Words for My Aunt

Note: Joan Kuziemko, my mother’s sister, died on Wednesday, Oct. 16, at Flushing Hospital at the age of 73. She lived in Elmhurst, N.Y., all her adult life. She never married and never had a family of her own. She worked in the billing department at St. Vincent’s Hospital in Manhattan until it closed in 2010. She enjoyed traveling, going on cruises, and watching horse racing. She could make dolls and was crafty in other ways. She was also a very thoughtful gift giver at holidays. I wish she could have had more life in her life, being alone and independent as she was always. But I hope she will be received into the heavenly banquet and find a comfortable place for herself now.

“Dancing with the angels” is a great image for the kingdom of God. As it happens, Aunt Joannie had drop foot and back and leg problems that slowly invalided her in the last five years of her life. I hope that in the new creation, in the resurrection, she can move as freely as she wishes.

Thanks as always, dear readers, for your prayers and loving concern. It always fills me with consolation and encouragement. The following are some thoughts that came to mind on the day before Joannie’s funeral.

Words for Joan Kuziemko (July 2, 1946—October 16, 2019)

You may recall one of the miracle stories in the Gospels where Jesus heals a paralytic. This is the event where Jesus shows that he can forgive sins because he can make a person who is paralyzed stand up, pick up his mat, and walk.

This episode tells us good news about God, namely, that the God who made us also saves us from our wrongs and both sustains and renews our very life, in body and soul and spirit. But this episode also tells us something about ourselves. It tells us that through our faith, God’s grace can move us out of the paralysis that comes over us when we are stuck in our sin. This gives us grounds for hope, both for ourselves gathered here today, and also for Aunt Joannie, whom we ask God to gather into the heavenly cloud of witnesses.

All of us are aware of the real paralysis that came over Joannie’s body in the last years of her life. And all of us regret that she could not overcome another, deeper paralysis, a paralysis of spirit, perhaps, that kept her from asking for more help to stand up, to pick up her mat, and walk again and live. But it is hard to do that, I know, to surrender control and put your trust in others, to put your trust in God. How hard it is to dare to tear a hole in the roof and lower ourselves, to set ourselves before Jesus in God’s house.

Aunt Joannie’s paralysis was not unique. We all suffer some paralysis of the spirit. We lack courage, we lack hope, we lack faith.

But it’s never too late to change. We believe in the resurrection of the body. We believe Christ is risen. So let us put our faith in God through the risen Christ, once again. Let us dare once again to love one another. Let us show by our good works the faith we desire, until we can hear the voice of the Risen One say to us, as he says today to Joannie from paradise, “My child, your sins are forgiven. You are forgiven.”

West Babylon, N.Y., October 18, 2019 (Feast of Saint Luke)

Buen Pastor

“In green pastures he makes me lie down; to still waters he leads me” (Psalms 23:2).

Another very short post after the conclusion of a gentle, graceful day coming back into myself here in the United States, in New York City, in my own Capuchin community. 

Morning prayer in the friar chapel at Saint Michael Friary in East New York, Brooklyn; Mass with Father Alexis, the priest with Instituto del Verbo Encarnado; and conversation over pick-up breakfast. Spent the day catching up with family, friends, friars, and colleagues over e-mail and phone (how nice to use my cell phone again!). Brothers Terry, Gerard, and Richard took me out to a Szechuan restaurant in Howard Beach, and we enjoyed ourselves very much. Returned less than two hours ago to Good Shepherd with a ride from Brother Terry. Father Royson, the guardian here, received me fraternally, and now I am settled in, typing from my room at the corner of Isham Street and Cooper Street, with Isham Park just out my window and the foot of Inwood Hill Park only one block north.

The Good Shepherd has guided me along right paths. The Good Shepherd has restored my soul. 

Here I am. I have arrived. The Bolivian journey is over.

Nueva York

Touched down at John F. Kennedy International Airport at 7:25 p.m. this evening. Processing through customs was rapid. Brother Terry, one of the Capuchins who lives in Brooklyn, took me to Saint Michael Friary to stay for the night. Raided the refrigerator. Over delicious leftover asparagus and orzo I practiced Spanish with Brother Terry and another guest here, Father Alexis, who belongs to Instituto del Verbo Encarnado, a missionary order. And I was relaxed enough that the words were there. It worked! Full stomach, full heart. And I am back in the United States. I am ridiculously happy.

Listo

Ninety-nine percent of my belongings are packed away now, ready for the 4,000-mile journey ahead. Cochabamba to La Paz to Bogotá to New York. Only about eight hours and a few more tasks to fulfill before going to the airport to begin the day-long transit back to New York. Twenty-two hours? That’s nothing anymore. When you’ve had as many sleepless nights as I have had here, the diversions of an airport terminal actually look pretty good now. And it breaks down pretty evenly: 11 hours in the air, 11 hours of layover at the La Paz and Bogotá airports. Provided my aches and pains don’t suddenly get worse in the high altitude of La Paz, the travel should be a welcome diversion. 

I went to the post office this morning with Brother Leo to see what was waiting in Casilla 68. You know you’ve been someplace too long when the junk mail catches up with you. But catch up with me it did—and Boston University, my alma mater, is the culprit! Specifically, it was the university development office, with a postcard trying to lure me to alumni weekend—as if touting the biggest weekend ever appeals to everyone—and a bulletin on its fundraising campaigns. Sorry, folks—you’re tapping the wrong tree. Fortunately, I also received the magazine of Boston University School of Theology. That is not junk. The rest of it was real personal mail. I believe that everything everyone said they sent me is in my possession now. And all of it is going back to the States with me. Thank you for sharing yourself with me through your correspondences.

Brother Leo will also bring me to the airport this evening. He has done absolutely everything I have ever asked him. I vote that we make our Franciscan cousin an honorary Capuchin. 

As for my health, I am moving forward gingerly. I have been so cautious about eating, although the runs stopped on Wednesday. I will have a little lunch and a little dinner before I go to the airport. One does not live on liquids and soda crackers alone. I’ll tidy up Room 4, my inner sanctuary for six months, a little more, including the bathroom and bed. 

Am I ready to go? As sure as I’m born. But it won’t feel real until I board the flight from La Paz to Bogotá and leave the country. 

Am I ready to go? I took a walk through the cloister garden this morning. I stopped over at the fountain in the center. For a few days, the pool has been empty. The brothers have drained it and moved the fish into a tub receiving aeration. I take this as a sign. When I arrived here the cloister garden was full, lush, even overgrown. Everything was vivid. Lots of flowers. Trees bearing fruit. And the fountain was flowing. It was summer. Now it is winter, and the garden has been pruned back considerably, the flowers are gone except on the trellises, the trees and bushes are much shorter and bare of fruit. The grass is still green, but patches of brown have outed themselves. Everything is dry, so dry. Finally, the fountain had to go dry. Rather much like the condition of my spirit at this late hour. Things change. They grow for a while, then they retreat until the cycle turns again. 

There is a time and a season for everything under heaven. 

With these words ends the last post to be written from Bolivia. This book is almost closed. I will post to confirm that I am safely in New York. Whether I post one final entry after that to wrap up this blog about my immersion experience, I don’t know. It may not be fitting to have a summary statement for a form of writing that is episodic by nature. A blog is a blog, after all.

Ceremonia de Graduación

I am splitting today’s entry into two so that I can give special attention to the despedida ceremony that took place during the midmorning café in the main salon at Maryknoll.

Four of us finished our studies today: Padre Antonio, the archdiocesan priest from New York; Maryknoll seminarians Joshua and Charles; and me. Each departing student shares a few words with the entire Maryknoll community. Then each student receives a certificate of completion of courses, a sermon reflection on Pentecost, a small wooden cross and a prayer card blessed by Padre Alejandro, the mission center director, and a Maryknoll polo shirt. Of course, you also get embraces and applause for your work. 

Padre Antonio spoke first; I was next. Here are the remarks I delivered. 

Me gustaría expresarme con los sentimientos los más sinceros hacia todos en la comunidad de Maryknoll. Es duro hacerlo en español. Yo no tengo ni la elocuencia ni la precisión como en inglés. Entonces he escrito un poema para compartir mi historia. 

Llegué aquí como hermano desconocido
Respondiendo a la llamada del Dios escondido.
El don de lenguas ardientemente quería
Más que el profundizaje del don de profecía.
Sobretodo el amor me encontró y me sumergió
En aguas tan hondo—dime, ¿Quién surgió?
Mi espíritu ha sentido seco y enfermo;
He buscado un renacimiento en el yermo.
Yo he ido a los fines de Bolivia
Para encender un fuego en mi alma tibia.
Me has enseñado, esperando conmigo
Partiendo el pan de lo más fine del trigo. 

Me has llevado a la cima del mundo
Y de vuelta al suelo sagrado fecundo.
¿Qué ha significado todo esto? ¿Lo qué sigue?
Con el amor, cuanto más da, más consigue.
Pero cómo amar casi he olvidado
Rechazando la vida que Dios me ha dado.
No podia dormir por la pasión que me habia consumido.
Todo lo que tenia dar estaba casi perdido.
Pero he vivido para darme cuenta
De que el sacrificio del amor el mismo aumenta.
Entregado a Dios, en Cristo escondido,
Salgo de aquí hacia un futuro desconocido.

Espero que este poema me haya revelado. No ha sido fácil revelarme en español para ustedes. No me reconozco tan bien como ayer. Es mejor decir que yo me reconoce menos. ¿Quién soy? La respuesta es menos cierta que en el pasado. ¿Quién soy? ¿Quién es Dios? ¿Qué quiere Dios que haga? ¿A dónde quiere Dios enviarme? No sé las respuestas de estas preguntas. Dios me ha puesto en un lugar de desconocimiento. Vine a este lugar desconocido, y ahora volveré a los Estados Unidos para enfrentar un futuro desconocido. ¿Estoy agradecido? En verdad, estoy lleno de curiosidad. ¿Qué está haciendo Dios? No sé. Sin embargo, Dios les ha hecho a ustedes conspiradores en esta actividad misteriosa. Lo que Dios ha hecho, lo sucedió. En vez de decir “gracias,” diré “Amen.” No entiendo todo lo que ocurrió. A pesar de todo, diré “Amen.” Hágase tu voluntad. Hágase tu voluntad. Amen. Amen. 

The community applauded, and a couple of teachers asked for a copy of the poem I had written.

Charles spoke feelingly and with abundant thanksgiving for his experiences in language immersion. Joshua, my old classmate, topped all of us with a song dedicated to every teacher and administrator in the language program. He told me later how nervous he was to perform, but I answer, “Well done, compañero.” 

Padre Alejandro took a few moments to synthesize for the community the meaning of our language immersion for our respective ministerial calls. In my case he called attention to my ongoing work in urban parochial ministry and my desire both to help integrate a culturally diverse parish and be a witness to the cry of the poor in the voice of undocumented immigrants of the United States. 

Señora Kitty concluded with what is her most common refrain. She told each of us that Maryknoll is a community, a family, and that we always belong to it. As I was listening to her speaking, I looked across the salon through the bay windows to the patio outside, where I have spent many a ten-minute recess between classes. I swear I could see a dragonfly darting.

El Sol

This morning after 8 o’clock, the sunshine poured into the bedroom and washed over the bed on which I lay. The rays blanketed me and everything around me with warmth and goodness. I have always been thankful for this moment of blessing, the minute when the angle of the sun, ascending in the east, is in line with my rear window. Usually, I would not get to experience this except on Sundays, when I could sleep in. But this week all bets were off with personal health issues. So I gave myself permission to rise late and arrive at Maryknoll late.

Back to the sun. It is a morning moment like this that I want to remember in midst of the challenging times in Bolivia. It is the same sun that warms all creatures everywhere around the world, each in its turn. It is the same sun whose energy is the source for all power here. It is the same sun that sustains all life on this planet. It lies so far away in unimaginably far skies, but it is close enough to touch us with life. Thanks be to God. 

It is the same sun whose power and light, along with the earth in its fertility, has been revered by peoples of numerous religions. And so we honored the same sun and one earth this morning with a k’oa ritual. Profesora Sara led the ritual for us, walking us through the elements of the ritual. I have written about this Andean practice before, so I won’t break down all the details this time. Rather, let me say that, after spending almost the whole week indoors, it was good to feel the sun on my face and to stroke the soft grass under my feet. (The k’oa is a ritual burnt offering, so we gathered on a knoll in between the mission center and the Maryknoll priests’ house.) It was also an opportunity, in silent prayer, in this offertory, to ask God to grant me the blessing of renewed health and a safe journey back to the United States. In short order we built the mesa; on top of the kindling and a heavy paper sheet, some earth, then varieties of hard sugar confections to symbolize our desires and our prayers, some llama meat, and coca leaves. The fire was lit, and then we continued with the ch’alla. We poured cerveza and chicha at the four corners of the mesa. Profesora Sara reminded me not to turn my back on the sun when making your offering! That is real faith in the power of ritual, friends. Another custom is to take a drink from the chicha cup after you pour libations into the earth. Last time, five months ago, I abstained from drinking chicha, but this time I was looking for healing from all places, so I took a sip to be in communion with Pachamama and with one another. 

I went to Mass one final time at the Maryknoll chapel after that. While taking my turn to drink from the communion cup, it felt like a continuation of the k’oa for me. Before the dismissal, the Korean priests, Antonio, Esteban, and Pablo, all laid hands in turn to send me God’s blessing for the journey and to give thanks for my presence here. 

As I conclude this post, the sun is heating the front window of my bedroom. For the next hour it will give my room a good glow. The day has come full circle. The journey has almost come full circle.

Por Favor

From prayer to prayer of abjection, we go. 

Dear God, help me. Ease the pain. Turn weakness into strength. Make your healing happen. It is hard to call on you when I feel weak. But I will call on you anyway. Heal the aches and pains. Calm the body, which is tense. Make the body you made well. I need your help. On top of all human assistance, I need your help. Dear God, help me now. 

How my head ached this morning! It still aches. My body feels stiff, almost sore. I don’t drink alcohol, but maybe this is what a hangover feels like. It must be the hunger and lack of sleep. Maybe the antibiotic is making me feel weak and achy, as well. 

So I ask you, dear God, for mercy. I ask Jesus for mercy. I ask the Spirit for mercy. I depend on your love and mercy. So please make me well. Help me get up off this bed of pain. The journey is almost over. Help me rise and let me be on my way. 

Sometimes you have to know when to give it up, when to surrender. Today is a day where I reached a physical limit beyond which I just could not cross. I went to Maryknoll. I tried to be present to do the exit interview with Señora Kitty. But it was clear that I was too weak, I could not think, and my head kept throbbing. Señora Kitty told me that it was all right. I did not have to take the exam interview now. I could do the interview later over Skype with one of the teachers. The only important thing now was to rest, rest, rest, in any way possible. (I got a nap, at last, this afternoon.) After a conversation with Profesora Viviana, I agreed that I cannot go forward like this, and we can postpone the interview. Sometimes you have to know when to give it a rest. 

It is funny that I would have considered having the assessment interview on the day when I felt my worst ever in Bolivia. I was reminded, gently, that the well-being of the person is always more important. It is no good to push yourself beyond the limit when there is nothing left beyond that limit point. 

Where this leaves everything on Friday is unclear. I would like to go to Maryknoll. I would like to share the words of parting that I wrote for the occasion. I would like to be present at the midday celebration of Mass in the chapel. It is only one more day. But, dear God, it was so hard to get up and do anything this morning. So I say again, please help me through these final days until I am back safely in the United States. Please grant me that favor. I hope for a sound body for travel. Help me make it through this night and Friday night and the travel weekend. 

These things I ask in your holy name. These things I ask in your Son’s holy name. These things I ask in the name of the Holy Spirit. 

I know the simplest prayer is “Thank you.” But a more honest though inarticulate prayer is the word “please.”

Entrevista

Not a return to form, but at least a return to classes. I began a review of lessons I’ve learned before. We’re simply having conversations, natural conversations, and that’s all. No exercises by the book unless I am really stuck on some grammatical point I have learned but not absorbed. This is in preparation for the exit interview. This will be the final assessment by which the teachers can measure my progress in Spanish from February to the present. The weekly cultural conference was postponed to Friday, so today it was all review, all repaso. It will be all repaso tomorrow, too. I am skipping the field trip the other students are taking to Quillacollo to the shrine of Our Lady of Urkupiña, which I visited back in May. I have written at length about my pilgrimage to Quillacollo, so I won’t repeat it here. I am finding that I am growing less inclined to do the same thing twice, or maybe that is just how I have decided to do things in Bolivia. But I digress.

The interview, which will take place in the fourth period tomorrow, will be conducted by a teacher other Profesoras Liliana and Viviana, my current tandem. What will be, will be. I am not now a nervous tester, but I am a reluctant tester. Results and a discussion of the same will come at some hour on Friday. Whatever the results, I will receive them with good cheer. I’ll share the results with the friars on our provincial council, and more than that, I’ll seek their expert opinion regarding the suitability of my language skills for ministry. 

In the meantime, I have been doing a little extra credit, preparing my despedida from Maryknoll with some appropriate remarks and a few verses. Perhaps I will make a post in Spanish this Friday. 

I’ve been refueling on Powerade, and beginning this evening I will be attacking whatever bad bacteria are left inside with an antibiotic. I had a vegetable omelet this afternoon, and hopefully it will agree with my body. So, yes, I am getting back on my feet. I feel tired, not having slept since Sunday night. It’s like the greatest hits (to the body) are all coming back now: diarrhea, insomnia. No more, sir: I have had enough. This kind of makes it official: my soul, mind, and spirit have left Bolivia, and now my body is telling me it’s through. 

During this bout of unwellness, these songs have stuck with me. Here’s what I have been listening to lately. They sound the way I feel. Sometimes they pick me up, too.

Bob Dylan, Rainy Day Women #12 & 35 

Gnarls Barkley, Crazy

The Rolling Stones, Get Off My Cloud and No Expectations 

and Undercover of the Night 

Having intestinal troubles three times in three months is a nuisance. Is it the cooking at the convent? Have I swallowed too much sink water while brushing my teeth, or shower water when bathing? I don’t know. I suppose a little caution these final days in Bolivia wouldn’t hurt. 

Off now to rest, to have a video call with family, and to hope for a renewal of vigor tomorrow. Four days until New York, dear friends and readers. Keep me in your prayers, and I will keep you in mine.

Recuperando

The last 24 hours have been a blur while I have been battling bad bacteria for at least the third time in the last three months. This will be the last time, I swear it! It has to be the last time, with only five days to go in Bolivia. 

The hours crawled by. I could not sleep, but at least I found restful positions in which I could lie. I felt my body temperature rising in response to the bad bacteria inside my intestines. I trust my body has been fighting the good fight. Being somewhat dehydrated, my mouth and throat dried out and I caught a sore throat, though that seems to be on the wane. I drank some liquid, but I did not eat because I had no appetite. Up to now I have eaten nothing since breakfast yesterday, but I will try some food later on. Anyway, I muddled through, hour after hour. The music from the Bolivian Independence Day parades, yesterday and today, has continued steadily, muffled in the distance. My earplugs worked well to keep out the ruckus—joyful, but still a ruckus. Hour after hour crept by slowly. From last afternoon to this one it was like a 24-hour night for me. 

Am I getting better? I do not know. I have nothing to expel. I feel a little hungry now. But I will not eat a full meal, lest I overdo it. Easy does it for the rest of this day. As for tomorrow, when classes resume, it’s a roll of the dice. Do I go to class, arrive late, or stay at the convent? It’s a game-day decision. Thank goodness for the national holiday; I did not miss classes today. 

In addition to Bolivian Independence Day, this is the feast of the Transfiguration, one of the most important Christian celebrations of the year for me. I have written poetry about it. The Transfiguration is like a compass for me; it gives direction to my discipleship. When I am in doubt about where to go and what to do, I can remember the Transfiguration. Christ is risen, and his Transfiguration is a foreshadowing of this ultimate reality. Since I was laid low a day ago, I have not really prayed—too tired to do anything. But oh, how I would like to pray. How I would like just to remain in the presence of the risen Christ, the transfigured Christ, the exalted Christ. Active as I have been over the years, there is nothing I would prefer more than to drop my busyness and enter the presence of God for all time, for all eternity. But I need to be honest to God and honest with myself. When I say I want to drop everything and enter the presence of God, do I really rather want to enter the presence of myself? Instead of holy solitude with the Holy One, is it an ungracious isolation where I deify myself? 

Let it not be that way. God will never leave me alone. God would never have it that way. The Transfiguration of Jesus took place in the company of Peter, James, and John. Even as my soul, mind, and spirit have flown from Bolivia (and the body is soon to follow) for some impossible sanctuary of isolation, God will chase my wayward parts and reintegrate them in the company of others. The communion of saints is the holy solitude and exalted community destined for me.

Desaventura

I have not been feeling well at all today. A couple of bowel malfunctions and the chills have come over me. Not the way I expected to begin the final week of this Bolivian journey. I do not want to look at or smell food right now. I returned to Convento San Francisco an hour early from classes at Maryknoll. And despite all the pomp and circumstance of Bolivian Independence Day celebrations happening directly outside the convent, I lay me down to rest, bundling up under the covers and closing the shutters. I have not slept, but I do feel good about having rested comfortably in bed for the last several hours. I have sipped some liquids and that is all. Maybe the fever has gone away. I do not know. I do feel a little achy, but the aches would have been worse if I did not lie down. I took a little acetaminophen, and that helped. 

My regret is that I missed the farewell lunch for Brother Scott and me with the Franciscans. No tres leches cake for me, that is for sure. And I need to lay down again shortly, because that is the most comfortable position for me. So I probably will not go off to the airport with Brother Leo and my Capuchin compañero. Again, I regret this very much, but sickness never cooperates with our busyness or our plans, does it?

The bands have started up again, and they will be making martial music all evening and all night. It should be a pretty interesting night for me, given how I feel. But I may be too fatigued to notice or care. Yes, it’s wall-to-wall people all along Avenida Heroinas, but for all I care they could be on Mars. I probably won’t be helped or hindered by the throng outside Calle 25 de Mayo. If I lie awake, I will lie awake. If I sleep, then I will sleep. 

Okay, back to bed now. Pray for me, friends. I aim to return to the United States healthy and in good spirits!

Comida Fina

It is Sunday, and on this day usually I devote this cyberspace to some spiritual reflection, based on the Gospels and my experiences in Bolivia. But this is my last weekend in Cochabamba, so instead I will look to the lighter side and give you a restaurant review!

To celebrate Brother Scott’s completion of classes, and to rejoice in the time we have shared living together, we went to dinner at La Cantonata. This is the Italian restaurant we enjoyed very much six weeks ago when we treated our Jesuit compañero Brett on the eve of his departure from Bolivia. We came with high expectations for an excellent meal, and all our gustatorial hopes were fulfilled. For me it was sautéed mushrooms followed by ricotta-filled gnocchi; for Brother Scott it was antipasto followed by tortellini. Our homemade pasta was succulent, very filling, and very good. For an encore I had a coffee cake torta, and Brother Scott had a crepe-like apple pancake that was still flaming when brought to the table! Our hearts were warmed by the genial service and the pleasant atmosphere. Brother Scott and I relished the conviviality of the hour and the opportunity for two Capuchin brothers just to be together. I offered a prayer of blessing for the meal, and to my amazement, I improvised it in Spanish. I was proud of myself. Midway through the meal, who should walk in the restaurant but Profesora Liliana and her husband? We introduced ourselves to Profesora Liliana’s partner and marveled at what a small world it is. We came hungry, and we left with full stomachs and full spirits. ¡Bellísimo! To all the Italian restaurants I have known and loved in the Little Italys of New York City’s Lower East Side and Boston’s North End: it is time to raise your game. 

This morning, for Sunday worship, Brother Scott and I returned one more time to Templo San Rafael, the chapel of the Capuchin Poor Clare sisters. Accompanying us were Silvana, the public relations director at Maryknoll, and her mother Daisy. The celebrant, Padre Agustín, was a priest from India; Silvana recognized him because he, too, has studied Spanish at Maryknoll. At the end of the Mass we introduced ourselves to him, and we also said a hasty farewell to the Capuchin clarisas. Next Sunday is the feast of Saint Clare of Assisi; I regret that we will not be here to celebrate this joyous solemnity with our sisters in religion. Following worship, Brother Scott and I went with Señorita Silvana and Señora Daisy to Rincón Potosino, one of the finest eateries for salteñas in Cochabamba. I am a vegetarian, so I cannot enjoy these savory baked meat pastries. But salteñas are practically a national symbol of Bolivia, so I gladly sat and kept company with my compañeras as Brother Scott and I shared with Señora Daisy and Señorita Silvana how we became Capuchin friars. 

I am about halfway finished with the coplas I am writing for my farewell remarks this Friday at Maryknoll. I will now return to the poets’ corner and look for small coins of inspiration.

Más Fotos

I am not a photographer. Even if I had a smartphone, I would probably not use it to take pictures. I have relied on words to show you Bolivia and to convey what language study and cultural immersion feels like. But on occasion a picture is really helpful to tell you a story. So I have depended on websites and friends to share images of Bolivia with you. 

Once or twice during this chronicle I have referred the reader who wants to read images as well as words to the Facebook page for Centro Misionero Maryknoll en América Latina. I am posting the link one more time so you can see what goes on at the mission center. Now and then your correspondent appears in the timeline of photos. You can see, proof positive, that I really have been living and studying in Cochabamba!

Dar Vida

“ ‘It is not that which gives you life’ ” (Luke 12:15). 

It is strange to admit this, but right now I wonder what this Bolivian journey has been all about. What has happened, and what is next? 

I am thinking of Jesus’ parable of the foolish rich man and his dream of bigger barns in the Gospel of Luke. I am thinking of Jesus’ stern words of God: “This very night your life will be taken from you” (Luke 12:20). What I could give while living in Cochabamba has been limited by my language skills and lack of social capital, but more than that it has been limited by my love or lack of it. I have a greed for my own place, my own time, my own way. I have a greed for having it my own way and changing the way when it no longer suits me, even though I elected it. Basically, I want to be my own dictator. I want to rule myself, and in so wanting I become a tyrant to everyone else. That is not right. But Jesus interrupts these machinations to tell me, as he tells the avaricious brother seeking property, “It is not that which gives you life.” Most of the time, all I do is seek to save or safeguard this life. Protecting life is not the same as creating life or sharing life. It is not the same as giving life. And all God does is give. All I ever do is take; that is, take by force more than I receive in peace. Certainly, I take more than I give. But I know I can give, for I have done it before. But to give more constantly, more fully, in prayer, fasting, and almsgiving, I hesitate to do or I ignore entirely. Not the right place, not the right time, or so I say. This is not the way of Jesus Christ. It is my wayward way. 

What has this Bolivian journey been all about, and what is next? Learning a language was not the end, but a means to an end. But many times I feel that I have forgotten what the end is. Or if I knew it, I chose not to pay mind to it. I am a religious brother with the Capuchin Franciscans by the grace of God for the sake of Christ and the kin(g)dom of heaven. That is the end. Is that all there is? What it is to be a brother in Jesus and Francis is less clear to me now than it was before I came to Bolivia. How I am to live a life of discipleship as a consecrated brother is also less clear to me today. Finally, both my love and God’s love, my desire and God’s desire, are a mystery more obscure to me today than it was six months ago. What is God’s love that it gives me life? And how (and why) should I give that life over to God’s love? I am not asking to be clever or to test Jesus. I am seeking.

It is almost eleven o’clock, late morning on a sunny Saturday, another beautiful day in Bolivia. Why is it that I have come here? I have been dipped into love, but now I feel dried up and dried out. It does not make sense to me. I do not know what has happened, but something happened here in Bolivia. God is doing things. God is giving me life. And God wants all of it back, transformed—transubstantiated. How strange it is.

Nuevo Ritmo

I begin where we left off yesterday, with thanks to everyone who came out to the despedida. Brother Scott and I were bowled over by the fine food and kind words and good feeling shared so generously. To the teachers, fellow students, and Maryknoll friends I say que Dios les bendiga abundantemente. Special thanks to Elisabeth and Winifred, our Mennonite friends who last night made their home a home for all of us living far away from home. Indeed, I will miss sharing meals with them at their apartment! May God do good things through them as they continue their adventures in discipleship in Cochabamba.

Today was Brother Scott’s final day of classes, so in keeping with custom, he gave several words of thanks and farewell during the mid-morning café. He received a Maryknoll shirt and his diploma, marking the completion of three months of study. Next Friday it is my turn to give a commencement speech of sorts. I believe Joshua and Charles, my Maryknoll seminarian friends, will be finishing their studies next Friday, too, so they will have some parting words as well. After you, hermanos: you are more than welcome to speak first! 

I avoided the usual Friday funk with a break in the rhythm of classes. For starters, Señora Kitty took the first two periods, during which time we talked about events of the past week. Then we viewed part of Our Brand Is Crisis together. I had viewed the film with Profesora Liliana previously, but we watched in English. Today I watched it dubbed in Spanish with Spanish subtitles. Señora Kitty had not seen the film before, so as we watched I gave her commentary. And those two hours flew by quickly … hooray for real conversation! I continued the film and commentary with Profesora Viviana for the third hour before going to the office of public relations director Silvana Martinez for the fourth hour. There, we continued the conversation with Señor Lionel of Maryknoll’s missionary disciple formation program in the U.S. I was impressed with the work he is doing with parishes across the country to form women and men for domestic and foreign mission and to create a culture of encounter that builds solidarity among different ethnic groups in Catholic communities. I hope to continue a correspondence with him after I return to New York City. All in good time. 

Here comes my last full weekend in Bolivia. Tomorrow, I expect to do a deep cleaning of my room so as to leave it in better condition than when I moved here. In the evening, Brother Scott and I are going to have one more excellent meal at La Cantonata on me, with thanks to the benefactors whose generosity has allowed us to have this immersion experience. We will probably worship at Templo San Rafael on Sunday morning so we can say goodbye to the Capuchin Poor Clare sisters. Apart from those happenings, who knows what the weekend will bring? With fewer than ten days left here, now is a good time to break with established rhythms. Let the work God has begun in us be brought to fullness with the help of grace and good luck and a twist to the beat!

Despedida

Do not let the title of today’s post fool you. I am not leaving Bolivia today, and neither is Brother Scott. But we are having a little party tonight courtesy of the Mennonite lay volunteers who have become our friends since we studied together at Maryknoll. The despedida gets rolling at around 7 o’clock with tacos and potluck contributions from all. We are having the farewell tonight because a few of the Maryknoll language school friends we invited are going to La Paz tomorrow. We are having the farewell this week because Brother Scott is departing on Monday. I have joked that this despedida will be like a living funeral for me, because I’ll still be around through next Saturday! But it doesn’t matter much—the timing, that is. We are simply behaving like Bolivians, who are more than happy to put on a party whenever the time is right.

We did have that excursion to the town of Tarata today. It was Profesoras Liliana, Vicky, and Viviana with Brother Scott and me and Padre Marcin, a Polish priest who has been brushing up on his already-very-good Spanish these last six weeks in preparation for his ministry in La Paz. I wish I could have enjoyed it more—it was a brief visit of one hour! That’s because it’s about an hour and 15 minutes one way in either direction between Cochabamba and Tarata. It felt a bit like driving for hours to the Grand Canyon, only to stop for 15 minutes to behold it. Oh well. What we did see, we appreciated very much. Walking through the main plaza of town and threading narrow brick roads made me feel like I was on the set of some movie where they were filming a revisionist Western set in the late 19th century. The high sun, the dusty streets, and the adobe facades of 150-year-old buildings with crumbling whitewash and boarded-up windows put me in a different time and place, if only for a moment.

We had enough time to pay respects at two churches. The first was the church of the Parish of Saint Peter the Apostle, founded 1605. By now the spirituality of Spanish colonial Catholicism, as demonstrated by the statues and figures within the church, has become quite familiar to me: all Good Friday, hardly a trace of Easter Sunday. Oh well. The peoples of Latin America have been a crucified people, and that goes for both the indigenous peoples and the criollos whose post-revolution dreams of liberty, prosperity, and strength degenerated into nightmares as stronger imperial forces conquered the conquistadores and liberadores. A brick path led us from the center of town to the Shrine of San Severino. This is the church maintained by our Franciscan brothers, whose adjoining convent and retreat center I visited early in March the day before Ash Wednesday. I didn’t see the church when I visited in March, so my Franciscan tour was completed today. San Severino, the patron of Tarata, is not a Franciscan saint but an ancient Roman martyr from the third century, a soldier who apparently renounced his loyalty to Caesar for the sake of Christ. He was reportedly beheaded for his disobedience to Caesar. The Franciscans who have long ministered in Tarata obtained relics of the martyr and keep them safe in their convent. San Severino, patron of the military, is also patron of the rains, and a great festival attends his feast day, which is observed in November in Tarata. Check out this Facebook group for details. 

Okay, nothing more to report here. On to the despedida; on to tomorrow!

Relato

Good afternoon from the student lounge at Maryknoll, where I am typing this digest for you. I attended Mass at the mission center chapel and had lunch with Father Ken and the priests and lay volunteers. Now I am hanging out here and waiting for the evening screening of The Professor and the Madman, or El Profesor y el Loco. The making of the Oxford English Dictionary is an unlikely subject for a feature film. To see such a movie dubbed into Spanish is even less likely. But this screening is free and I have nothing more important to do, so there we go!

There is a small commotion outside. A group of school children are drilling and marching in the basketball court next to the mission center property. They are singing along to some martial music. Are they practicing for Bolivian Independence Day, only six days away?

It was a tiring morning of classes, typical of Wednesdays. I was grateful for the diversion of our weekly conference at 11 a.m. Profesor Osvaldo, who is leading the weekend trip to La Paz, which the majority of the students here are making, gave a very clear and very engaging presentation on the attractions of La Paz and Copacabana at Lago Titicaca.

I have lost the desire to travel to new and exotic locations. My soul flew from Bolivia almost a month ago, and my mind has all but lifted off, as distracted as I feel in prayer and in studies. But it does look like I will make a field trip tomorrow morning with Profesoras Liliana and Vicky to Tarata. I visited the Franciscan retreat center there with the friars of Convento San Francisco the day before Ash Wednesday, but I cannot say that I saw Tarata itself. Tomorrow the opportunity presents itself to see this town and get a flavor of the people and the culture of the community.

The despedida for Brother Scott and me is coming together. It looks like there will be at least 13 people, so we will make it more like a potluck so that there is plenty of food for everybody.

The sky is clear and blue, the sun is shining brightly, and the moon is new and invisible. The next time I see the full moon, I will be in New York City, provided the light pollution does not get in the way. Only a week and a half of August stand between me and my homeland. The month of July has gone by very slowly. I hope these final 11 days, cold and breezy August days, go swiftly with the wind.

Beato

Today I would like to yield this cyberspace and share with you the words of Blessed Solanus Casey, the first Capuchin friar born in the United States to be elevated by the Roman Catholic Church to the honor of blessed for his sanctity and virtue. July 30 is the feast day for Blessed Solanus, which is why I wish to share his words of wisdom with you today. God willing, he will one day soon be canonized and become the first man born in the U.S. to be recognized by the Church worldwide as a saint. 

Who is Blessed Solanus? There are many others who can tell the amazing story of Father Solanus better than I can. For starters, visit this portal to the Solanus Casey Center and the Father Solanus Guild. 

Whether he was offering consolation, encouragement, or instruction, Father Solanus’ writings bear the warmth of God’s love and glow with wit. Indeed, his simplicity of expression, unencumbered by formalism, allows the light of God to shine through his words. 

Bro. Leo Wollenweber (d. 2012), a Capuchin friar of the Province of Saint Joseph in the midwest U.S. who was Father Solanus’ secretary in the early 1940s, published some of those words in the book Meet Solanus Casey: Spiritual Counselor and Wonder Worker (Cincinnati: Franciscan Media, 2002). Brother Leo was also vice postulator of the cause for canonization for Father Solanus. The following is a sample of Father Solanus’ words of wisdom. 

Holiness of Life 

Inasmuch as individuals or humanity as a whole turn away from God to seek peace elsewhere, in just so much will they be restless, disappointed, and discouraged. 

We must be faithful to the present moment, or we will frustrate the plan of God for our lives.

Disregard for the claims of justice, under whatever pretext, has always been the manifestation of (to say the very least) shallow thinking—or rather a betrayal of real thinking. 

Be blind as possible to the faults of your neighbors, trying at least to attribute a good intention to their actions. 

God is constantly planning wonders for the patient and the humble. 

This poor sinner Solanus, who more than anyone else gives me the most trouble. I consider it a mercy that we need examine one conscience only! 

Jesus is no crank! He knows we are poor sinners, and He understands when we fail. 

Faith and Confidence in God 

Confidence is the very soul of prayer. 

Shake off excessive worry and show a little confidence in God’s merciful providence. 

Worry is a weakness from which very few of us are entirely free. We must be on guard against this most insidious enemy of our peace of soul. Instead let us foster confidence in God, and thank Him ahead of time for whatever He chooses to send us. 

Church and Sacraments 

God could have founded the Church and left it under the supervision of angels that have no human faults and weaknesses. But who can doubt that as it stands today, consisting of and under poor sinners—successors of ignorant fishermen—the Church is a more outstanding miracle than in any other way? 

Frequent Communion brings peace into a family and into the soul. It also fosters faith in God and heavenly relationships with all God’s dear ones in heaven. 

As manifested in the lives of the saints, if we strive and use the means God has given us, we too can ascend to great sanctity and to an astonishing familiarity with God—even here—as pilgrims to the Beatific Vision. 

Crosses and Sufferings 

We want to be Christians—spouses of Jesus—risen and glorified, of course, but without getting too near the Cross. 

How merciful the good God is, always “fitting the back to the burden”—if not vice-versa, as is often the case. 

The world is full of misunderstanding, but God often uses its mistakes to correct us and to give us the right outlook on life and its eternal destiny. 

My pain was excruciating, and though I tried to thank God for it, my principal prayer was: “God help me!”

We should make a virtue of earthly deprivations, by offering them all to our heavenly Father in union with Jesus, who said: “The Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head.” 

Mary and the Saints 

Mary is the Mother of God, and by His divine wisdom, power, and merciful condescension, the Blessed Mother of redeemed humanity, therefore our Blessed Mother also. 

How pleasant the glorified memory of the saints in heaven must be, who have finally triumphed over the world, the flesh, and the devil. 

Death, Heaven, and Eternity 

Life is the vestibule to eternity. 

Death is the climax of humiliation, when we must finally give up all and turn all over to God. 

Heaven—where love of God and our neighbor is the life and very soul of society and association, where hopeful faith has merged into eternal charity. 

Courage, therefore, and with the soul’s eye fixed on the goal of eternity, struggle on. 

Gratitude and Appreciation 

Gratitude is the first sign of a thinking, rational creature. 

To know and appreciate is to advance in the one science necessary: sanctity. 

Be sure, if the enemy of our soul is pleased at anything in us, it is ingratitude of whatever kind. Why? Ingratitude leads to so many breaks with God and our neighbor. 

Humanity’s outstanding weakness seems to be a thoughtless want of appreciation for the uncountable blessings by which Almighty God is always surrounding it. 

Rightly ordered charity is that I should never forget that the primary purpose of my creation and existence as a rational creature is to recognize and know, to appreciate and love—with an intelligent, personal, and grateful love—my God, my Creator, my Redeemer, my Sanctifier.

¿Por Qué No?

It was an easygoing day of classes at Maryknoll. Mondays have been good days for the last several weeks. And why not? With a weekend of full rest, the first day of the week is usually all right. It’s Thursday and Friday that are the tough days, when the mind is wrung out. If only I could have two days off for every day of classes, everything would be ducky. Learning would be easy! But it doesn’t work that way. Quack quack. 

We are continuing to plod through the many uses of the subjunctive form of grammar. But we made more digressions into unscripted conversation, Profesoras Liliana, Viviana, and me. This makes the time pass more quickly. We also read an article by Profesor Osvaldo to prepare us for the Wednesday conference. He is taking about ten of the students to El Alto, La Paz, and Copacabana this weekend. The conference is all about this part of Bolivia, which Profesor Osvaldo, himself a paceño, proudly calls home. More to come after the conference later this week. I regret that I will not be seeing Lago Titicaca and Copacabana during my Bolivian journey, but that’s all right. I have been to La Paz, and I have seen many splendid lagoons in the wilderness of Potosí. 

I will be hanging around Maryknoll Wednesday afternoon until it is time for the monthly film screening and discussion that evening. We will be seeing The Professor and the Madman, or in Spanish, El Profesor y el Loco. It’s the one about the compilation of the Oxford English Dictionary. Yes, it’s an ironic choice, seeing a film about the quintessential reference book of the English language … in Spanish! And why not? Brother Scott saw this film one night at Convento San Francisco during convivencia with the brothers (I must have elsewhere that night) and gives his two thumbs up.

Backtracking, briefly: 

On Friday morning I had a video call with Lionel, a member of Maryknoll’s missionary disciple formation team in the United States. He leads workshops in culturally diverse parishes in the largest cities of the U.S. to train lay leaders for domestic and foreign mission activities. He is an asylee from Guatemala who has resided in the U.S. for 30 years. It was a privilege to hear his story and learn about the work he does to form disciples and bring together different cultures. These are two high-priority goals for us at Church of the Good Shepherd. I hope to continue the conversation with Lionel this week and gain wisdom from him that may help me be a better minister to/for/with the people of my parish and community. 

On Sunday afternoon I took a long walk through the city center to Parque Mariscal Santa Cruz. This is a family-friendly aquatic park (admission 3.50 bolivianos) with barbecuing grounds, a carousel, a trolley ride, a great pool, a miniature aquarium, and paddle-boat rides (prices varied for these). You entered the aquarium through the mouth of a sea monster—pretty cool. I enjoyed looking at the fish making funny faces at us from their tanks and pools. Many of the kiddies relished feeding the fish. When they emptied their little plastic pouches of fish food into the tank, you should have seen how the dozens of fish made a scrum to the tank edge! It was a hoot watching the fish squirm over one another, mouths gaping and puckering. I took my time wandering around the grounds. The sunshine was abundant and the sky was blazing blue in the late afternoon, and the park was teeming with families. I parked myself on a bench by the little lagoon and watched the people pedaling in the water. For a few bolivianos more, you could paddle in a swan boat! It all reminded me of the Boston Public Garden. As the sun began to fall, I said evening prayer, with Cristo de la Concordia extending a benediction from his distant hill, and a little rainbow visible in the mist of a fountain spray shooting up from the paddleboat pool. 

God is good, and all that God has made is very good. And why not? 

Cómo

“One of Jesus’ disciples said to him, ‘Lord, teach us to pray just as John taught his disciples’ ” (Luke 11:1). 

That one-word question, how, has been on my mind the last several days. How do I be a Capuchin brother now; how do I love God and neighbor now (and once again); how do I choose every day what is good, what is true, what is beautiful, radically, with abandon. Everything comes back to how, or the means by which I fulfill the aims I have vowed to live, with God and a cast of hundreds as my witness. It is why I am reading the late Fr. Michael Crosby’s Spirituality of the Beatitudes with great intent. It is his how-to for living the Beatitudes of Matthew’s Gospel. What a gift God gave the Capuchin family through our brother Michael. I don’t want to part with this book! But I want to share it with others, donate it to someone or somewhere where it will be picked up again and do some good for others. 

This morning, how finds focus in the question Jesus received, “teach us to pray.” Yes, I want to know, too, how to pray. Yes, Jesus’ prayer to God that begins “Our Father” is an answer, the answer for many of us who regard his prayer as the ultimate, the classic, of prayer. But even Jesus’ answer to his disciples feels more like a what than the how that I crave. Yes, I accept what Jesus has taught. Now I want to move from description or prescription to method, to practice. This calls for spirituality. This calls for wisdom. This calls for attention, for concentration, and perhaps most of all, for discipline. 

In Bolivia, it has been a challenge to pray well, to pray with attention to what makes for excellent practice. The trials of insomnia made it hard to pray. You can pray or you can sleep, but you cannot do both at the same time. You cannot pray if you are not rested. Without one you do not have the other. Also, the challenge of language immersion has made it hard to pray. With almost all of my vocal prayer being in Spanish, those periods of common prayer with the friars, reciting the Liturgy of the Hours or the rosary, feel more like language-learning exercises than a spiritual practice. When you have to concentrate on pronunciation and comprehension, when you are stuck on the words, then you are thinking more than you are praying. Likewise, if I am listening to a homily or spoken prayers at celebrations of the Eucharist, then my mind, which is trying to understand what is being communicated and gets frustrated because it doesn’t, overrules the soul, and prayer doesn’t happen. Many evenings I ignore the homily entirely and meditate instead on a word or phrase from the Gospel. It is easier to participate fully and consciously in the celebration of Eucharist when we hear the rote prayers and give the rote responses, because they are the same every day. Finally, my experience of a loss of confidence or trust in God’s love a few months ago has made it hard to pray. I won’t go back into those details here; you can browse through previous posts on the blog for that. Slowly, I am re-integrating God and Christ and Holy Spirit into the One-in-Three that God is. 

So on this Sunday I am simply sitting with how and offering the question to God. Just to think the word or utter it silently from my soul transforms me, transports me, maybe brings me closer to the One who can aid me. The question then becomes almost a command, a demand, even: Show me how. Show me the way, dear God, dear Jesus. Then, ultimately, a declaration: I will be how I want to be. Holy Spirit, make it happen! Amen.

Santa Cruz

Good things come to those who wait … don’t they? Well, good enough or not, let’s backtrack to Santa Cruz.

At quarter after two last Friday, July 19, Brother Scott and I were sitting side by side in the terminal at the Cochabamba airport. Less than two hours later, we were on the ground at Aeropuerto Viru Viru, outside the city of Santa Cruz. Padre Jimmy, our Capuchin brother, received us and took us to the parish and friary of Our Lady of Guadalupe in a residential zone of the city. 

Prior to arrival I was wondering what our very own brothers in religion had prepared for us. Would our Capuchin brothers have an itinerary for us, or would we be free to do whatever we wanted? The advantage of shadowing the friars was that we would never be at a loss for things to do. The disadvantage would be that the friars speak Spanish, so our accompaniment would be hard work. The advantage to being on our own would be that we could go anywhere and do what we choose. The disadvantage would be that we would miss the opportunity to immerse ourselves in the life of the friars. 

Ultimately, we struck a balance, both touring with our brothers and taking time for ourselves. 

We were met by hot and windy air in Santa Cruz, where the climate remains subtropical through winter. The timing of our trip was fortunate, because we missed the arrival of surazo, the antarctic air that on occasion blows in from the south. No, our weather was just shy of muggy, a little stifling for me after weeks of little to no humidity in Cochabamba. But having descended now to sea level in Santa Cruz, with no mountains in sight, there was no trouble breathing (not that I have had difficulties in Cochabamba). All the variety of climate and geography in one compact country! For this I will miss Bolivia. 

That Friday afternoon, Brother Scott and I greeted with a profusion of gracias our Capuchin hosts: Padre Jimmy, Padre Francisco, and Fray Rafael, a lay brother. All three friars are of Peruvian extraction: they and seven other Capuchins of the Province of Peru have made Bolivia their mission. The Capuchin presence in Bolivia is so humble and small—the first friars arrived only in 2007—that the territory is not even a custody of Peru, but what they call a delegation. In olden times we would have called it a commissariat. Padre Jimmy is the delegate minister for the ten Capuchins in Bolivia. There are almost 70 Capuchins in the Province of Peru, I recall Padre Francisco telling me. In a week, they will hold their provincial chapter at their spirituality center in Lima. I wish them every blessing as they prepare to elect their provincial council and make decisions about their overall mission. 

From the moment we arrived, we felt blessed by the company of these three friars. Regardless of the differences in culture, nationality, race, and language ability, they treated us like fellow Capuchins; they treated us like brothers. And it is right and just that we felt welcomed like Capuchins immediately. We would have, and we have, treated them likewise. On several occasions when I was living at Holy Cross Residence in midtown Manhattan, we hosted Bro. Hugo Mejia of Peru, a former member of the Capuchins’ general council, which governs the global fraternity of 10,000 brothers. I can say truly that we showed Brother Hugo quality hospitality and genuine care. From him I received the same sense of congeniality and fraternal warmth that I felt from Padre Jimmy, Padre Francisco, and Fray Rafael. Whatever else can be said about the Capuchins, let it be said firmly that we know how to welcome people, especially our brothers in religion, who have come long distances to be received as guests in Christ’s name. 

Back to that Friday afternoon: an impromptu preprandial arose after Brother Scott and I put down our bags in the friary. We drank guaraná soda and water and munched on roasted peanuts and fava beans as we chatted. Padre Francisco brought more nuts when we all but consumed what there was. We had meditation and evening prayer in the church. Back in the friary, after we watched the evening news in Spanish, Padre Jimmy brought in pizza and we chatted freely some more over soda, wine, and alcohol-free chicha. Padre Francisco also offered me guiso and rice to make sure the vegetarian was well-fed. 

On Saturday morning, July 20, the fiftieth anniversary of the moon landing, a miracle of human technology and human spirit, I experienced two minor miracles. First, I rose early enough to join the Capuchins at 6:30 a.m. morning prayer; second, I understood the majority of Padre Jimmy’s homily at 7 a.m. Eucharist. I suppose I slept well enough despite the heat of Santa Cruz; vivid dreams wove in and out of the half-awake moments. After breakfast Padre Jimmy took us to the center of Santa Cruz, driving through the city rings or anillos to get us to the heart of town. 

Where did we go that morning? Padre Jimmy took us to the metropolitan cathedral of San Lorenzo (the deacon and martyr of ancient Rome, not the Capuchin doctor of the church whose feast was Sunday, July 21). This is the second church to stand on the main plaza of the city, having been built in 1915. We climbed the bell tower and heard the chimes at close range at quarter to eleven. Before that ascent, we visited the cathedral museum for free, thanks to the status we enjoy as religious brothers (forgive us, God in heaven, for taking advantage of privilege). A thief would covet the silver sacramental vessels and sacred objects of every liturgical use imaginable. We saw priceless monstrances inlaid with precious stones, like emerald, amethyst, and garnet; we saw processional candle holders; we saw crowns for Mary and Jesus and chalices and tiny spoons of precious metals. We saw brocaded vestments that would smother the hardiest folk under the weight and heat. We saw a chasuble Pope John Paul II wore to celebrate Mass during his apostolic visit in 1988—a second-class relic; we saw papal thrones on which Pope Francis sat during his apostolic visit in 2015—a second-class relic someday? We saw portraits of archbishops gone by and the tomb of the last archbishop of Santa Cruz, Julio Terrazas Sandoval, who was also a cardinal. Have a look here for more images of the cathedral.

After the cathedral we drove to the city intersection where a public garden had been converted to a permanent stage, where Pope Francis celebrated Mass before nearly one million people. I was pleased that this dais forever blocks the view of an enormous Burger King restaurant. Brother Scott was amused that Pope Francis vested and processed from the Burger King, made an impromptu sacristy that day. And the word became hamburger? After a stop to refill the car with ethanol, Padre Jimmy took us to a new condominium, Atlantis Towers, the tallest residential complex in town, still under construction, and found someone with an elevator key to convey us to the 18th-floor rooftop so we could get an aerial view of the city. Capuchins are into elevation! 

Then, back to the friary for a little lunch with Padre Francisco and Fray Rafael. I made just a little conversation. The touring did not make my body tired, but my mind was a little fatigued. Although I did not need the nap, I lay down for an hour that afternoon after midday prayer and some spiritual reading. It was a quiet afternoon in which Brother Scott and I rested. Gradually, through the warm and windy afternoon, I came to a still point. I wrote a few lines of poetry. I wanted to open my soul to God. 

Late that afternoon, Padre Jimmy was celebrating a baptism in the church with a large extended family. As soon as it was concluded, the friars assembled in the sanctuary for evening prayer. Eucharist was at 7:30 p.m., and although I attended Mass that morning, I returned again that evening to listen to Padre Francisco preach. It was a late evening meal after Mass and early to bed in the hope of gaining the luxury of nine hours of sleep. 

The next day, Sunday, July 21, was greeted with brisk winds from the north. I rose on time for 6:30 a.m. morning prayer. Afterward I ate the same breakfast of instant oatmeal, a banana, banana cake, and tea. Then I showered and freshened up and spent some time in meditation and poetry writing before the 10 a.m. Mass, the principal celebration of Eucharist at Our Lady of Guadalupe. I reflected on the Gospel narrative of sisters Mary and Martha of Bethany. I felt distant from Martha, because I feel no compulsion to work, and I fell at the feet of Jesus with Mary. Dear God, I prayed, let me feel the perfect joy of your love in your word and your bread from heaven once again. This time, let your love change me. Or maybe I was not so distant from Martha. I have worked; I have done my chores. I acknowledge some but not all of the chores of la vida cotidiana. Too much work is make-work, useless work. And I tell Martha there is no use to all that work, and I bring her with me to the feet of Jesus, with Mary waiting. And perfect joy appears or Mary of Magdala or all the women who have loved Jesus with a pure but broken heart. 

While I stayed at Our Lady of Guadalupe for the 10 a.m. Mass, Brother Scott went to the 8:30 a.m. Mass at the Chapel of Christ Risen, a satellite of the parish. It pleased me that there is a chapel dedicated to the risen Christ somewhere in Bolivia, somewhere in Latin America, where most churches close the book of the Gospels after Good Friday. 

After Eucharist, we said goodbye to Padre Jimmy, who was in the middle of giving a weekend retreat to catechists of the parish, and drove on with Padre Francisco to the semi-rural town of Minero, built on the backs of sugar cane cutters. There, Padre Ivica, a Bosnian by birth whose family took refuge in Croatia during the Balkan wars of the 1990s, drove us to the campo of Pueblo Nuevo, one of more than twenty base communities affiliated with the Parish of San Isidro Labrador. We saw mud huts no larger than your bedroom for families of eight. We saw dogs and roosters roaming the rough (and I mean rough) dirt roads. Your backbone will slip if you keep driving these roads, as our Capuchin brothers must do to reach these communities for liturgical services once or twice a month. If it rains, all bets are off; the roads become impassable. There is electricity on some blocks, but only some. The workers are internal migrants from Cochabamba and Oruro and other places from the west of Bolivia. Brother Scott and I agreed: we had found the poor heart and soul of Bolivia, and it is poor indeed; but somehow it seemed proud, too. This poverty felt different from the poverty I saw in rural Honduras at this time five years ago. That poverty felt sticky, sickly, a little sinister. This poverty felt provisional, clean, even sufferable. Maybe I have bought in too much the optimism of the Evo Morales regime: the country is standing up on its own feet and preparing to make great strides. Maybe it is, and maybe my hope is justified. There will be responsible development; there will be a democratic socialism to safeguard the promised prosperity for the common people. I hope, but the Gospel also teaches me to be realistic, not to be an idolater, and not to put my trust in princes. I will put my trust in the Christ who has moved our Capuchin brothers of Peru to pitch tent with their Bolivian sisters and brothers on this warm and fertile soil. 

Prior to this excursion we first had a banquet of a lunch with the fraternity: Padre Ivica, Padre Rolando, and Fray Ronal. The fourth friar, Padre Antonio, was on vacation in Peru. We also toured the grounds of the Parish of San Isidro Labrador, including the church, whose construction was financed by Unagro, the sugar refinery that turns tons of cane into alcohol as well as table sugar. We met two lay women who serve as Franciscan volunteers in the parish and saw the house under construction for the entire community of lay Franciscan volunteers. 

After our afternoon of much activity, Brother Scott and I came to rest in the terminal of Aeropuerto Viru Viru, then the cabin of the airplane that took us back to Cochabamba. Adios, Santa Cruz. Adios, hermanos. We were treated well and very well by the Capuchins, who made as much time as they could out of their Martha-like schedules to feed us and show us their lives, their homes, and their ministries. Like Mary, they put us at the feet of Jesus in their world. My gratitude goes to God for Padre Ivica, Padre Rolando, and Fray Ronal of Minero; and Padre Jimmy, Padre Francisco, and Fray Rafael of Santa Cruz. If, like their Peruvian brother Hugo Mejia, they travel to the United States, they have a home with us. I will make it my personal mission to extend to them the same hospitality they have extended to their brothers in America. 

That is plenty for today. Have a restful weekend, good readers. 

Cuenta Atrás

Another week down, with two weeks of classes to go. At a moment this mid-morning when I was getting agitated about my tied tongue and balky brain, Brother Scott consoled me by telling me that I can now count the number of classes left with my two hands. He is right, and in fact, I could count the number of classes left on two maimed hands, if need be. Tuesday, Aug. 6 is Bolivian Independence Day, a national holiday. So on that day I will be out on the streets around Templo San Francisco listening to the bands playing patriotic songs and other hymns to the state. Thus it is two weeks and nine class days to go. Let the countdown begin! 

Another consoling thought: there will be a going-away party. Our Mennonite volunteer friends are organizing a despedida for Brother Scott and me. Grateful doesn’t begin to describe the feeling of appreciation I have for them. We’ll be having the get-together a few days before Brother Scott goes back to the United States. We’re doing this on his schedule because he leaves several days before I do. Knowing the Mennonite volunteers as I do, I know this will be a fine-spirited celebration of friendship and fellowship across cultures. 

A flyer has appeared on the bulletin board at Maryknoll inviting students to go to La Paz and Copacabana at Lago Titicaca. Profesor Osvaldo is making arrangements with the mission center for students. Nine names have appeared on the list, but neither my name nor Brother Scott’s is among them. For one thing, I have already been to La Paz, though not to Lago Titicaca or Copacabana. For another, it is the weekend of Aug. 2-4, and I would prefer to hang back with my Capuchin brother, who will leave Bolivia the Monday immediately after. 

With no more extended travel plans on the horizon before departing Bolivia, I look forward to the next two weekends as opportunities to rest and to explore a little more the beauty and refinement in the heart of Cochabamba. You may have read my dispatch on Convento Museo Santa Teresa. There are still other churchy monuments I have not yet seen. There are other green spaces and other noble-looking plazas where I have yet to relax. There are other cafés and restaurants where I have yet to eat! All of this awaits. Time is counting down.

Convento

If I were a woman with a calling to cloistered contemplative life, I might be a Carmelite sister. (Or I would be a Benedictine. It’s a close call.) In the early days of my religious fervor, when I was an undergraduate at Cornell University, I discovered the works of St. Teresa of Avila and St. John of the Cross. The mystical writings of these Spanish Carmelite spiritual geniuses made me want to take up an interior journey, into my own soul and into the heart of God. They planted seeds that much later took root and produced the fruit of my present-day religious vocation. 

Today I visited Santa Teresa, the Carmelite convent and museum that occupies an entire city block bounded by Calle Baptista, Calle Ecuador, Calle España, and Calle Mayor Rocha. In 2012 it was designated a national monument for its historical, cultural, and architectural significance. A five-year restoration program, funded in large part by the U.S. embassy in Bolivia, was completed in 2018, and the results have been amazing. They call the convent La Joya de Bolivia (“The Jewel of Bolivia”); indeed, it is like a hidden gem, and it is has been hiding from me up until now. But after the celebration of Our Lady of Carmel last Tuesday, it was time for me to appreciate this great jewel up close. 

With evening prayer on the night of Oct. 13, 1760, the feast of Saint Teresa, four Carmelite sisters from Sucre established a monastery in Cochabamba. Following the reform of the Carmelite order by Saint Teresa, there would be exactly 21 sisters dwelling in this foundation, which included both a convent and a church. (The present-day church is the third to be built on the site.) Our guide brought Profesora Viviana and me through many but not all of the restored areas of the convent. 

The convent cloister is admirable for its architectural simplicity, but its stark minimalism tells you much more. It speaks of its inhabitants, the sisters who sought literally to espouse themselves to Jesus Christ. They thought of nothing else but to give themselves over totally to Jesus; and it was the solitude of the monastery that helped them achieve this spiritual aim. It struck me how thoroughly quiet the cloister is. Despite the noisy city whirling around it outside, the cloister preserves silence and stillness. Maybe the two-meter-thick walls surrounding the convent have something to do with that. In the calm air of the cloister, you can breathe in the Spirit of God. 

A sisters’ cell was as simple and bare as the cloister itself. It had the minimum of necessities: a bed, a jug and basin, a candle stand and reading desk, and an hourglass to help you keep track of your periods of rest and recitation of prayers. 

We passed through the sala capitular, or chapter room, where the sisters received their postulants, who changed their civilian clothes for the brown tunic, white head covering (toque), and black veil of the Carmelites. In this room the prior of the community was elected. The sisters would also gather in this room to share fellowship while their hands were busy with manual labor. The choir room, with exactly 21 stalls, was where the sisters would offer their spiritual labor, chanting the divine office together. 

Several labors, of course, had their proper place outside the chapter room and choir. For instance, we passed through a chamber where the sisters made candles from beeswax, and later paraffin. They also baked goods, made sweets, wove fabrics and embroidered them, and kept a vegetable garden. The sisters, who number about ten today, still do all these things. The sisters were also their own nurses and apothecaries. They reserved a large cell for the infirmary; and one closet in a cloister corridor revealed a botica or drugstore replete with bottles, flasks, and vials of powders and grains, liquids and tonics. All manner of druggists’ tools were there. From the look of it, you might think it was the medicine chest in the potions classroom at Hogwarts! 

You also got the vibrations of Harry Potter’s universe in the cell that served as the library. Locked in the cabinets were books bound in cowhide with titles written in Latin in very Gothic-looking script.

Saint Teresa of Avila was devoted to the infant Jesus and played tambourine, castanets, and drums to celebrate the Nativity. Therefore, one room of the convent is dedicated to the Holy Child. The sala de Belén, or Bethlehem room, features miniatures recreating the birth of Jesus. But these Nativity scenes go far above and beyond a stable, animals, and angel to include the history of salvation, beginning with the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Eden. The details in these models are exquisite, being wrought in the baroque style characteristic of Spanish Catholic piety. 

Equally ornate is the calvario, a chapel dedicated to Jesus Christ’s passion. Ten great paintings render in life size the condemnation and crucifixion: all the agony of Jesus’ radical self-sacrifice. At the front of the chapel is an enormous altarpiece (retablo) carved in wood and layered in gold paint, much in the same style as the altarpiece here at Templo San Francisco. 

Throughout the tour I was impressed with the quality of the restoration. So many original elements of the convent have been successfully preserved: stones and steps, paintings and wallpaper, ornamentation, wooden doors and roof timbers. The Carmelites built their monastery to last, using the best materials: lime, stone, and a wood called maguey. Where portions of the roof had to be repaired, they did it faithful to the original construction methods of cane, mud, and slate layers. 

We saw the room where the deceased sisters would be wrapped in a shroud and lie in a catafalque while the prior would keep vigil and pray for the departed. The sisters used to have their own burial ground until the city required all the dead to be interred in the municipal cemetery. 

There were other chambers and spaces we were not privy to on this tour, like the vegetable garden, the kitchen, or the winery. On the last weekend of the month, you can see those spaces on an evening tour. We did not visit the church itself, either, but if I wish, I can attend Mass at Santa Teresa on Sunday at 8 a.m. 

I have dropped some news and photo links along the way. Would you like a closer look at the convent from the inside? I leave it to you to visit the Facebook page for the Carmelite convent or follow this link from my Google search for fine photos of the convent. What I cannot do for you is put you on the rooftop of the cloister, from where you could survey the convent in all its immensity, all of Cochabamba around you, and Cristo de la Concordia in the eastern distance. 

Okay, I lied. You can have a view from the rooftop. 

Would that everyone could taste the air of a sacred space like this. They might want to embark on a journey with God into the soul, too. If I had more time, I would remain in the cloister of Santa Teresa until nightfall to contemplate God through the Carmelites’ gift of solitude. But I will content myself with the Franciscan cloister I have been blessed to admire for the last five and a half months.

Coca

Where is that post about Santa Cruz? Hovering somewhere between last Saturday and this Saturday, I suppose.

It is a cold and wet day in Cochabamba. How rare! Those cloudy skies, visible rumors of rainfall, stopped hinting this morning and let out a real rain. With the shower, the temperature dropped several degrees. Profesor Osvaldo called it. He knew the rain was coming because it had snowed in La Paz and Oruro. Now, many things in my room feel cool and almost damp to the touch, at an hour when everything is usually warm and dry. 

This change in weather is welcomed by the thirsty earth. But rain usually depresses me, and I do not need much help feeling depressed and tired. If it had not been for these weeks of glorious sunshine and blue skies, my melancholy mood would have been severe. The gift of rain is an inestimable blessing, yes, but it affects me in a saddening way, all the more for being a rare occurrence here. 

Still I am in search of motivation or stimulation. That is more a figure of speech than a literal thing, so coca is not the answer. Thomas Sonntag, a friend of Maryknoll and a very good speaker of Spanish for beginning learners, gave his presentation on coca in Bolivia. His presentation was clear and easy to understand, but in spite of that I found myself bored and distracted. I have avoided all coca consumption, be it the leaf chewing or the drinking of mate de coca. I am overcoming insomnia, so the last thing I need is an ingestion of stimulants. Fortunately, almost never have I been offered coca leaves or a coca drink, so I have not had to refuse the quintessential form of Bolivian hospitality.

Now, if you are looking for the top secrets about this storied plant, I regret to say that I have few to share. And honestly, I don’t understand all the hype or the taboos. Here is what I do know about coca. I do know that it grows easily (with four harvests a year in some areas) and in many places in South America, including Bolivia, Chile, Colombia, and Peru, with Colombia standing out for often notorious reasons. Its use is considered sacred by the indigenous peoples of the Andes; it is used in some religious rituals. The leaf does in fact contain certain vitamins, minerals, and proteins and can be ground into a flour. As a stimulant, it gives you a boost and beds your appetite. Its flavor is an acquired taste. There is a world of difference between coca itself, consumed by the leaf or in a mate infusion, and cocaine, the controlled substance derived in part from the chemical in the plant. While a coca product like mate is legal in Bolivia, it may not be imported or sold in the United States or the European Union. Coca-Cola, which used to use fresh coca leaves in its product, thus contained traces of cocaine, but today uses only cocaine-free coca leaf extract as a flavoring agent. The Bolivian government has attempted to control strictly the production and distribution of coca leaves in order to maintain only those traditional and legal uses. It has gone so far as to destroy coca crops known to be used for the manufacture of cocaine. Its success has been somewhat limited. The industrialization of coca production has been lucrative for those in the economic elite, but it does not pay much for the campesinos who raise their small coca plots. Overall, on the global level, Bolivia aspires to and has to an extent a leading voice in the politics of coca and cocaine. 

Well, there you have it! All that I know about coca according to those on the ground in Bolivia, who ought to know. And there you don’t have it, that is, that post on Santa Cruz. It’s somewhere between the Saturdays. Looks like you will hear about the Carmelite convent, Santa Teresa, first.

Motivación

“…stretching out his hand toward his disciples….” (Matthew 12:50).

How does one stay motivated after more than five months of language and cultural immersion? I woke up this morning with reluctance. I did not want to get out of bed for class. It’s not the first or last time I have felt this way. If no one else around me feels this way, still I feel that it is time to close the book on Bolivia. The book is fairly written. But I have three weeks of immersion to go, so I ask God to find ways to surprise me or startle me into awareness, concentration, and enthusiasm. I stretch out a hand to Jesus, my master, and I hope he will recognize me and extend a hand toward me. Does he know me as his disciple? Or will he send me way to gnash my teeth? I suppose I want the truth from God, but regardless of the truth, regardless of the judgment, I need that hand to reach out for me. I do not want to look back on this endgame with timesickness in my heart. So I pray that the love of God will bring my body, spirit, and soul back together. At least, refresh a tired mind. When it is time to do this work, let me do this work. And God bless my teachers for hanging in there with me. Profesoras Liliana and Viviana earn their pay and more than that for working patiently with me. 

I have not written about Santa Cruz yet: another casualty of low motivation. Maybe tomorrow?

Meanwhile, I have a rising curiosity about life back in the United States and how it will be back in New York City and Church of the Good Shepherd. (I have been browsing the bulletins available through the parish website.) A week from now, will it be a raging curiosity? 

Today, I watched the movie Our Brand Is Crisis, based on the Bolivian elections of 2002. Political campaign strategists from the United States brought their marketing tactics into the election and tilted the outcome in a manner favorable to prevailing neoliberal interests. Think privatization of natural resources and indenturing the nation to the International Monetary Fund. And here I was worried about the United States intervening in this year’s presidential elections. Silly me: we’ve already been there and done that! I also had an interview with Silvana Martinez to give my assessment of the language program. Note to my Capuchin brothers: keep coming to Maryknoll in Cochabamba to study Spanish. Is there a better language immersion program for religious with a missionary vocation?

Tomorrow at Maryknoll: the weekly conference will be all about the coca leaf, as strong a symbol of Bolivia as any there is. Our guest presenters will take us through the myths and realities and help us separate fact and fiction. I hope we do not run out of time for discussion. In the evening, there will be a colloquium on how the Church in Latin America does (and does not) engage with LGBT persons. Like the colloquium on sexual abuse in the Church in Latin America, I imagine that much of what the presenters say will go over my head. But then so have many of the homilies I have heard on most evenings at Templo San Francisco, so maybe a change of venue and a change of conversation will do me good! 

Then, on Thursday: a field trip with the students and teachers to the Carmelite monastery of Santa Teresa in the heart of Cochabamba. I have seen many of the historic churches in the vicinity of Templo San Francisco, but this jewel of Spanish baroque Catholic piety has eluded me until now. More motivation to get my dispatch on Santa Cruz done before I write to you about the Carmelite convent! Jesus, guide my hand, and unblock the writer who wants to be your disciple.

Alianza

“ ‘You seek Jesus of Nazareth, the crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Behold, the place where they laid him. But go and tell his disciples’ ” (Mark 16:6-7).

Today, Christian communities the world over celebrate the feast of Mary of Magdala. This is one of my very favorite feast days, because Mary of Magdala was the first to proclaim that Jesus of Nazareth was raised from the dead. She announced the good news to Jesus’ disciples, who also came to know and believe that Jesus had conquered death and irrevocably changed the destiny of the human race and all creation. 

On this day seven years ago, with confidence in the risen Christ, I received the habit of the Capuchin order at San Lorenzo Seminary in Santa Ynez, Calif., with 23 other men. Investiture marked the formal beginning of my religious life as a Capuchin Franciscan friar, although I had already lived for a year with the friars during my postulancy in Brooklyn, N.Y., and Victoria, Kan. I would make my first profession of vows nearly a year later, on July 20, 2013, and my perpetual profession of vows on Oct. 1, 2016. But on that feast of Mary of Magdala seven years ago, I felt like I had made a covenant with God in Christ’s name through the Holy Spirit, in the presence of the brothers. 

To this day, it is my Capuchin brothers who remain special witnesses to that covenant. And that covenant is to live the Gospel of Jesus Christ with abandon in this world, and to consent to be brought by grace forward into the reign of God breaking into and confounding this world. I hope my brothers will continue to support me and help me fulfill that covenant as I understand it. They know as well as anyone what it means to leave everything behind to follow Jesus. With their help and God’s, I will indeed render all things back to God one day. May it please God to keep our Capuchin fraternities strong in a spirit of brotherly love. 

But to live the Gospel is to be open to help from every source of grace. The Capuchins are but one of many lifelines. There is the communion of saints, living here today and living in the realm of eternity. I depend on the exemplary witness and way of life of Mary of Magdala to strengthen me and show me how to proclaim the good news of resurrection life in this world today. I ask God through Mary for the extraordinary grace of knowing the presence of the risen Christ in my own life. And I give thanks to God for the many Magdala-like figures in my life, the vulnerable but strong women who have befriended me and show me, in their own way, how God is changing everything through Jesus Christ. These sisters in the Spirit, these friends of God and prophets in their own right, are my dearest friends in this world. 

Today began the second half of the current term of classes at Maryknoll. Profesoras Liliana and Viviana are my final teaching team. They will carry me through the final three weeks to the end of my studies here. I am delighted to be benefiting once more from their creativity, good cheer, and spirit of playfulness in the classroom. We are continuing to study El Salvador and the subjunctive. We are going to work in a lot of extemporaneous conversation so that I can learn to express my opinion on controversial topics and controverted viewpoints. For the thousandth time: O God, open my lips! Bid the Spirit give me the words to speak.