Out of the Car

–I’m still not quite sure if there is a WHY this happened to me. With everything that has taken place after my dad’s death, I really don’t ask WHY? I simply move around the event that’s taken place. See it from all angles. Try to figure out what there is for me to learn, to share, to mourn, to polish. What is God trying to tell me?

I was driving home a few weeks ago, and I put my blinker on to turn at the light that leads to my street. I looked in my rear view mirror and noticed a car driving erratically. My heart jumped. I thought they were going to hit me by the way they were speeding up and slamming on their brakes and swerving side to side. I abruptly pulled in to a convenience store and they sped around me. Still looking at the car, I saw a young girl thrusting her upper body out the window and yelling “HELP ME!!!!”. They stopped the car 100 feet in front of me. They opened the door and violently PUSHED.THE.GIRL.OUT.OF.THE.CAR! She had no shoes on, an over-sized shirt, and long shorts that were half off her bottom. She was on the floor crying. In a panic, I rushed out of my car, ran over to the girl. The other car sped off and the guy yelled “she’s a fuc-ing whore!”

I asked if she was hurt. She was checking her arms and legs, saying they had beat her up. I told her to walk with me. That I was there to help her. I grabbed her arm and pulled her up. I looked around. No one seemed to have noticed this was happening. It was 1 o’clock on a Thursday afternoon! We sat on the sidewalk, in the shade. I asked her name. Taryn, she said. I put my hand on her back to comfort her. I could feel her sweat on the palm of my hand. I could smell a damp, heavy odor, a combination of onions and that of a dirty dog. Her long blonde hair was up, and greasy. Her nails dirty. Tatoos on her forearms. Scars from the cutting she must have done in her times of pain.

Do you have kids? I asked.

Yea, three.

How old are they?

4, 3, and 1.

Ok, think about them right now. Calm yourself down. You are safe. Do you think those guys can come back and hurt us?

No, they won’t. 

Who are they?

I don’t know. I just sorta knew one of them. 

Why were you in the car with them?

They wanted me to get high with them and give them blowjobs. I dunno!

Are you on anything right now?

No, man, I’ve been clean for 3 years.

How old are you?

23.

(She didn’t look older than 18!)

Where are your kids?

With their dad in Florida.

You’re not together?

No.

So why are you in Houston?

I came for a job.

What kind of job?

A sales job. But it didn’t work out.

What are you gonna do now?

They took my money man! They f-cking took my money! (She reached in her bra and took out some money, counting it.)

How much?

I only have $70. They took like $100. This is all I have. Shit.

Where do you live?

I’m staying at Motel 6 off Hwy 6.

Who are you staying with?

Some friends. Can you take me there. I need to charge my phone. I need to go.

Will these guys be there to hurt you?

No. No!

Do you believe in God, Taryn?

Yea. 

I really don’t think God wants this for you. You are his daughter. You are made for greatness. I want to help you. How can I help you?

Just take me to my hotel.

Hesitant, looking at her, I said “ok”.

We walked to my car and I opened the passenger’s door to clear some stuff off the front seat. As I did that, I turned my back to Taryn and the thought that she could hurt me entered my mind. I turned around to face her and said:

Please don’t hurt me. I’m trying to help you.

No. I won’t. Of course not. Just take me to the hotel. 

I looked at her for another second to measure the moment and I knew she had no weapon. If she was going to hurt me, it would be a mano-a-mano fight and I could beat her. 

Into the car we went. Heart pounding. With the doors closed, her scent became more intense. I cracked my window and cranked up the AC.

In the car I said I was going to pray outloud. I said something like this:

“Dear Lord please guide Taryn. Be with her. Remind her she is your daughter. May she feel your love. Help her be with the right people. Remove those who are not good for her. Help her turn her life around by granting her strength and the knowledge that you are with her. We pray in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

Then I got the idea that I could take her to my church. I offered that to her and she looked at me for a few long seconds that connected us as if we were friends, talking to each other about our problems. It could’ve been me in her position if I had made wrong choices. I saw her eyes wanting to say YES, TAKE ME TO YOUR CHURCH. HELP ME!

But she looked away and repeated once more:

Just take me to my hotel.

I desperately wanted to help her. In no way did I think of calling the police or taking her to a hospital. I did as she asked. Naively thinking she had friends at the hotel who were good people. 

We drove up to the motel parking lot and Taryn said:

There! Right there!

What? What is it?

For a second I thought it was the guys who pushed her out of the car.

That’s my friends right there.

There was an old Ford Explorer in the middle of the lot. The door was open. I drove up slowly. Examined the car. Saw another young girl in the front seat, about 20 years-old, and a little girl in the back seat. I pulled up, opened my window. Looked at the guy. Skinny, a grill in his mouth, pants hanging from his hips. Taryn hopped out of my car without a word. Ran close to the guy, saying they’d beat her up, she showed him the bruises. He didn’t hug her, and barely asked her a thing.

I said: Are you going to help her? Please take care of her.

He said: She came back to me didn’t she? He said this stepping back, pointing at himself with both hands.

And it dawned on me. He’s a pimp. Dear Lord. What!? A pimp. He is!! And I drove her back to that! How can this be. My heart sank. Helpless, I drove off. Crying, I called my husband. Fact is, if she had been on the side of the road, I would have NEVER picked her up. But I saw her being pushed out of the car! I HAD to help!

Thank you to my Bible Study group who listened to my story and gave me great insight. You know who you are, and I truly appreciate your words of love and wisdom. Only God knows why things happen, but if my words helped her in any way, I give thanks. I pray for Taryn and think about her daily. Please be vigilant, lend a hand when you can. Share God’s love.

“One is enough; you will go back to earth ,and there you will suffer much, but not for long;you will accomplish My will and My desires, and a faithful servant of Mine will help you do this. Now rest your head on My bosom, on My heart ,and draw from it strength and power for these sufferings because you will find neither relief nor help nor comfort anywhere else. Know that you will have much, much to suffer, but don’t let this frighten you; I am with you.”- St. Faustina

We are Dust

IMG_9145–I didn’t know that bones don’t burn. It makes sense. I guess, subconsciously I knew it, but had never really stopped to think about it. Death makes you think about things you’ve never pondered before. Learning about the process of cremation with my sisters turned my stomach and led me to believe that it’s not what I choose for myself any longer. The details are as follows: they place the body in the coffin and burn everything. After about 4 hours, they sort through the ashes, pick out the bones and then grind them up. The mixture of ashes and bones is what they give you in an urn. I’d rather decompose naturally, in the ground, and be whole. But then again, why do we really care about our physical body if we no longer will “be in it”? Just doesn’t seem natural to grind up bones. And I don’t want my loved ones to have to watch me burn. Regardless, my dad chose to be cremated, and for his ashes be scattered in three places.

1. In the ocean, on the beach in San Sebastian, where he grew up.

2. The beach, on the spot where he sat with his family every summer.

3. Sprinkled over his father and grandfather’s tomb, in the Madrid cemetery.

With only one week to have the funeral, scatter the ashes, sort through my dad’s things, decide what to do with accounts, his house and belongings, time seemed to drag out and it felt like I was in Spain for 7 weeks rather than 7 days. We had so much to do each day. But nothing could be done until we scattered the ashes.

The doorbell rang at my sister’s house at about midnight. A gentleman dropped off the urn in a case that looked like something you could take as a lunch bag to work or school. It was blue, and marked with the name of the cremation place. My dad was in there. His remains. His whole body, his brain, his BONES were in there. But that tiny bag couldn’t hold my dad’s spirit. His mind. His love. I hugged it and felt the warmth. Literally, it was still warm. But I was so exhausted from the whole day of traveling, the funeral, and the emotional rollercoaster, that rather than crying, I smiled, and placed him next to the flowers we’d brought in from the funeral home. I had to sleep. We’d be getting up in 6 hours to go to the train station.

The train ride to San Sebastian took 5 hours. We all rode together and spent half of the time in the bar, drinking beer by 9:30am, because Houston-time was 4:30pm, so why not? The bartender DID look at us surprised when we switched from beer to gin-tonics by 11am. But we remained civilized and semi-proper while reminiscing and chatting about life and our dad. We passed fields of sunflowers, and windmills, and mountains, and acres of blue skies. There was beauty and grief in the air. We were traveling to scatter our dad in the ocean.

I had only been to San Sebastian one time, and I didn’t spend more than a few hours there. I wanted to take it all in. I video-taped and took pictures, imagining my dad walking those streets, smelling the ocean, feeling the breeze and golden sun. I felt my papi.

We got to our hotel, had time for some tapas and sight-seeing in the old part of the city, and then we took taxis to the boat that would take us out to sea. The skies were mostly cloudy. We shipped out at 7:30pm, and would stay in the boat for about 2 hours, just in time to see the sun set (which sets much later in Spain). Carrying flowers, light sweaters, flowers and a few bottles of wine, we made it on the boat. I felt excited to finally be on the boat, yet so deeply sad to think about what we were doing. Leaving the port, and setting out to the open sea was the best part. After that, between the rocking of the boat and the weight of my emotions, I began to feel sick. I’ve been on boats many times and have never gotten sick, so I know that more than the rocking, it was the internal feelings that were producing my nausea.

IMG_9211Once we were out far enough, with no other boats around, and the town where my dad lived in the distance, we knew it was time. We hadn’t really thought about how we would do it. Would we say something? Would one person throw the ashes in? Would the flowers go first? Should we say a prayer? We had no plan. My older brother simply got the urn, opened it, and began to silently offer us the chance to get some ashes in our hands to throw out to sea. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t grab any. My other siblings took a handful, as the wind sprinkled some bits around us, and then they lovingly threw it in the ocean. I looked at the curtain of ashes falling from my sister’s hands and I wanted to jump overboard. Papiiiiii! Don’t leave us! Papiiiiiiii! Mi papiiiiii! Oh God, my heart was in pieces. I only had strength to let some flowers fall from my hands. The roses floated smoothly below us. Where was my dad??

We were all together for him, with him. Celebrating, mourning, searching, reaching out to him. Begging God to help us through this. My sister had a rosary she had been using to pray all while he was in the hospital. She desperately looked at me and asked me if she should throw it in the ocean to be with dad? YES! In slow motion, I saw that rosary fall to the water. I felt a sliver of peace.

I couldn’t eat or drink anything on the boat. Just wanted to get off. That was one of the hardest things to do, and I thought it was going to be so much more cathartic, more special, more fluid. But it wasn’t.

Next, we knew that we had to do the second part of the ashes. By the time we got to the beach, after dinner and making sure no one was around, it was close to 2am. We all went down to the sand. We looked at the spot where our aunt told us that they would normally sit when they were younger. I started video-taping and somehow gathered strength behind the camera. We dug a small hole, and this time, my sister sang, and we put some ashes into the hole. This time, I wanted to feel them. Hug them. Caress them gently. The white mixture swirled around with the sand. Bye papi. Bye. You were so loved, and will always be in our hearts. We wrote his name in the sand. We walked on the moon-lit beach, my aunt jumped in the ocean, my brother and I cried, and talked about how our lives would never be the same.IMG_9243

The next day we were able to just “relax”. Spend time together. Go to our dad’s favorite restaurants. Drink, remember, cry, laugh, and SING. We walked into a piano bar, and the second song they played was our dad’s favorite: “Y Nos Dieron las Diez” by Joaquin Sabina. No one could hold back tears. All five of us put our arms around each other and swayed, and sang with our papi who undoubtedly was with us, letting us know he was ok.

We took the train back to Madrid and we had to go to the cemetery to scatter the remaining ashes over our grandfather and great-grandfather’s tombs. We had never been to their graves. We had no idea where they were. We asked at the office, drove around, and finally found it. We were out of tears, exhausted emotionally, just wanting to put our dad to rest. We didn’t say anything. I silently prayed an Our Father, which meant more than ever as I said: “OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN”. My brother took the urn, and walked around the tomb, pouring out the rest of our dad. We did what he wanted. May he rest in peace dear Lord.

“By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return.”-Genesis 3:19

 

 

 

From room 25 to heaven

IMG_8992–2016 started out with so much promise. It’s the year my sister turned 50, my brother 40, my father 80, my daughter’s and nephew’s first communion, another nephew’s high-school graduation, another nephew’s junior-high graduation, my 20th-year wedding anniversary, as well as my sister’s and brother’s! So much to celebrate! We knew this would be a year to remember. What none of us knew is that it would be the summer our father died.

I sat between my two tall brothers on the flight to Madrid. I couldn’t fathom flying alone, so even though the ticket was well beyond expensive, I did whatever it took to get on the same flight as theirs. I felt protected between them. Growing up, and now, in my forties, being between my brothers has given me confidence and assurance that I would be ok no matter what happens.

My brother looked at boat rentals on-line, and we debated over which boat to get. My dad wanted his ashes to be scattered in three places. The first: in the ocean, on the beach in San Sebastian, where he grew up. We needed a boat for that. A big one so that my younger brother would’t get sea-sick. The second place: the beach, on the spot where he sat with his family every summer. And the third place: by his father and grandfather’s tomb, in the Madrid cemetery.

We drank wine, saw movies, talked about our dad, and tried to sleep during the 8-hr flight. When we landed and got our bags, we came out where my dad used to greet us when we came to see him. He would never be there again, physically, to pick us up from the airport. Deep breath.

We took a taxi and headed to my sister’s house. After dropping off our luggage and a quick shower, we got dressed and discussed what we should wear. Everything had been in such a hurry that I hadn’t given myself time to think. As I put on make up, it hit me: I was getting ready to go to my dad’s funeral. My dad is dead. He is no longer here. I feel him, I see him in my mind, but he is no longer here. I walked out to the hall, with pain in my chest, and my sister met me with an embrace. “Come on, dad wanted everything to be quick and normal.” There wasn’t much time for emotions. Not yet. I knew at some point I would explode. Since I’d gotten the message about my dad’s passing, at 3:30 a.m. the night before, I hadn’t been able to have a good cry. It would have to wait for later.

I chose the black dress, no time to do my hair. A pony tail and a dash more make-up to hide the puffiness and jet-lagged bags under my eyes, and we were off. We stopped at the grocery store to buy some food and wine to take for the reception, and then headed to the funeral home.

Carrying bags and telling stories, we entered room #25. I don’t know what I expected, but I just didn’t think the casket would be there, in a room connected to ours, separated by a glass. I saw it and broke down. Now, there was time for tears. I dropped to my knees and touched the glass, wanting to break it, to open the casket and hug my dad. Take him away, where he could magically come to life. No, this is not real. This is not happening. I never thought this would happen. I mean, I knew he was sick, that the cancer would eventually take him, that he was now in God’s presence, but it happened too fast. Just a week ago I was in Spain. He was sitting up when I hugged him. Yes, I had said good-bye, but some part of me held on to a transparent hope, that maybe he would get better. I don’t care if he was 80, that he already had a great life, and that we are all lucky to have had him for so long. I want more. I want him to be alive.

My daddy was gone, but he was inside that coffin.  HIS BODY WAS IN THERE! The sadness took over me and I gave myself permission to cry as many tears as were necessary.

After riding the wave of sorrow, I rose and prepared for the visitors that would soon be coming. We opened the snacks, set out the wine and flowers we’d bought. I was glad I got out at least a part of my tears, so by the time old friends showed up, I was able to hold it together and not break down every time someone came. But when the funeral home representative approached and told us they were moving the casket, it triggered me again. This time, I went into the cold room to actually touch the casket. I hugged it and yelled my papi’s name: “papi, mi papi, mi papi!”. I didn’t want them to move the body. What was it I wanted? My father resurrected? Yes. God could do that. He could do anything. But I knew that wasn’t likely. I knew I had to let him go.

The priest came, we said a brief prayer and he told us we were ready for the mass. He asked us who wanted to read. My brother and sister did. I did too, but I was unsure if the words would come out or if my legs would hold me up in front of everyone. The five of us grabbed on to each other in the front row of the chapel as the priest started to talk. I identified with what he said about death: “it takes everything out of it’s place”.

After the mass, just the family went to the cemetery where the cremation would take place. We followed each other in a small procession of vehicles. I drove my dad’s car and held tight to the stick shift, caressing it, realizing the countless times my dad had gripped that as he drove. He was with us in that car, and in the brilliant sunshine that revealed the outline of the mountains in the distance.

We got there and filed out, walking towards the funeral car. Knowing the moment was near. The end of our father’s physical representation on earth. I had never before researched or heard the details of a cremation. No one talks about it. I always thought that’s what I wanted, but after seeing the coffin go into the burning flames, I had to walk out, fearing I might vomit or faint if I saw the whole thing take place.

Papi! I looked back at the building and I could see a cloud of smoke coming out the chimney. “We are dust and to dust we shall return.” And then, right by the chimney, on the roof, there was a big bird. What was it? A stork? Yes! A stork! From what I read after looking up the symbolic meaning of a stork, it seems to represent new life, renewal, rebirth, and happiness. What more could I ask for than my papi’s happiness in heaven?

We miss you so much papi. You are always with me, from the moment I open my eyes, to the instant I close them at night. And even then, I hug you in my dreams. Te quiero tanto!

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