A Community In Grievance Part 2: Casket to Casket

Tuesday June 27th, 2017

When clergy begin their ministry they are given a faucet. This faucet is placed in front of their heart and it leaks. It pours out compassion, love, empathy, and energy. One cannot always stop the leak and so they are drained. Slowly yet surely there will be a drop where there was once a pond. Somehow there is never a drought. It is as if this faucet just digs deeper and deeper into the soul finding something to consume and eject. How does one fill their pond before a well is dug? How do clergy types tighten the leak?

My faucet was leaking the entire night as I wrestled in my blankets texting my congregants about the viewing. I had no desire to wake up hourly or cada media hora. By 2:00am it occurred to me that sleep would be required. As the woman always preaching self care to my students and friends it seems that I am failing to take my own advice- per usual. It was not the sleepless night that bothered me so much but the spurts of anxiety that accompanied it were what was painful.

5:45am First alarm goes off.

“I can’t get up. I just can’t do it.”

6:00am Second alarm goes off.

“But I made a commitment. Has the sun even dawned upon my window?”

6:20am Third alarm goes off.

“Nic. It’s time.”

Another member and I agreed to meet that morning at the church and walk together to see the girls. She was their Catechism teacher. For nearly a year they all spent every Friday evening together reading bible stories and playing games. When they received their first communion, she handed each of them the wine and embraced them individually to celebrate the sacrament. Today she would witness another one. The weather turned cold as if the earth knew there would be no sunshine in our hearts today. It was dreary across Grand Bourg. Shops were closed. Most people were walking in the same direction as if the Holy Spirit was guiding us.

We arrived to what I learned would be the first velatorio by 8:00am where Marianela and Valentina resided. We walked two blocks west of the church to find an abundance of people already grieving on the streets. As we approached the driveway familiar faces popped up around the crowds. Every single teacher from IEA was there gathered in groups by grades. All pale and tender faces, slightly red and puffy around the eyes. Women that were normally well decorated in makeup stood around in raw form. Hair pulled back in loose pony tails and messy buns. Palms clenched tissues like a pearl in an oyster. This was not unique to the teachers as other students stood with their parents in like attire. Everyone came as they were completely out of uniform with each other. Some mourners were in sweatpants and sneakers while others were in jeans and sandals. Then here I was in a full collar and suit already being the most obvious stranger to many. 

The velatorio consisted of three rooms; room one with closed doors and people inside grieving who I believe to be another victim of the crash, room two was also closed with no signs of people, then furthest from the entrance room three which contained a more secluded waiting area and our two girls. It was packed from wall to wall. My member and I walked in a line passing through rivers of tears and sleeping children. Most viewers stood outside of the door just staring. A cross sat between two closed caskets covered with photos and disheveled parents. Big brothers were held by friends. Mothers held by their sisters. The photos lingered in my head as we stared into this crowded space for over ten minutes. We stood there like the rest. By the time we turned around our faces too where covered in tears, mine triggered by the moans of family. 

“Donde estaba Dios?”

As we left the room for air it seemed as dozens of more people arrived. In the center of the open roof lobby the two of us stared towards each other but into the distance. Another member arrived. We were silent as there were no words to speak. I watched my teacher groups slowly disperse down the driveway and back towards the school. Further into the distance were over a dozen men lined up on the adjacent sidewalk staring into the velatorio. 

“Donde esta la otra chica?” I broke the silence.

I learned Maria Sol was at another velatorio a few blocks over. I asked the second member to lead me as the first one left for work. It was 8:42am and the crowd easily doubled in size. As we walked out through the driveway we would see another hundred people gathered in clusters and walking towards us. The entire town grieved.

We walked two blocks east and past the church to south east down another. The two of us circled around the plaza where we once stood for the vigil. Melted candles stood boldly on the plaza stage as the light drizzle began. Wax hardened down the sides of the stage and flowers were piled up in the center. We continued on our journey and turned right passed the local pool house. A large green and white sign hung over another large crowd of people. The same teachers were there but now there were more strangers. This two room partially enclosed patio led to two rooms. The front room held another victim and kept the doors relatively closed. Her mourners leaned on the windows of the building separated from us by an imaginary wall.

We walked towards the back of the patio where more school administration and family members stood. The entrance slightly differed from the first as there seemed to be two separated lounges but just as many people standing in the doorway. Her mother stood by the right side of the entrance where people walked over to embrace her. Supporting her were her sisters and mother. On the opposite side was her father leaning over her open casket as the Vice Principal held him. He too was once a student at IEA. The open casket broke my spirit as this sleeping angel laid there draped in white like her first communion. Flowers from Tio y Tia laid upon her legs with small cards and other trinkets. I remember her face. My loss of words were evident as I could not even speak to people I knew well. All I could do was watch.

Soon after I paid my respects I found my well seasoned supervisor. I felt overwhelmed. Maybe it was the walking back and forth between two funeral homes or knowing that two different homes were completely occupied from the same accident. Regardless, there was a lot of pain to encounter. This was not what any of us sign up for when we think about parish ministry. Unpredictable accidents involving children has trumped nearly any other trauma I have had to deal with in the past. We were not only dealing with three families but dozens of staff and hundreds of students. I was hoping to find guidance in what to do by my supervisor but it she too had to walk through the same trenches and that was just as difficult to observe.

Before the hour ended we walked back to the first velatorio expecting to watch Marianela be taken away to the cemetario. The girls were scheduled to be removed by the hour. Following her would be Valentina and then we would walk back to Maria Sol before noon. The walk back from Sol was much more difficult than this morning. It was not only my supervisor, member, and I but now majority of the IEA staff. We passed by other mourners walking in both the same and opposite direction as us. Many were with children. Adults walked in pairs. One could tell who was participating in this pilgrimage due to their body motions. Many people held each other and walked quietly. Steps were not as powerful. Familiar faces intentionally stopped to greet each other. It was unlike anything I had experienced before. 

Returning to the first location was no easier than getting up this morning. The Vice President of IELU met us in the lobby so we could then walk together to view the girls again. This time around I noticed the grieving parents and how much they differed from each other. One of the fathers could barely sit still as he clenched his daughter’s lime green winter coat. He tied it around his neck like the invisible cloak, like it was protecting him from the realities of the world. The other girl’s mother weeped more softly moving between chairs near her daughter’s casket to the benches in the lobby. Shortly after our arrival the fire department arrived to also pay their respects. Marianela’s casket was moved one last time into room two before her final departure. It was then when her mother took a seat outside of her room where she sat and smoked a cigarette as a crowd of people rushed into to see her precious daughter. Pained.

I could not bear to stare any longer at closed caskets and drenched faces. The clock had finally struck 10:30am and Marianela’s chariot awaited. Grievers lined up the driveway. The men across the street grew vastly in numbers. People were still in room three with Valentina and others were outside of the building talking amongst themselves. I had counted over 50 people alone in the 10 feet radius of me after most people cleared space for the pole bearers. Slowly as the driver pulled off with our girl, the crowd began to collapse in on each other following the vehicle to the street.

We wept. 

By 11:17am the clergy crew and I were on our way back to Maria Sol for the last time. This is when it dawned on me that I had very little strength to continue. My supervisor on the other hand made her way around these spaces able to provide that same sort of care she delivers any other day of the week. I was in awe. V.P. was no different in her approach to grief. The two of them tagged teamed and made their rounds within the velatorio spanning from staff to family to neighbors to children. The two of them have always inspired me in the way the minister. Their ability to sense and embrace exceeds that of many others I have seen. Their presence is powerful without being overbearing. They can do this, I however am falling behind.

In the moment I labeled this as traumatic when the proper word would be draining. Staring at caskets and bodies is draining. Watching strangers cry which then makes you cry is draining. Feeling for every single person because you have a bad habit of trying to figure everyones relationship to the dead is draining. We lamented for four hours before I finally took a walk. 

For an hour I caught my breath trying to process what was even happening. I found security in my local eatery. The waitress approached me in my collar and knew immediately where I had been.

“Las chicas estan mis estudiantes. Tres asistieron la escuela aca.”

I was frazzled and raw blurting these things out before I properly greeted this familiar face. Am I panicking right now? I felt premature for my position and irresponsible for walking away. Staff members  that saw me leaving made sure to check me as I passed. Am I abandoning my tribe by taking a break? Nevertheless it did not stop me from calmly sipping my coffee and watching others trek a similar path back and forth. By the end of the 12th hour I headed back into the deep end to be guided by clergy into a car. Trustingly I asked:

“Dale, a donde vamos?”

We were heading to another velatorio. 

My heart weakened and my eyes drifted close. 

We arrived.

We grieved.

We left. 

We planned for tomorrow. Today had hurt. My pond is empty. The faucet still leaks. But those who are thirsty will still need to drink tomorrow.

#ReclaimMissionary