con flores a María

Today’s feast of the Immaculate Conception marks the end of the Month of Mary in Chile.  In case you missed it, here’s a link to my post describing what I learned about the celebration down under.

Michael and I were blessed to be in Santiago de Chile when the Month of Mary began, and we serendipitously stumbled upon Marian celebrations at two special places there. That’s what I like to call God’s sense of humor.

At the famous statue of Mary on the Cerro San Cristóbal, which overlooks the city of Santiago, dozens of musical groups dressed in traditional clothes took turns dancing and processing in honor of Our Lady.

by Mary's statue, pilgrims leave their prayer intentions and light candles

Here are two videos I took with my phone that day:

We also learned about a new-to-me Marian devotion under the name “La Purísima” when we stopped at the Santuario de la Virgen de lo Vasquez–located roughly halfway between the capital of Santiago and the seaport city of Valparaiso. 

The pilgrimage site at Lo Vasquez must have been packed today as hundreds gathered to celebrate in festival-style the feast of the Immaculate Conception and the culmination of the Month of Mary.

Hermana Juana, one of the shrine’s pastoral team of ministers assisting pilgrims at the Sanctuary daily, was kind enough to tell me the story of the image:  found by a local peasant in the nearby hills in the early 1800s, and blessed by the financial and moral support of the local landowner who built the original shrine. 

It never ceases to amaze me how throughout history and across the globe, Our Lady consistently chooses to bring her presence to the lowliest, the poorest, the most humble of her children—and always with the message, “I am your Mother.”

Con flores a María, traditional Marian song

Venid y vamos todos con flores a porfía, con flores a María, que Madre nuestra es con flores a María, que Madre nuestra es. 

De nuevo aquí nos tienes, purísima doncella, más que la luna, bella, postrados a tus pies.  

Venimos a ofrecerte las flores de este suelo, con cuánto amor y anhelo, Señora, tú lo ves.  

Por ellas te rogamos, si cándidas te placen, las que en la gloria nacen, en cambio, tú nos des.

postcard from Chile, the final one...#5

landscape of Santiago de Chile, from the top of the Cerro de San Cristóbal

Spanish is the language of my soul. I don’t mean this in a romantic, esoteric way—but rather as a profound, eucharistic reality.

I’m not idealizing Chile. And I do acknowledge that I’ve been extra emotional remembering and mourning my Dad on his six-month anniversary. But what I’m addressing and trying to put into words is about more than that.

Being in Santiago de Chile this past week has been a deeply spiritual experience for me, and being immersed in Spanish is a huge part of the reason why.

I hear a prayer or a song that I learned in Spanish as a small child, for instance—and in spite of the fact that I haven’t said it out loud in decades, the words burst out of my mouth without hesitation. 

Just today, kneeling before the altar inscribed with the words: “Yo soy el Camino, la Verdad y la Vida,” just reading the words brought spontaneous tears to my eyes. I hear the word “Camino” in all the levels of meaning that it has: Literally, the word means, I walk. It is also the way, as in el Camino de Santiago. And ultimately, it is my profession of faith that Jesus Christ is the Way.

In a much more mundane way, I am so very comfortable in a culture that starts the day later (than I am allowed to do without guilt in an American culture), then serves lunch around 2 pm, and dinner after 8 pm!

And finally, there is the issue of my name.

Every time I am addressed by my full name here, what I call my real name—María de Lourdes and not “just maría,” it’s as if the real me is acknowledged. I am known, in the deepest sense of the word.

One more thing. Clearly, my experience in Chile has been enhanced by the fact that in this profoundly Catholic culture with churches, chapels and shrines all around me, I’ve been able to pray, sing, and celebrate Mass in Spanish every day but one during our seven-day visit. And that one travel day, we stopped to pray at a national pilgrimage site for Chileans, el Santuario Lo Vásquez, where I discovered a new (to me!) Marian devotion to La Purísima.

Never ceases to amaze me how much attention our God pays to details! What a grace to be allowed to mourn in a Latin culture--with everything that means to me.

Just for fun, here's a few other things I have loved about my week in Chile:

the feel of being in a major city:

Stunning, colorful street art! 

As my daughter Michelle would say, food from the gods! 

And in keeping with all things Catholic AND good food--a cooking show by a nun!

Sor Lucía's cooking show

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“Long before I could grapple with the theology of transubstantiation--or even try to pronounce that word!--the Eucharist had a special meaning to me. My heart understood that the Eucharist was a special and unique gift that Jesus Christ left for us, a way for every Christian to get to know him intimately. I have somehow always “known” that this type of food could nourish something in me that even now I struggle to name. The Eucharist also reminds me that I belong. In a real, even if mystical way, the Eucharistic celebration heals and answers our inner need of “belonging.” “I have called you by name... You are mine!” says the Lord. And in Christ we are, literally, one with Him and with each other.
          
Perhaps as pilgrims on our journey home there is no greater compass than the Eucharist. As a Protestant friend once said to me, “I wish I really did believe in the Eucharist, because then I would run to receive Jesus every day.” And I do want it and hunger for it every day. As I struggled with nowhere to call home, it was being Catholic, being claimed by something bigger than myself, and the communion I felt with Christ and his people in the Eucharist that gave me that much needed security growing up…          
It was at Mass that I could go and claim to belong, even when no one there knew me. This was the one “place,” regardless of the particular church we attended, where I felt that I “fit.” Together, we stood and professed our faith as believers in one and the same God, and we received in the Eucharist the gift of Christ’s presence right here and now. I “knew,” even when I couldn’t understand these abstract concepts, that the community of faith that claimed me became one Body in our one Lord, Jesus Christ. My heart understood what I even now struggle to explain in words.”

~from my book, "The Journey: a Guide for the Modern Pilgrim"

postcard from Chile, #4

When someone you love dies, there seem to be certain universal truths that all who mourn inherently experience.

No one tells you what will happen. It just does. And like a shared whisper, it appears to be true for everyone.

For example, in those first few months (or perhaps it will be years? I don’t know yet) of missing him or her you not only remember the person who has died, but you also recall in much detail everything about the end.

In the past six months since Papi died, in fact, most of my memories and thoughts of him seem to be focused not so much on what I remember of the 54 years we shared together—but rather on every element about the last one. 

I am talking about memories of the final things that he and I shared together, to be exact.

The last words I said to him.

The last dinner we had together at my house.

The last great-grandchild he got to meet.

The last Christmas… Easter… birthday.

The last laugh we shared together.

The last time the whole family was together.

The last time I saw him—and how he looked.

The last time we celebrated Mass together.

The last time I drove him to the doctor… or the store… or to church.

I don’t know what exactly I’m trying to piece together. But I do know that my experience regarding the final year seems to be common, conceivably even universal.

Today I read,

“In a culture that values autonomy and self-reliance, we sometimes imagine that we can call only on our own personal strength to shoulder the burdens of those we care for and to face our own difficulties. The Gospel reminds us again and again that God’s love is our true source of strength. On him the strongest person can lean without apology.”

~in Magnificat, Morning Prayer for November 5, 2014

Perhaps recounting what the last or final moments were like is simply a way to name, to touch, what is no longer here…  a concrete and tangible way to acknowledge the hole left behind in my heart and in my world by a man too big for words.

Papi would have certainly liked hearing my stories aboutChile, the people, and the culture I’ve experienced here.

“Somehow, I have always known deep inside me that I’m only here, in this life, traveling on my way to somewhere else. Even as I strive to understand how to heal and nurture my human hunger for “home,” I remain thankful that my spirit, my heart of hearts, knows it will never feel at home in this life. My hunger for home, my need for security and intimacy and stability, is nothing less than God’s way of sending me a personal call, an invitation, to seek Him and to set my eyes on my everlasting and eternal home…

I choose to open myself to healing and love and hope, trusting that this will lead me to true freedom, even though I know this also opens my heart to feel hurt and pain and sorrow. I choose to trust in what will happen, in what could happen. But more importantly, I choose to trust in a God who wants to be present in whatever does happen.  And when I do, I will be shown first-hand the great and marvelous things that God has in mind for those who love Him.”

~from my book, “The Journey: a Guide for the Modern Pilgrim”