Juan of Words

En Boca Cerrada No Entran Moscas

Posiblemente no, pero la tentación de escuchar un buen chisme a veces es más fuerte que el impulso por mantenerse uno alejado de las malas lenguas.  Especialmente cuando la indiscreción al frente tiene que ver con alguien a quien no le guardamos mucho afecto.        ¿Pero quienes realmente somos más chismosos: los hombres o las mujeres?

De acuerdo a mi esposa, nosotros los hombres somos mucho más lenguas sueltas que el mentado sexo débil femenino.  Incluso, a su opinión, chismeamos mucho más que nuestras parejas, pero no lo hacemos bien.  Una mujer sabe como compartir solo lo necesario, y piensa antes de hablar.  Un hombre nomás se echa unas cuantas cervezas y después se arrepiente de lo que dijo. Lo cierto es que por más que lo he negado, me doy cuenta que realmente sí tiene razón.  En lo personal, a mí en el cotorreo se me han salido tantas cosas que ya ni sé cuales de todas mis verdades son las que mis compadres no conocen.  Ya de adulto, he hasta llorado entre hombres, algo que nunca hubiera hecho sin el efecto de algunas cuantas cervecitas.

Pero quizá la razón por la cual uno se siente tan libre de abrir la boca entre hombres, y más cuando hay alcohol de por medio, es que uno mismo no se juzga tan duramente como lo hacen las mujeres.  De hecho para nosotros los sentimientos muy pocas veces los tomamos en cuenta antes de expresarnos – ni los nuestros, ni los del camarada.  ¡Y sí, ya las veo a todas moviendo la cabeza de arriba hacia abajo!

Nosotros no nos quejamos de cuanto nos hirieron esas palabras, ni obligamos al compañero a defender sus acciones una y otra vez.  Tampoco utilizamos la culpabilidad como herramienta para llegar al golpe final.  Si se nos sube el coraje nos peleamos físicamente hasta agotar nuestra ira.  Después nos contentamos y seguimos como si nada hubiera sucedido.

Pero bueno, el punto es que sí es cierto que nos gusta chismear, posiblemente más que a las hembras, y no es que sea lo correcto, pero todos sabemos claramente que el chisme se disfruta.  Nos hace reír y en ocasiones hasta impacta nuestras decisiones.  En mi opinión, si uno no abre la boca se queda mudo.

¿Y cuál es el punto de tener uno boca libre de moscas, si no la podemos utilizar para expresarnos?

Quien Bien Te Quiere Te Hará Llorar

Those Who Love You Well, Will Make You Cry

Not from suffering or heartache, instead from happiness and sadness. After all with every new beginning comes the arrival of another conclusion.  Sometimes it is bittersweet, sometimes it is exciting.  Cliché or not, nothing actually lasts forever.  Sooner or later what we have become accustomed to changes, morphs, or disappears into oblivion, only to be relived and revisited in our distant memories. 

New transforms into old.  The young trade places with the old, and before we know it we are all grown up, caring for the very beings who gave us life.

There is nothing scarier in life than facing the true realities of our existence: live, love, suffer, rejoice, and finally face death.  Every grey hair a reminder of time gone by, aches and pains that get progressively worse, wrinkles that blur the youth of our souls, frail bones, weak immunities, wisdom, and finally repentance.  It’s not something we’re ever prepared for, but something we all must face.  Sooner or later the joy or misery we have carved out for ourselves in this life will come to an end.

Denial is not an escape, nor is science, at least not as of yet. 

All any of us can do is take the moments we have been granted and make the most of them as best we can.  To live one day at a time should not be only a prescription for those attempting to make a change, because we never know what twist or turn could be awaiting us just ahead.  A decade and a half ago my parents’ words, warning me of how they would not be around forever, were cause enough for rolling of the eyes and laughter beyond control.  In my naivety and denial, their bodies were not losing their strength, their dark tinted hair, proof that nothing could come between us. 

Never were they going to leave me.

This year, my mother cried in my arms as she buried her own mother.  Her sisters and brothers, all once children in my grandmother’s arms, consoled each other, as our generation of new adults (cousins and siblings) solemnly acknowledged the right of passage taking place.  Rebellion, now the undertaking of our own children – who for now, continue playing, carelessly, unaware of their own fate. 

Nothing compares to the unconditional love of a parent. 

Nothing compares to the instantaneous right of passage from parent to child. 

Nothing prepares us for either. 

Unconditional love turned into uncontrollable grief. 

Above all else, beyond the passage of time; memories, made one at a time, some happy, others not, all engraved in our hearts; a new conclusion; a new beginning.  Those who love you well, will make you cry.

Houston March for Dignity organizers vow to protest Arizona’s SB 1070 on May 1st

All defendants of human rights and civil liberties are urged to join a nonviolent demonstration against the new law, for comprehensive immigration reform

courtesy of PhotosByJoseMunoz.com

And so the battle continues.  With the signing of SB 1070 into law yesterday, Arizona Governor Jan Brewer (R) raised the stakes on the fight for comprehensive immigration reform in the United States.  Her state intends to require local police to enforce federal immigration laws by making it a state crime to be in the country illegally.  This despite broad opposition from Hispanic and human rights organizations far beyond Arizona’s borders, and including President Barrack Obama’s harsh words against the bill just hours earlier.

“Our failure to act responsibly at the federal level will only open the door to irresponsibility by others.  That includes, for example, the recent efforts in Arizona, which threaten to undermine basic notions of fairness which we cherish as Americans, as well as the trust between police and their communities that is so crucial to keeping us safe,” President Obama stated at a televised press conference.  “In fact, I’ve instructed members of my administration to closely monitor the situation and examine the civil rights and other implications of this legislation, but if we continue to fail to act on a federal level we will continue to see misguided efforts opening up around the country.”

With their new authority, police in Arizona would be allowed to ask anyone whom they suspect are in the country illegally to prove their legal residency status in the United States by producing a valid “alien registration document,” including a green card, an Arizona divers license, or a passport.  If they are not able to produce these documents they would be subject to arrest, could be jailed up to six months and fined $2,500.  Harsher restrictions are also placed on anyone knowingly “concealing, harboring, or shielding an illegal immigrant.”  This law becomes the toughest anti-immigration law in the nation and marks a new level of assumed state government authority.

At a press conference in downtown Phoenix on Thursday where she was discussing border security, Brewer defended her state’s actions toward illegal immigration.

“I will not stop.  I will not be deterred.  I will not give ground when it comes to keeping us safe.  Securing the border might not be Arizona’s principal job, but we have no choice.  We must show resolve and courage where those who have failed to protect us have shown only weakness and delay.”

After signing SB 1070 into law she dismissed protesters’ concerns over racial profiling as “overreacting” and categorized opponents as “alarmists” and “cynics.”  Meanwhile, the American Civil Liberties Union as well as the Mexican-American Defense Fund have already vowed to contest SB 1070’s constitutionality in the courts, before its anticipated late July-early August implementation.

Fighting SB 1070

Opponents of SB 1070 have called for various measures to protest the passage of this new law in Arizona.  Some have promised to boycott the state by avoiding travel or business into its borders until SB 1070 is declared unconstitutional, a candlelight vigil is planned for this evening in Washington, D.C. at Dupont Circle, a social media based petition urging President Obama to take action against the new law is circulating Twitter, and a nationwide March for Dignity and Respect for All, which was scheduled for Saturday, May 1, 2010, has taken on a new purpose and strength.

So far nonviolent demonstrations have been the focus of protesters, but some speculate this could change as tensions rise in Arizona over the next few days.  In Houston, organizers are calling all individuals who support human rights and civil liberties to participate in a May 1st March for Dignity and Respect for All, scheduled to begin at the intersection of Bellaire Blvd. and Renwick Dr. at 4 p.m.

“We are faced with an unprecedented choice,” says Cesar Espinosa, president of Immigrant Families and Students in the Struggle (FIEL).  “We can stay silent and let our community continue to be trampled on or we can say enough!  The time for people to stand up is now.  The time to stop to Arizona and other copy cat states is now!”

FIEL is one of the leading groups organizing Houston’s May 1^st March for Dignity and Respect for All.  Local blogger and activist, Stace Medellin believes inaction is an invitation for further violations of human rights and civil liberties in Houston and across the nation.

“Yesterday’s action by the state of Arizona proved that Congress and President Obama must make comprehensive immigration reform the top priority.  The May 1st Marches around the United States have been given a boost by the fact there are groups who are more than willing to violate individual civil rights and liberties of specific groups of people” he said.  “There’s no doubt that these types of actions can lead to other groups being targeted as history has shown us, so it is important that we show a united, diverse front in calling for federal reform that is fair and humane.”

For more information about Houston’s May 1^st March for Dignity and Respect for All, text the word “MARCH” to (832) 497-5035 to receive updates, or visit the website www.houstonmarches.info

©Juan of Words

A Dios Rogando Y Con El Mazo Dando: On Immigration Reform

To God Praying And With The Mallet Pounding  

Gente of this United States of America it seems the time to stand up and demand change has finally arrived.  After years of failed attempts to get an immigration reform act approved by the U.S. Congress, broken promises by multiple presidents, and now the introduction of a state law so aggressive it would all but force undocumented immigrants living in Arizona to flee for their safety and freedom, we can officially say diplomacy has failed. 

While Senate bill 1070 sits on the desk of Arizona Governor Jan Brewer (R) awaiting a final decision by her to either approve or veto, President Barrack Obama has yet to indicate any clear position on the passage of this new law.  His promises of bringing millions of illegal immigrants “out of the shadows” through some type of immigration reform now appear to have been only empty words,  evoking in many of us the urge to take part in civil disobedience demonstrations.  Arizona has become our ground zero in this fight to once and for all settle the state of limbo in which an estimated 11 million undocumented immigrants live each and every day of their lives in the Unites States. 

Those nine brave students in Pheonix have the right idea.  Enough of protesting obediently on the streets where we are granted permits and secluded to isolated areas of our own communities so as to not interfere with the hustle and bustle of our cities and towns.  What is the point of protesting to ourselves in our own neighborhoods?  It’s preaching to the choir and achieves nothing.  The time has come to engage in nonviolent civil disobedience to make our voices heard.

We will not stand for this discrimination in Arizona and we demand a path to legalization for our millions of undocumented brothers and sisters living in the shadows of this country now!

A Dios rogando y con el mazo dando we need to all come out in full force on Saturday, May 1, 2010, to take part in the March for Dignity and Respect for ALL.  To make our voices heard, and to demand legislative action from our political leaders.  Now is the time to prove this Hispanic Giant has arisen and is infuriated by the lack of respect and dignity we have been granted until now. 

Dias De Mucho, Visperas De Nada

Days Of Wealth, Eves Of Nothing

Art by Virginia Palomeque

Maribel, pronounced Mary-Bell instead of the traditional Ma-ri-be-l, that is what she called herself.  Short black wavy hair, almost curly, but not – just enough to get wildly tangled after being touched by even a single drop of rain.  Dark brown eyes – a window to her many ancestors, some she claimed, others she preferred not to acknowledge.  Long and lanky, pale and freckled skin, small breasts, a waist the size zero, dressed and wet she did not weigh more than 98 pounds at most.  When Maribel spoke her voice was high and pitchy.  Not annoying.  Not child-like. Feeble and lady like.  Delicate and sensitive, Maribel would often burst into tears for no apparent reason, especially if she felt she was being attacked, confused, mistreated, or if any other of her emotions were being evoked in any way. 

A woman of class.  A lady.  That’s what her friends at the country club called her.  When she was honored by them for her years of planning soirees she wore a white bead-encrusted gown, tight at the top, flowing at the bottom.  Her hair slicked back accented only by a simple gold necklace and two diamond earrings.  After years spent wanting to be accepted, Maribel Roberson-Huerta felt this night was her official induction into high society.  Her days of living in the projects of Houston were now a thing of the past.

Mami called every Sunday to check in on Maribel, but usually these conversations were very short if they took place at all.  Most of the time daughter would look at the phone, tell herself she would call mami back later, and continue with her business.  Talking to the old lady validated her rags to riches story and that was something Maribel desperately wanted to forget.  Instead she’d recount made up stories about a privileged childhood in a manicured home in Texas.  Most of the other designer-clad women in her circle did not even know she was Hispanic – they just assumed she had some Latino heritage in her pedigree.  Perhaps Spaniard blood because being from Spain was more European than anything else, and what could be more exotic than that Maribel thought.  When mami offered to visit her in Alabama since it had been more than 10 years since they had seen each other in person, Maribel made up many excuses:

“Oh mami, David is taking me on vacation this summer.” 

“That would be great, but I am so busy right now that it wouldn’t be fair to you.” 

“I want to see you too, but maybe some other time.  Or maybe we can make it home for Christmas this year…yes, I think we will definitely be able to come.” 

They never did make it for Christmas, New Year’s, Mothers Day, Cinco de Mayo, or any other holiday for that matter.  Mami eventually understood and consoled herself with simply hearing her daughter’s voice over the phone. 

When the old lady was diagnosed with high blood pressure, high cholesterol and high blood sugar she implored Maribel to come home once again.  She could feel her body getting weaker and something told mami she wouldn’t be around for much longer. 

“Mija, we don’t know how much time we have on this earth, and we are both getting older.  I don’t want to die without seeing you again.  Por favor ven a verme.”  

“Hay mami, you are so dramatic.  Nothing is going to happen to you.  You are way too young for that, and I already told you we will come down as soon as we get a chance.  Now if there is nothing else you have to say, I have work to do.”

For a moment her conscious made Maribel stop.  Was she being too harsh?  Had it been too long since she had seen mami?  Was she being so insistent for a reason?  Was mami really that sick?  No.  Then she went back to the hard work of selecting a new countertop for the kitchen she was remodeling.    

A few weeks later when her brother Nando called, on a Tuesday of all days, Maribel knew something had happened.  His voice shivered, his words unclear, all she could make out was that mami had passed away.  Everything inside her plunged to the ground, her light frame landed on an antique Victorian loveseat she had bought on her last trip to Europe, tears escaped her eyes in a way they never had, and a loud screech was all that could be heard throughout her massive home.   

“Aaay mamita!!”

Nothing else was said between the siblings.   On her return to Texas she found an even smaller home than she remembered.  Plastered in mami’s bedroom were pictures of all her children and grand children.  Next to the hand-sewn curtains on the window, a simple chest held up dozens of pictures of Maribel mami kept close to her bed.  They were all at least 10 years old, and as she held the one of her and the old lady sitting on the same bed, smiling, looking happier than she’d felt in a long time, she couldn’t help but drop herself on the bed in a flood of tears.  Her sadness grew deeper and stronger when Nando told her mami had left the small house and all of her belongings to her. 

“In case she ever needs somewhere to stay, or some money to get herself on her feet,” she had told Nando before writing her will.

Memories

I wouldn’t call myself a poet since this style of writing has never been my forte, but this poem was inside of me and was nudging to come out.  Hope you enjoy, and you real poets out there…pardon the impersonation.  

I wish I had just one more day,
To share with you the things I’ve learned.

They’re not too many.
They’re not too few.

I do not know that they will help.
I do not know that they will heal.
I do not know that they will change,
The path you’ve walked,
And set to tread.

But in my life,
I’ve learned,
Of broad shoulders,
Upon which to lay,
Of strength in words,
And comfort in unyielding love.

I wish I had just one more day,
To share with you the things I’ve held.

There’ve been times,
The words were there,
When almost,
My thoughts were clear.
And yet,
Past these lips they’ve never fled.

One day,
You will be gone.

I will be here.

And all we’ll have,
Are things we’ve shared.

I wish I had just one more day.

Borron Y Cuenta Nueva

Wiping The Slate Clean

An infant in one arm; a toddler in the other; nothing but rubber underneath, shaped in the form of a tube; separating danger from hope.  In a tiny bag all her belongings, clothing and a few dollar bills.  All the coyote had told her before loading them on that makeshift raft was “don’t move a muscle or you and the children are dead.” As she sat praying for dear life, doubting her own decision, the rejection of that divided river could be felt against her entire soul.  Telling her she was not wanted, enticing her to give up.  She did nothing but squeeze harder on the legs of her children and stare fixedly without so much as a wink at the tube behind her carrying her two eldest daughters.  A moment later they were all on the other side.

That side her mother had implored her so much to forget.  The one her brother called her crazy for wanting to immigrate into.  Her two youngest boys were citizens of the United States, but know they were also mojados.

She had almost chosen to stay behind when the coyota who was supposed to pick her up from her rancho in Mexico never showed up on the date they had agreed.  All daylong she had waited, bags packed and ready to go.  She had tearfully bid her mother farewell, asked of her father’s blessing and locked all her earthly possessions in a tiny home of concrete and cement her husband had built just a few years earlier.  As night arrived she accepted her brother’s words and felt stupid for having confided in a stranger she did not know.

If she did show up eventually, there was no way she would leave with her now.

Days went by and quietly she resigned herself to the idea of not crossing back to el norte, at least for a while.  She phoned her husband and told him to continue sending whatever money he could.   Every dollar she received was turned into pesos for nixtamal, eggs, chorizo, sardines and crackers to keep their children fed.  What little garments he could send were used to clothe as many people in the rancho as possible.  Here every style and color of attire was fashionable in any season.

One day as she went about her daily life in her humble home, a brisk walk away from her mother’s property, she heard these words from afar: “there is a lady here looking for you.  Says she is from el norte and that she is here to take you with her.  You’re not going to leave with her right mija? You are going to stay here now.  You are, aren’t you?”  No words were exchanged between mother and daughter as they raced over to greet the Chicana waiting inside of a small truck. Anger flowed through her veins as she remembered the countless hours she’d spent waiting just a few days before, but mobilizing within her were also renewed feelings of hope.  For several minutes they argued about the missed encounter, debating who had misunderstood who.  As she turned back to face her mother the look in her eyes revealed a decision already made.

She would be leaving, this time probably for good.

My mother has never been one to fear many things.  Besides the misfortune of her children, there are few matters that evoke in her panic and worry.  In that moment, she thought of nothing more than the hunger and despair we all felt.  She hugged her mother goodbye, soothing her as much as she could through her own tears, and then packed us all into our coyota’s truck – with one last glance at her life in the rancho she was gone, never to return for longer than a few months at a time.

Now in el norte with my brother, two sisters and me, she hurriedly dressed herself and us by the Rio Grande River and walked us across the last stretch of U.S. –Mexico border.  We were now all invisible in our immigrant status.  The next eight years we’d spend in the Texas Valley redefining every single aspect of who we once were.  Here my siblings and I learned a new language and culture, my mother and father finished growing up hard and fast, we learned of Washington and Jefferson instead of Zapata and Pancho Villa, and became a new breed of Mexicans from our rancho. From then on, every time we’ve returned to Mexico we are referred to as los del norte, Americanos or Chicanos.

El Sol No Se Tapa Con Un Dedo

You Can’t Cover The Sun With One Finger

Out of all the dichos I’ve ever heard, el sol no se tapa con un dedo, has always been the easiest for me to understand.  Not that I haven’t tried my damndest to cover up that metaphorical sun on so, so many different occasions.  But somewhere deep down inside of me, like the unyielding passage of time, that tiny voice in my head has always taunted me in the faintest of tones: el sol no se tapa con un dedo…you can’t cover the sun with one finger. 

I’ve wanted to tell it to shut up countless times, and a few of them I’ve done so successfully, but eventually it starts up again.  El sol no se tapa con un dedo.  El sol no se tapa con un dedo.  El sol no se tapa con un dedo.  Then I have to face reality, evaluate my situation seriously, and endure the harshest of human conditions: being truly honest with oneself.  It is at this stage that raw emotion peeks its ugly head, be it in the form of anger, sadness, depression or just plain frustration.  I know the process well for I’ve undergone it many a times.  Still idling as a bystander on someone else’s grief is much more a difficult feat for me personally to withstand. 

With my reality I can manipulate and coerce my state of mind.  With another I can only offer guidance and support hoping that it will lead to the right action.  When it does the sensation of a lifted burden is alleviating.  When it doesn’t the looming pain of hopelessness sets in, bringing with it an infuriated storm of agonizing worries.  All the while that taunting voice continues: el sol no se tapa con un dedo, el sol no se tapa con un dedo, el sol no se tapa con un dedo.

And in fact you can’t.  Yes, placed at a correct angle the single finger can cover up the sun, anyone of them from the pinky to the thumb, but one nervous breathe or shiver and the burning presence of that ball of fire will once again be seen.  Our reality is the same.  No matter how hard we work to convince ourselves that something is right when we know it’s wrong we can never fully swallow our own lies.

As for others, I’m beginning to assimilate into the philosophy that so many out there have medicated for my males de amores over the years: In every relationship and interaction we engage in we are either planting, watering, fertilizing or harvesting.  We rarely get to enjoy the fruits of our labors, but that is not the point.  Our main objective is to understand and appreciate the process.

¡Que Chuntaro!

Is being a Chuntaro (Choon-tah-ro) bad? 

I hear the expression all the time   sometimes in a good way, others in a bad one.  ¡Hay no, que chuntaro!  ¡Ese chuntaro esta bien guey. ¡¡Orale, que chuntaro!!  Surprisingly, a lot of young people of Mexican descent like being characterized as chuntaros, or knowing the activities they are taking part in could be described with this adjective. 

Perhaps in the same way non-Mexicans enjoy the term ghetto.  (i.e. That’s so ghetto, ghettofabulous, etc.)

Frequenting Spanish-only clubs that play straight musica norteña and rancheras, as well as dressing up in boots, cowboy hats, and large belt buckles are among the activities that could deem these young people chuntaros, at least those are the defining attributes they factor into the equation.   

The online Urban Dictionary actually defines chuntaro as a Mexican slang word, or synonym, for naco: a.k.a. 1) an Indian or Indian-looking Mestizo or 2) an uncultured or lower class person.  Yet, for the most part, when we use the term chuntaro we don’t mean it in such a disparaging way.  More often than not it’s used as a satirical expression of something or someone we find amusing. 

Even when used as an insult the translation is not so literal. 

For example, if a Mexican tells you you’re dressed all chuntaro they usually mean you’re appearance is less than appropriate for the place/event you are at.  Perhaps you’re wearing a prom-looking gown to Sunday mass, you could be wearing unintentional holes in your jeans or shoes, or just maybe the shimmer on your shirt or blouse is so strong it reflects the sunlight onto a nearby wall. 

By the same token, if you are at a specific location with a Mexican and they describe it as chuntaro they simply mean it is not up to their particular standards.  It might be a kid’s birthday party where there are more adults drinking than there are children playing, perhaps a quinceañera where the second-floor dance floor is so small and crowded it feels like the whole party might come crashing down onto the first floor at any given moment, or it could just mean the Mexican you are with is a little snobby.

Herein lays the problem of using the word chuntaro.  Since beauty is in the eye of the beholder, what I consider appropriate and up to my standards could be hideous and very chuntaro in your opinion.  So I am sad to say the fights / debates about what is or isn’t chuntaro will continue. 

On the flip side there are a lot of “chuntaro, and proud of it” folks out there, myself included.      

What do you consider Chuntaro?

Aquel Que Tiene Fe No Está Nunca Solo

He Who Has Faith Is Never Alone

The existence of faith and God are two things I’ve often doubted.

Not so much for lack of understanding – my parents did an excellent job instilling the fear of God in all of their children – but because of simple disbelief.  To say that as of today my Confirmation in Catholicism has not taken place.  My parents did enroll me in the appropriate catechism classes as a teenager, but after months of skipping the Sunday gatherings at Assumption Catholic Church the priest pulled me and my brother aside one day  to ask us one simple question: name me one of the seven holy sacraments, he implored.

We stared at him blindly, at each other with mischievous grins, trying our best not to burst into laughter.  Finally he gave us a choice: either we got up and left voluntarily then and there or he would parade us in front of the rest of our class as an example of what could happen when you didn’t do what you were supposed to.  We weren’t about to be humiliated so we got up and walked away.  As we drove ourselves home, our greatest fear was breaking the news to my mother.  In those days she was a devout Catholic and took tremendous pride in the fact two of her boys were completing their Confirmations.

Even our godparents had already been selected for us – mine was to be the same padrino who had baptized me, and my brother’s was to be my mother’s youngest brother. I don’t remember anymore how we eventually broke the news to her, but to this day she still scolds me about the choice you and your brother made to not get confirmed…I signed you all up for the catechism classes, but you weren’t kids anymore and it’s not like I could have forced the two of you to attend the classes. As a parent we do what we can and that’s all we can do you know.  If a child doesn’t want to listen anymore and they feel they are grown what can one do? To which I just smile and say nothing.

I say nothing because at this point in my life doubt has no place in my faith.  One too many times when I’ve sat at the brink of despair a higher power has pulled me through, comforted me on the other side and allowed me to do the same for others.  It’s a sensation unlike any I have ever experienced.  One in which peace reigns over the exhaustion of my body and soul, where the trails of sadness running down my face are wiped away, under which for no explainable reason I know things will be okay.  Sometimes they aren’t, and even then a spiritual presence tells me the road I’m on, no matter how rocky, is the right one. That somehow there will be some logic to the hardships in front of me.

More than any words could ever promise me.

I don’t attend Sunday mass every week.  I don’t live my life according to the bible, although maybe I should.  I haven’t confessed in four years.  I’ve entertained more than one religion.  I have committed many, many sins.  Not that I am proud of any of these truths, but despite them all I feel close to my God.  He was there for me when no one else could be, when all I had inside me was rage, when my spirit was broken.  When my prayers went unanswered, when my sadness was blinding, when my hunger for revenge was insatiable, when nothing at all mattered to me anymore, and he showed me forgiveness and repentance.

On this, the celebration of his resurrection, I can do no less than remind myself how fleeting words can be and rejoice in the wisdom of his presence in my heart.