Over a year ago, I sat in one of my favorite spots at St. Mary’s University, face to face with my dear mentor, Clarita. I sat outside the Commons, drinking coffee and shedding every drop of tears that existed within me.
I also sat in fear - a very pure type of fear. I sat there afraid of what living in community would be like for me. I breathed heavily, almost in sync to the fast-paced rhythm of my heart… because I was so scared to be in a community in which I would be different – different in background, different in color, different in values, just different.
I knew that accepting the invitation to be part of a volunteer program and living in an intentional faith community would not be roses and butterflies – after all, the beauty of community comes to life through the daily stuff, challenging conversations, prayers and everything in between. Yet, there was an additional layer that I wasn’t sure how to navigate through. Being the only Latina in my community - my biggest fear.
I knew I wanted to do this, but I wasn’t sure I could do it alone and so I prayed. I prayed so much, that I wouldn’t be the only Latina in my community.
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You see, coming in, I hadn't had the best experiences with White people. In the middle of such political chaos and with political leaders such as ours, inevitably it brought fear. While I knew that someone who decided to dedicate a year of service would more than likely, believe in the dignity of all people, I couldn't help but be afraid.
For a while now, I have been learning, exploring and coming to a greater understanding of my identity as a Mexican-American. A Mexican-American who is a US citizen, a border native, a daughter of immigrants, a Latina... So many parts of my identity that I didn't really know.
When I first realized that I felt deeply called to do a year of service, my heart struggled to believe that I could actually be part of the world of mission. For so long, I've been identified as part of the "receiving community" because of my geographical location, my family's income status, and the box I check off under my racial demographics that it was hard to think that could change. Imagining that there was space for me at the table was hard to imagine.
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When July 2018 came around, I was 1 of the 5 who would be living in Monte Sinai. Indeed, I was the only one who identified as a Latina. It wasn’t easy news for me because that pure fear I talked about, it was no longer a fear… it was my reality.
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Lizzy.
Marthita.
Kati.
Jess.
These 4 inspiring, brave, resilient and loving women transformed my fear into an undeniable and an immeasurable amount of love. Not just any kind of love, but the kind of love that gives you permission to share the most fragile and broken pieces of yourself, yet celebrates you. The kind of love that not only invites you, but demands you to to be the most authentic version of yourself. The kind of love that teaches you how to place others before you and receive each one with the same excitement and honor. The kind of love that hurts to let go of, but that changes you. The kind of love that makes you feel whole, heard and held. The kind of love that completely tears you apart, but even more so, tears fear, differences, and barriers apart.
I’ve shared stories about the ways in which my neighbors and the women at Casa have changed me, but I hadn’t found the courage to write about the 4 ladies who in the most gentle way forced me and taught me to love and most importantly, be loved.
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I won't lie. Being the only one who identified as a Latina in my community was hard. There were plenty of moments in which I felt out of the loop, distant, not understood, unable to relate, and put simply, different. This was evident when neighbors found out my last name was Garcia and that my parents were Mexican. It came when I didn't know an English song and everyone else yelled the lyrics in the van. It came when I would say something and nobody could relate. It sure came often.
But it did not take over.
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One of my favorite things ever, was hearing the melody of our very untuned voiced sync as we sang Donde Hay Amor. (Where there is love). I think I loved this so much because even though our way of speaking and pronunciation was inevitably different, when we united in prayer, you couldn't really notice it.
Whether that was before our meal, during reflections, at the top of a mountain or on a roof… the way our voices united told me that we were on a journey to oneness.
The lyrics of the prayer go as follow:
“Donde hay amor,
Fraterno amor,
Donde hay amor,
Dios allí está.”
There is something so beautiful about calling upon God's name as a community that goes beyond comprehension. The song says: Where there is love, fraternal love, where there is love, God is there. There is no doubt in my mind that there is love. There is no doubt in my heart that God is present among our community. We are 5 very different women, with different backgrounds and different stories, but truly in communal spirit, we have become 1. We have become one, in a way that I can’t explain, but that you can only witness. This oneness I'm talking about, it gives me hope. It makes me believe that in fact, one day, our bigger communities, our nation, our world, can act and live as one global community. It won't be easy, it won't happen in a snap of the fingers, but there is hope.
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A special moment came in March when we welcomed Katie and Joe who were working with Catholic Volunteer Network to put together a little gift, for the world of mission. During their time in Ecuador, I was humbled by the invitation to share my story. It was days of an overload of emotions, questions, conversations, sharing and accompaniment. It was beautiful. But it was also quite difficult. A day before they arrived, I couldn’t take it anymore. I felt so vulnerable, fragile and afraid. I would be letting out parts of myself and of my story that were already leaving me naked and empty.
I remember this moment like no other. We were sitting in our sacred, plastic table. The table that each night brought us together to break bread. The table that sustained the heaviness of our hearts while journaling. The table that I like to imagine myself sitting by when I feel lonely, afraid, unworthy and heavy.
I remember sitting there and somewhere in between, feeling that same rush of fearful tears sprint down my face. I shared what seemed to me the inner core of who I was. I shared my unspoken fears and pains. I verbalized feelings I hadn’t yet done so. But what was most beautiful in that moment was the way that for the millionth time, these 4 girls sat there, leaving me out of breath, for their love for me was so strong that I couldn’t understand it.
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Almost every night, we concluded our days with a night prayer led by one of us. I smile at the thought of it because it was one of the most grounding parts of my days. While most of our days were drastically different, the one constant throughout my year was this – praying with my community.
Our prayers went from music, to art, to a gratitude jar, to the bible, to written reflections - the options were infinite. Each night, we gathered in our holy circle of 5 and lifted our prayers. There are literally over a year's worth of stories, but what I’m choosing to share with you today is one simple thing: the way we ended each prayer.
Most times (and I emphasize “MOST”), we prayed around a candle. At the end of each prayer, we would gather around it - our arms wrapped around one another and our foreheads touching. We would take a deep breath in together and then blow out our candle as we exhaled. Sometimes, this exhale went along with tears, spit, and even, snot… despite that, it was never less sacred.
After that, we would close by giving each other a hug as a sign of peace. Until the day we said goodbye at the airport and once again after re-entry retreat, we continued this - even if we had to make up an imaginary candle. There are no words that I can write to fully convey what my heart feels when we gather in that circle. I was so scared of not belonging, but I was also scared to belong... I don’t think I ever imagined I would feel it. Now, I feel like I am dripping with it.
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To this day, when I think about how far we are from one another, my heart swells up. It swells up so much that I can almost feel it in my throat. I hurt because I feel like pieces of myself are spread out throughout our map, for they hold such a big part of my heart that I feel scattered.
Yet, amidst the sadness that sometimes overcomes me, my heart rests knowing that I am loved, challenged, accompanied and prayed for by 4 golden souls I am lucky to know and deeply love.
My dear friend Henry (No, not Henri Nouwen, Henry Edwards) said to me, “No time or distance will touch the relationship you all have.”
I believe that so much.
I believe the relationship I have with my community is so sacred, it is untouchable by factors like those. And I guess that’s what really overwhelms me with emotion. The fact that I have truly realized that our community is so fucking strong, it’s scary. And it is so strong because it is rooted in values that are at the core of human life. It is rooted in a love that is real, pure, raw, true and FIERCE and that it is constantly craving growth.
When I am around them, my heart roars.
When I sit beside them, my heart beat slows down.
When I break bread with them, I feel a little closer to understanding what Jesus felt when he broke bread with his disciples.
When I witness their tears, I break with them.
When I laugh with them, I feel a rush of joy flushing through my veins.
And when I pray with them, I am overtaken by a gratitude that goes beyond peace. It is a gratitude that inspires me to believe, to fight and to transform the world, de pies a cabeza.
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Kati, Marthita, Lizzy and Jess - I love you girls more than I ever imagined I would. Thank you for teaching me this new kind of love; the love of belonging. It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t fast, but it was an absolutely beautiful journey in which I learned, grew, hurt, and was touched.
My heart was touched by your sacred hands, voices and tears. I’m afraid of the hundreds of ways you each will continue to touch and mold my heart. For you did it in such powerful ways this year, that only God can know the ways I will continue to change because of you, with you, for you and thanks to you.
You make me feel whole. You make me feel enough. You make me feel celebrated. You make me feel loved and honored and challenged and crazy and beautiful and fun and complete. And I can only hope I reciprocate that. I'll be honest that my grip on you 4 is too tight to ever let go, but I do pray my grip is loosened so I can sit back and witness you set this world on fire, from wherever God calls us to be.
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Being a Latina in service today continues to be really fucking hard. (In general, it's hard). My hope is that every community can find themselves challenging, loving and celebrating each other. However, my experience does not fix or change the realities of many Latinx who have and continue to find themselves feeling out, displaced, different, and unheard. There is so much to explore and learn and grow from and which deserves its own reflection (which I hope to one day get to).
What I do know is that I didn't have this experience because I was lucky. I have this experience because as a community we dedicated time, effort, energy, love and prayer to one another.
What I do know is that a year ago, I cried for days about my fear of displacement. Today, I think I cry tears of belonging. And I do so because I believe there is space for us all at the table. Because I believe that I belong. And not only because I believe it, but because I FEEL like I belong. And to be quite honest, I feel like parts of who I am, now belong to them 4.
My prayer today is that we may continue growing, loving, intruding, challenging, learning and belonging.
Gracias por dejarme aprender lo que se siente pertenecer, guaguas. DX por siempre, b’s.
