I buried a nickel under the porch when I was 8, she said, but one day my grandma died & they sold the house & I never got to go back for it. A nickel used to mean something, I said. She nodded. It still does, she said & then she started to cry. -Brian Andreas
Today is my Birthday. The house is still and the chill of night has settled in and around me and our home. The youthful souls that once beckoned from our doorway are safely in bed and dreaming in sweet satisfaction of parental attention, endless laughter with friends and an abundance of treat filled fun. I love how happy kids feel on Halloween and I hope never to forget how that felt to me as a child.
But tonight sleep eludes me. My mind remains active and my body is restless with memories of my past and thoughts of the future.
When I was 10 my parents built a new house and our family moved 140 miles away from my Omaha school, all of my friends and the only home I had ever known. I remember this as a time filled with sorrow, uncertainty and promise. And a few months ago my Dad, a widower now, rented an apartment and has slowly convinced himself to move pieces of his life away from our home and into this other place. And in this moving he is struggling against leaving behind 40 years of treasured family memories on the promise of an uncertain future happiness. And I’ve prodded him to do this - to purge his unused possessions and leave the loneliness of the big old house that was once so lovingly kept but now holds such inescapable sadness for him. And now that he’s finally done it, it's only beginning to register just how monumental this occasion is for me.
Sometimes obvious things don’t sink in like they should. But then something happens and all of a sudden I get a cold slap of clarity and evasive cognizance that now seem so obvious. Like the eventual awareness of my parents’ anguish as I drove away, never looking back, with all my possessions in eager anticipation of my first semester of college. This sadness was only ever fully realized years later when my own children returned this “favor” albeit in a much gentler fashion.
I spent today with my Dad in his empty old home and his new apartment. And though I regret having nearly forgotten, I’ve come to recall at 53 that there’s something special about spending your birthday in your childhood home with your parent. And though this will be my last such birthday, I’m happy for his unburdening of ghosts and home maintenance and the promise of good times with so many other residents in similar circumstances. But at the same time, I now share the pangs of loss that I should have understood in him.
And as I sit here in the moonlit darkness of my own family’s home, I wonder how I’ll ever become responsible for loading up all of my wife’s and children’s memories and leaving these empty rooms behind. And despite a burgeoning desire to turn this page, I love our home and our years here together so much that I can’t bear to think about this eventuality.
Good-night Dad. I hope you know that I’m thinking about you.
I arrived this morning early and anxious. It was a perfect fall morning with clear, calm skies and a stimulating briskness to the early air of daybreak. And before long we would enter the skies and enjoy the trill of flight.
Larry is a friend from church. He's an attorney by profession and by all accounts Larry is a skilled amature pilot. He's been licensed for about 5 years and claims to average a flight a week during decent weather. I, on the other hand, had never flown in a small plane despite many, many hours of routine flight on large commercial planes. So yesterday, when Larry called to invite me to "tag along", I jumped at the chance. And on this my first such flight, his relative ease and intentional focus upon our readiness left me very much excited and not the least bit apprehensive.
Working through his typical pre-flight ritual, we checked fuel, oil, flaps, rudder, tires, gauges, breakers, communications, lights, wing edge, locks, harnesses, brakes, etc. It was interesting to go through this together with full commentary as to what we were looking for and why. Finally we bucked up, checked the door lock, tested the brakes again and contacted the tower.
The term "tower" is used loosely here because I think we were actually speaking to the same guy at the Hangar One desk that gave me my headphones and went into the back for a bottle of oil. And "contacted" implies that someone is actually listening. At the time I gathered from the silence in my headphones on our departure frequency that a "no reply" from the tower was perhaps the small airport equivalent of either "Roger that four-seven-seven-niner-foxtrot, you're cleared for takeoff" or maybe it meant "Sorry, I'm in the toilet". Thinking back, the verbal exchange probably just failed to register in my sensatory saturated brain.
And with that implied authorization, Larry throttled up the engine, released the brakes and thus propelled two souls and 50 gallons of aviation fuel steadily down the runway and effortlessly up into the waiting skies. Effortlessly, that is as facile as one might consider 180 horsepower channeled solely into the 45 rotations per second of a 7-foot aluminum propeller. Once airborne it was clear to see why many people love to fly - it was exhilarating.
We were directed by air traffic controllers in the area to maintain an altitude of 1,000 to 2,500 feet. From this height we were low enough to really get an ideal view of the city. First we headed northeast across Omaha to Eppley Airfield. This is the regional airport in Omaha with commercial flights to some 60 cities nationwide.
For purposes of comparison, the runway at Millard Airport (MLE) where we initiated our flight is 75 feet (24m) wide and 3,800 feet (1160m) long. By contrast the runways at Eppley (OMA) are 150 feet (46m) wide and 9,500 feet (2,900m) long. And we were granted permission from the Eppley tower for a touch-and-go on two of the main runways. This formal tower communication and extraordinary runway size (for our little Piper Archer aircraft) was, for lack of a more accurate description, seriously cool.
After touching down and taking off at two different runways at Eppley (32L and 32R) we banked left over North Omaha, doubled back and proceeded to fly directly over downtown Omaha. We passed over the riverfront businesses, Conagra Headquarters Campus, the new TD Ameritrade Baseball Park, Qwest Convention and Concert Center, First National Bank (tallest building in Omaha at 45-stories), Union Pacific Railroad Headquarters, Creighton University, Mutual of Omaha, Midtown Crossing, and my office building where I've worked almost every day for the past 20 years. Then we continued westward past the University of Nebraska - Omaha, the Crossroads redevelopment, Westroads and Old Mill, the new TD Ameritrade headquarters construction, the West Dodge corridor and on westward toward our West Omaha neighborhood.
I've flown over all of these places before and even directly over our home but I've really only seen bits and pieces of the city from the air. Always before my view was partial and through the little window on one side or the other of a commercial airliner. And more often than not I'd be on the wrong side of the plane or my view would be obstructed by a wing. But flying in this plane, so low to the ground and so early in the morning, everything was laid out right there in front of me. It was spectacular. I recall flying over our house and wishing that I had arranged for Denise to step out on the deck and take a picture up at our plane. We were, after all, the only thing in the air for the hour or so duration of our flight.
And then, as quickly as it had come, it was over. We contacted the Millard Airport, made our alignment with the runway, slowed to around 60 miles per hour (96 km/h) and descended back to earth. Touchdown - smooth and easy. What a trip.
As I stood posing in front of the aircraft for a quick picture, Larry commented on what a fine day it was for flying and that he had had a great time today. And he said that my picture would go in his scrap book as his 87th survivor. Roger that Larry. I had a great time too. Thanks for the ride. Thanks for the memories.
Parents sense distance from children;
Not as arresting grief or resented wound.
More subtle yet indubitably real;
An inkling of emptiness - an abiding void.
Listless the ghost drifts in;
A whisper to stir some forgotten past.
And unwilled to be wished away;
It lingers.
It is not enough to put your heart and soul into something.
The really important things take much more than that.
-Leigh Standly
Escaping through customs we were greeted at the Viru Viru International Airport in Santa Cruz, Bolivia by the waiting arms of M and the comforting sight of Madre Rosario. We then made our way from Santa Cruz to Montero, about a 60-minute drive north along "Highway" 7 in the Hogar’s pickup.
Madre Rosario is the lead Madre at Hogar Sagrado Corazón. She is from Bolivia and is currently serving as the Hogar’s Director for her third consecutive four year term. She has a great smile, a loving heart, a warm personality, a keen sense of humor and she cares deeply for the girls in her charge. It took me a while but I finally realized that Madre Rosario reminded me a bit of my Mother. I like to think that my Mother found in Madre Rosario the perfect host to watch after and protect my precious M.
I’ll spare you my words in describing the Hogar. The linked video clip below does an excellent job of describing the place and the mission and M’s duties as a Lay Missionary volunteer. There is also a wonderful message from Madre Rosario about the importance of the volunteers to the overall development of the Hogar girls that goes well beyond their daily love and care chores.
Click the play button on the video link below for a virtual trip to Montero, Bolivia and see what it is like at Hogar Sagrado Corazón.
As we arrived at the Hogar we were welcomed by a group of fifteen or so children who came running to greet M and her expected guests. We then were graciously hugged by many of the children. They were mostly long, tight, lingering hugs that afforded much time to imagine parental love and child innocence held captive by circumstance. Above the Hogar entrance was a hand crafted collage of a family (all in dresses) and the words “Bien Venidos Sr: Mike y Denise”.
It was heartwarming to see how M interacted with all of the girls of all ages. They seem to have gained a mutual acceptance and respect in the past nine months. And although it is generally understood that volunteers come and go, it is evident that this does not seem to be at the forefront of the girls' or volunteers' minds. They accept each other on these temporary terms and the girls seem to respect the fact that the volunteers are giving so freely of their time, talents, love, attention and respect.
Our days were spent following around on M’s normal routine, or as “normal” as can be expected when the oddity of guests who happen to be parents are thrust into the mix of Hogar life. Our presence was generally quite noticeable but we were continuously made to feel welcome. We frequently attracted a group of tag-along children with questioning stares, eager for hugging and hand holding - ever seeking adult care and interaction.
As time passed we began to understand the gravity of M's job here. There are so many children with so many unfulfiled needs. The Madres and volunteers, and indeed the rare parental guests are in short supply and constant demand. And this celebrity status was great fun for the short time we were there but I imagine that eventually this energy drain would take its toll. Plus guests can stroll in, expend a bunch of energy having fun with the girls and leave. The future work and discipline fall back on the Madre and volunteers - much like a visiting grandparent or favorite uncle. Looking back, perhaps this was not the most equitable position for us as parents to have heaped upon our daughter M.
We saw M’s bedroom in the Hogar and the volunteer’s kitchen where she prepares the few meals that are not otherwise taken with the girls. These two places are also a bit of a resting zone. They are the two places in M’s busy life where the girls are not allowed free passage. This is a small but necessary expectation of personal space and time. Dutifully the tag-along girls would always stop at the door and respect the privacy of the kitchen and bedroom.
Sunday was the American observance of Mother’s Day and the Missionaries baked cookies for Denise - everyone's surrogate Mother for the occasion. Fortunately for us Mother's are good about sharing. M and Denise felt particularly privileged to spend this day together considering the distance they've kept since M's departure on mission. Spending this Mother's Day at the Hogar served as an all to poignant reminder of the important role a mother plays in a childs life. And on this special morning we went to Mass with the Hogar children. (Click here to link M's Mothers Day post)
Per their normal Sunday ritual, we gathered inside the Hogar gate with the missionaries and children and waited for all to arrive. Denise and I, as well as the missionaries soon found our hands filled by little fingers eager to capture a parental hand to squeeze on the walk through Montero to Mass. The Church is about three-quarters of a mile away. It was a sunshiny morning, perhaps 75-degrees, and our pace was slowed by the short little legs of our captors. I had not held a little hand for so long in a very long time. It felt great and I wonder who cherished the moments more, me or my little companion Ofelia - the youngest of three sisters at the Hogar.
We were surprised several times with fresh fruit or fresh squeezed juices or snacks when we would arrive for some task in the Hogar. The custom of attentive hospitality by host to guest seems to thrive in Bolivia - or at least at the Hogar. The kindness and thoughtful attention we received from the Madres and girls’ was incredible. We were graciously afforded many luxuries that they seldom, if ever, can have for themselves.
We took dinner (noontime) with the girls on a couple of occasions. I was amazed at the organization and discipline that was apparent at meal time. A bell would sound to signal the girls to assemble at the door of the cafeteria. On our first dinner Denise and I were told to stand toward the back of the foyer away from the gathering children. M and the other Hogar missionary and Madre Christina stood at the front of the room, their backs to the closed cafeteria doors. Once the children were generally lined up in five or six parallel lines, M walked down each row, her hand outstretched awaiting a smear of chewing gum from any lucky child who might have had that luxury today. I remember this event as one of many transformations noticed in our young daughter on this trip.
Then there was silence as Madre Christina spoke. She told a short biblical story and then to our surprise, Madre Christina held up her arms and all of the children turned around to face us. Then their little voices sang a most wonderful welcome song to us, their guests. I’ll always treasure that moment as I will many others on this trip. Then Madre Christina said a short prayer and after a chorus of Amen, the doors opened and all the children filed in and assumed their usual seats at large tables.
At each table were large serving bowls of food – the plates were empty. Once it was evident that everyone had found their seat, the silent children all slid out their chairs and stood. Then they recited a mealtime prayer, sat back down and began to serve themselves their dinner. At this point it began to sound much more like a normal school time cafeteria – except in Spanish. Remarkably the reliability of daily meals is one of many "luxuries" that these girls enjoy at the Hogar that they might never have gotten at home.
We toured the garden where they grow some of the vegetables eaten at the Hogar. And we saw the hens and ducks that provide some of the weekly (usually on Sunday) protein. We also saw the pile of feathers left presumably from our dinner the day before. And we saw the rooster who is responsible for waking the girls for 5:00 chores. The Hogar is also home to a turkey, an emu, several large tortoises, cats, several parrots and a bunch of parakeets. We saw several lizards – one of which has made his home in M’s bedroom wardrobe. But we failed to see any of the tarantulas who live in lairs throughout the Hogar.
And we saw the kennel where they house four German Shepard guard dogs. We were told that these dogs have been specially trained to tolerate the torments of little girls but will attack men without provocation. These guard dogs spend their days asleep in the kennel and are released to freely roam the Hogar grounds at night. Although these dogs appeared perfectly harmless to me, I did not test this security system as we were always safely away at Santa Clara, the Convent’s guest house, by nightfall.
We spent several hours in the library playing games, puzzles and coloring. Interestingly the mood of the room was fun, busy and relatively quiet. The quiet was unexpected. True, we were technically in a library and the language barrier rendered most conversation (with Denise and me) futile. But these were 6 to 10 year old children who were voluntarily present during their free time. I suspect that this is a result of their respect for M and her enforcement of library rules of conduct (no hitting, must have showered, etc.). And maybe this was also due in part to M’s description of the girls’ en masse acting on their best behavior during our entire visit. In any case, these Hogar girls seem to know right from wrong, good from bad and respect from disrespect despite their personal circumstances and this is certainly a reflection of the good example led by the Madres and volunteers.
My favorite library pass time was coloring and the girls and I devised a game of sorts to bridge our lack of meaningful verbal communication. With each color change, I would hold up the crayon and the girls would say the color name in Spanish and expect me to try and mimic their word pronunciation. And I would do the same for them in English. They were intrigued to hear and attempt the English language and politely snickered at my lame attempts at Spanish. I found it curious that with each successive failed attempt to mimic their Spanish words, the girls would repeat the word but louder and closer to my ears. Apparently it’s a universal truth that increased volume heightens ones understanding of an unknown language.
One afternoon we played with the preschool children on the playground. Their favorite things were being pushed on the swing by Denise and climbing on my back for a quick bumpy ride across the playground and through the hanging clothes on the drying lines. This was fun for me too except that it was about 90 degrees and sunny and there was a seemingly never-ending line of riders. Finally, I wriggled out from under a rider and withdrew to a seat in the shade. I was quickly joined by Lulu, a sweet little girl maybe 2 or 3 years old. We were sitting there both quiet and content for a while when M approached. When she asked Lulu what the two of us were doing there in the shade her response was “hacer caca!” (making poop!). M giggled and translated this for me and scooped Lulu up heading for a quick diaper change. Sometimes I forget how fun children are.
We toured the girls' dormitories which were suprisingly tidy. The discipline and order of the Hogar was evident everywhere. We saw the kitchen where some of the girls are assigned on a rotating basis to help out. We pased the laundry room where all girls 5 and older are expected to do their own laundry. The room consists of rows of wash sinks with integral washboards. The cloths are washed and then hung on a clothesline to dry. They are then responsible to fetch and properly stow their clean items before they are "acquired" by someone else. There is definitely a survivalist mentality at the Hogar.
Perhaps the most touching moment that I recall was when M asked Denise to present little Andrea with a package sent by her Madrena. But let's back up for a minute...
A "Madrena" is a Godparent or sponsorship family for the girls. Having a Madrena is a crutial element in these girls' lives. It is proof of an outside source of compassion - having someone who cares about them. A person or family can enter the Marena program and sponsor a child for US$35 per year through the age of 18. And 100 percent of this money goes directly toward the benefit of a specific girl at the Hogar. It is used at the request of the girl and upon the approval of the Hogar staff. Mostly it goes toward school supplies, special clothing, or builds in savings until they are 18 and move from the Hogar to begin collage or seek employment and independent shelter.
The added benefit of a Madrena is in knowing that there is someone somewhere who cares about the girl as an individual. And periodically Madrenas will send small packages for birthday or special occasion or just because they are thinking of the girls. And for the few dollars and minimal effort that this takes, the Madrena makes a monumental impact on the life of their sponsored child. Unfortunately there are still girls entering the Hogar who are in need of a Madrena. If you would like more information on the Madrena program at Hogar Sagrado Corazón please let me know. There is a definie need and the affects are very real.
Anyway, Andrea's new Madrena family is Denise's sister and her family in Omaha. And they had sent Andrea a small package contaiing a few treats, a couple of small toys and some clothing items. It arrived just before Denise and I and M thought that Andrea would apreciate the conection of receiving her package from her Madrena's sister. Suddenly her Madrena might feel closer. As Andrea and a group of friends were playing nearby, M called to her and asked her to come closer. She introduced Andrea to Denise, explained that she was M's mother and was also the sister of Andrea's Madrena.
Denise then presented Andrea with a package and M explained that this was from her Madrena family. Wide-eyed she held out her eager arms and clutched the precious package sent (and received) with love. She stared at it for a long while and listened as M read and translated) the accompanying card and written message. Then with a gathering crowd of onlookers, Andrea carefully opened the package and examined the contents. Later she gathered her new treasures back into her box and walked away with several friends trailing behind. M explained that she would probably walk around most of the day with the box. Then she would probably hide a few thngs away in her pillow case for safekeeping.
M said that the receipt of a card or letter with a stick of gum or photograph is just as precious to the girls. She has seen girls carry envelopes from Madrenas around for days, petting them like they are alive with needed love and attention...and hope.
I trust that God will watch over these children and keep them safe. And I hope that in some small way, our time together has made a difference in each of us.
My first mention here of Hogar Sagrado Corazón was in September 2010. It was then that our daughter M arrived in her new (temporary) home in Bolivia.
As described on the Salesian Lay Missioners website, “Hogar Sagrado Corazón (Sacred Heart Home) houses 100+ girls who have been abandoned, orphaned, or were in some way being abused in their homes. According to one of the Sisters here, about 30-40% have been victims of rape. The volunteers’ number one job here is to love them...”
And at just over nine months and counting, our M remains there selflessly loving her way through a year given to mission work.
My image of the place over many months had been growing and increasing in realism. As we would hear stories from M and as we would see the few disconnected pictures that she had managed to snap off to us I had tried to arrange things in my mind and to imagine the place and the girls and their lives at the Hogar as they might have really been.
Soon I began to realize that what I had developed was more an abstract image of jumbled places and disjoined people. So I began to pay closer attention and look and listen for signs that would help me to arrange the puzzling pieces of place correctly in my mind.
It was at this point where what was once a lackluster acceptance of our upcoming travel to Bolivia became a combination (in equal parts) of eager anticipation and disquieting dread.
What had my mind created from all these fragmented images? Was my image complete and accurate or faulty in some (or many) respects? Mild apprehension settled in. What chimera awaited me? Would my sweet little M be living as Maria von Trapp or Miss Hannigan? In any case, my image of the place was on course with a reckoning.
And so it was that on Friday, May 6 Denise, my imagination and I boarded a plane for Bolivia – or more accurately from Omaha to Chicago to Miami to LaPaz, Bolivia and finally to Santa Cruz, Bolivia.
