The courage of the poor: hope
A testimony from Guatemala by Fr. Angelo Esposito: tough, but full of mercy and hope
(by Fr. Angelo Esposito, fidei donum from Naples in Tacana)
“No, you never get used to pain, to suffering, to misery, to hunger, to death … especially to that of children!”
So many times I had to give this answer, so many times I had to explain that the poor are not “comfortable” in their condition, they would like to react, to fight back, to struggle against a hard, miserable life, a life that crushes them every day and makes them walk on roads full of obstacles, often insurmountable.
The poor do not get used to it, they have great courage, the courage to always hope for a different world, a world where people are all equal and where every resource can be distributed equally to every people, of every race and every religion.
A world where there is respect for man and nature, a world where there is justice and peace.
The poor do not get used to being alone, abandoned, discriminated against, uncared for.
They die before they die, they know the taste and value of things even if pain is their companion on the journey.
It was an afternoon like many others: many commitments, celebrations, confessions, visits to the little hospital “Los Angelitos,” where many children with malnutrition-related diseases are hospitalized.
I was standing in front of the altar and arranging the objects placed on it when I hear that someone has entered the church.
I turn around and see in the center of the aisle a group of volunteers from the Hermana Tierra Association, who work with me to protect poor families, greet me and approach.
One of them is holding hands with a young woman who has in her pouch, wrapped and strapped on her shoulders, a baby with a sanitary mask covering his nose and mouth. The young volunteer almost has to drag the young woman to get her to me.
I greet her with a smile and immediately, with momentum, caress the child’s head and pull him out of the pouch to take him in my arms. Unexpectedly, the baby’s reaction is not to pull away from me, cry and reach out to his mom but to wrap his tiny arms around my neck and rest his cheek on mine.
The emotion at this tender gesture is very strong, I look at the young girl and invite her to sit on a bench.
The volunteers say to me, “Father Angelo, help her, she is in great need, we entrust her to you!” and go away smiling, heartening the woman.
The girl is sitting on the bench, her head low, her long hair flowing down her face, her hands abandoned in her lap. I sit beside her and notice that the little one has fallen asleep on my shoulder. I take from the sacristy some blankets I use for traveling and place the baby on them.
I begin my acquaintance with the woman and say, “Tell me about yourself…” and she shyly begins to speak:
“I am twenty-two years old, I am from Tacana, my name is Patricia, and my son Alan Fernando is two years old and has leukemia….”
A blow to the heart, a punch in the stomach, and the blood freezes in the veins.
I think, “This is terrible, so many, too many children are suffering from this horrible disease…. Lord, help me-help me to help!”
She continues her story, “When I was nineteen, I met Marino, the love of my life. We fell in love and loved each other so much, he, was a boy full of attention and with the sweetest soul. His every gesture to me was full of tenderness. He longed to give me a life different from what we had had in our families. We were both poor, without a job, without a home, and so we decided to emigrate to Mexico to Cancun. We were afraid to face the very hard journey, to cross the desert, and most of all we had our hearts gripped with sadness at the thought of having to leave our land. Leaving our families and friends was heartbreaking, we would have given anything to be able to stay where we were born and raised, but we had no other choice: our future without a job would be impossible.
We took hands and said goodbye to everyone and everything, even to the sky, the clouds, the mountains, the streams and the beautiful waterfalls that enchanted us and cheered us with the freshness of the water that created a different music each time with its roar.
The journey was exhausting, almost always on foot even in the pouring rain, every now and then a ride in an off-roader’s box, then again we crossed mountain roads full of boulders, paths through the woods and fields. We risked at any moment being under a landslide or being stopped by immigration controls who would stop us and send us home.
The sun on top of the mountains, when it was there, was blazing and the cold of the night froze us, we had nothing to eat and we suffered hunger and thirst. We walked until we wore out our shoes…. Then, finally, the border.
A crossing with no controls, no military, a blind spot where many manage to pass but, unfortunately, still risking, once in Mexico, being caught and sent back as illegal immigrants, or in the worst case, arrested and put in jail for ten or fifteen days, only to be repatriated.
So many of us had crossed the border; we were tired, dirty, exhausted, demoralized, but not yet defeated.
How much we prayed, how much we begged so that we could make it all the way to Cancun! I was exhausted, at the end of my strength, I was afraid of the controls, I let myself fall to the ground and said, “Marino, my love, they don’t want us, let’s go back…you know, honey, I would have liked to tell you at another time: I am pregnant, we are expecting a child!”
Marino hugged me, held me close and said, “Patricia, this is the most beautiful, greatest gift God could give us, and do you know why right now? Because he wants to give us the strength to go on, the strength that flows from the love that we already feel for this creature from this instant.”
He took my hand and dragged me I don’t know how long among the stones, in the rain, and suddenly the miracle happened: we had arrived in Cancun, without anyone stopping us. I can still feel the grip of Marino’s hand in mine; he would never leave me.
In Cancun we asked the owner of a restaurant if he could give us work. He moved to pity and so it was decided that Marino would have to clean the kitchen, wash the dishes, the toilets and unload the vans of goods. Instead, it fell to me to wait tables, tidy up the hall, and wash the glass windows and floors.
The work was hard, menial, but it allowed us to rent a room where we could sleep and finally eat. At the age of 20, with God’s help, after a difficult birth, I gave birth to Alan Fernando, it was May 26, 2017.
We were poor, but happy.
Marino worked so hard, he also performed my duties because I had to take care of the baby. Every moment we thanked God for blessing us with Alan’s birth. Our joy, however, was short-lived: when Alan turned six months old, Marino fell ill, I took him to the hospital where they diagnosed him with fulminant hepatitis, I didn’t even have time to hold him in my arms … just in a huff he said to me, “Tell Alan about me and tell him I loved him so much!”
Marino left just like that, leaving us alone…. I didn’t know what to do, so when the owner of the restaurant paid me Marino’s meager salary, I decided to buy a ticket back to Tacana to my family. I cried the whole way, I was desperate but I knew that God was with me, that He would help me that He would give me the strength to face everything. Once home, amidst
tears, I hugged my loved ones.
Many months passed, Alan turned one year old; he is a puny, delicate child. One day he felt terrible. Urgently we took him to the capital in Guatemala. The doctor in the pediatrics ward, after examining him tells me, “Madam, I’m sorry, but your son has leukemia, he’s very sick and I don’t think he’s going to pass the night!”.
My legs are shaken by an uncontrollable trembling, I can’t think of anything, the doctor’s words echo in my mind–my son will die as his father died–my God help me, don’t let Alan die! Then another chilling thought: Alan has not been baptized, no, he cannot die without baptism!
I run down the corridor of the ward, “My God, baptism before he dies!”
I run and I don’t know where to go, a nurse comes out of a room and I grab her by the uniform: “Madam, a priest, for goodness sake call a
priest, my baby is dying must be baptized, hurry!”
The nurse calls the hospital chaplain who immediately rushes in. He enters Alan’s room and in extremis administers the
sacrament. I prayed until I was exhausted, and by a miracle, because it was a miracle, Alan came out of danger. I fell to my knees and thanked the Lord in tears and prayers.
In the hospital they gave him treatment, continuously I have to take the little one to the capital.
Father Angelo, my family is poor and to come and go takes a lot of money and an overnight trip. I don’t have any more money for treatment and neither does my family, and besides, they told me it would take more surgeries with machines and drugs that they don’t have in the capital. Help me father, help my baby not to die. God has brought me together with you…. He wants you to help me!!!”.
Patricia raises her head, which she kept low throughout the story, looks at me with tear-filled eyes, but not a tear has fallen down her face. A fortitude shines through that look, a hope, the only one that still keeps her alive: she hopes for someone willing to extend a hand to her, willing to share with her that pain so great for a mother.
Promptly, animated by strong emotion, I hold out both hands to her, invite her to stand up and hold her in a hug, any words would be useless and superfluous. Then, here come the tears, the sobs, the sobs. All the pain comes out.
My heart is in my throat: she is only twenty-two years old, has experienced the impossible and now still a tragedy to deal with. I take a breath and reassure her, “Patricia, you are not alone now, my boys and I will accompany you wherever you need to go, and God will make sure to help us meet the right people and find the means to care for your son.
I take Alan in my arms, place him in the baby carrier, phone the volunteers who promptly come and pick her up to accompany her to the hospital. I go up to the altar and sit in front of the cross, look at the martyred Jesus, nailed to the wood with the crown of thorns embedded in his skull, look at the wound on his bleeding side…
Jesus has his arms wide open, he is there suffering, continuing to welcome our sufferings … he has his arms wide open and says, “Come, don’t be afraid, I have suffered so much and I understand what you are feeling, come, don’t stop your steps, come into my arms, touch my wounds, caress my aching limbs. I am with you, I will heal your wounds, regenerate your limbs. Have faith, have the courage to hope. I am with you. The real miracle is to believe in the impossible.”
I lower my gaze, my head in my hands, and think, “When you meet Jesus, he turns your life upside down!” I cannot be discouraged, I must try, do what I can for this mother and her son. I must hope as always for the intervention of Providence, that Providence that has always manifested itself among people in love with God.
As Jean Venier wrote, “Each of us is an instrumentalist engaged in playing in the great orchestra of humanity.”
I hope every day, in every circumstance, even the most painful one – such as saving Alan’s life – that each one is willing to play his instrument, even if at sacrifice, to realize the most beautiful concert ever heard on Earth.
Alan shows us an alternative path to that of consumerism and waste. This child with his pain urges us to walk the path of solidarity, because his desire is to live! His mom and him are like Mary and Jesus: they are looking for a place to stay, where they can be helped.
The Pope’s question must challenge us, “Do I have a poor friend?”
Let us all become friends to Alan! Let’s give him life — a life of health, dignity and peace of mind…. Yes, you guessed it right: he doesn’t want a cell phone, a toy, a designer item, fashionable shoes…this child wants to LIVE!
Source and image
- Father Angelo Esposito