U Magazine, Winter 1987

MY TURN

Love, faith and children

By He len Hayes

en you h ave lost someone who is dearer to you than life tself, the gaity and heedlessness of a fiesta crowd s bewildering. You wonder how anybody can possibly be so elated when it is plain to you that this is a lonely world. When a close loved one died some years ago, my son and I tried to weather a siege of loneliness and bittersweet memories by going to Cuer– navaca, Mexico. We arrived at the start of the Christmas season. But I was just not ready for the fiesta spirit that surged over the walls a nd in through my open windows. I was an alien and I knew it, an alien alone on an island of grief. For a place of solace I found a beautiful old Franciscan church on the cathedral square. I discovered I could pray in that church; and when I could not pray, it was comfortable just to sit there, watching the brilliant sunshi ne streaming through the old Spanish door and reflecting on the griefs and joys that had come through it in two and a half centu ries. After a few visits to the church, I began hearing a lot about one of its young priests. Father Wasson , a man of very large heart. I made it a point to see him for myself. Father Wasson is large, shy and guileless-looking. He is accomplishing a quiet revolution in Mexico. Well , not exactly quiet - boys are not the stuff that quiet is made of. but quiet in the sense that there is no fan fare . About 15 years ago he started taking in boys who had been in trouble with the law. Now h e h as cared for well over a thousand. Exactly how he clothes and feeds all those children not even he is sure. Except that he has many friends - in Mexico, in the U.S., Canada and in heaven . The friends , are. indeed, part of the mira– cle - they prove that goodness is contagious. Once he had to borrow money from the sewing woman to buy tortillas for the week. Another time when there was absolutely nothing in cupboard, he got a large check from a stranger. When he really needs something. when the need is tangible and desper– ate, he doesn't go to the local bank, he prays for what he needs. Somebody promptly comes along and gives him just enough money. To him this is an admirably s imple system. Just when you h ave decided that h e is a nice uncomplicated soul, left over from the early Franc iscans. you discover that he is also a college professor and a psychiatrist. I know these things now, but I didn't then . He struck me, as he does many people on first acquaintance, as someone who has wandered out of a storybook and should not be allowed to bruise himself on our sophisticated problems. Father Wasson took me to see his children, and I saw them at their best, all scrubbed and shining for Christmas season. In Mexico. Christmas ti me is a totally religious holiday. with no gifts. It actually begins with an event called a posada on the evening of the 16th. In the Latin custom , this is Christ's birthday and He should get the gifts. This I found very beautiful. My angu ished heart was soothed by the look in th e ch ildren's eyes; this world was still magic for them, cold or not cold , hunger or no hunger. When you see the great. solemn , sh ining eyes of the ch ildren. you reach out, you think, Heaven is still there , if only I can touch it. I reached out timidly. gropingly, and found a small warm hand that was little-boy grubby but magnificently under– standing. And so I met Rudi. Someday Rudy will break somebody's heart with those great limpid eyes. He was a little rascal whose time in the streets had not been wasted, and he had the face of a Murillo cherub. Rudi escorted me through the posada. Each evening.j ust as the stars began to push through the curtain of a green and lavender sky, we all lined up and began the posada, a sort of pageant right out of the Middle Ages where you go from door to door unsuccess– fully seeking a lodging for Jose, a poor carpenter, and his wife

Maria. Four little boys carry the litter with the statues ofSan Jose and his wife Maria. And down the centuries come the litany of excuses: "I cannot let You in. Lord. because important people would be embarrassed by You ... "I cannot let You in because I am so busy grubbing for some wealth to leave behind me." "I cannot let You in because You have no social standing." "I am too busy. I am too busy. Go away." "I cannot let You in because hate has sealed the door. .. Rudi , as gallant as any knight of old Casti le. escorted me from door to door, looking at my face from time to time to see how I was taking it. As we walked along, singing the endless verses of the old chant, I could not have stopped if I had wanted to. Neither of us knew the other's language, but I heard him loud and clear. The grand , sonorous prayers I had said as a child came back to me. At the very summit of the Christmas season is the Day of the Kings, the day of gifts for the children. Rudi 's uncontained excite– ment fizzed over into the silent gardens of my heart. Alerted by his great zest for living, I too began to scan the horizon for three mys– terious figures to come riding out of the East to bring gifts: Caspar cin his fine Arabian horse, Melchior on a stately camel, and Balth– asar the Ethiopian on a great gray elephan t. All my life I had lived with the make-believe of the theater and a world shaped with the magic ofwords. Now, wordless, a fantastic little actor was weaving around me a world of make-believe that was part and parcel of this great fiesta of ligh t. You had to be a child to fully comprehend, but with Rudi"s help I did pretty well. Every step I took in the posada was a go fng back; every drop or my Irish blood reminded me that I had once been a citizen of Rudi's world of unquestioning trust in an all-provident Father in heaven. Over the next days I reflected that God had been very good to me through th e years of an interesting life. God gave and He took away and I had not been as meek as Job about it. Finally I asked Father Wasson to instruct me for my return to the Church from which I had drifted years ago. Like others of Father·s earthly friends, I tried to help him get some money for the ever-growing n eeds of his fam ily. We talked a beautiful station wagon out of the Rotary Club ofCleveland. Ohio. We sought by a dozen means to pull togeth er the poles of supply and demand. Sometimes this was sad work and sometimes we got angry. But I remember these enterprises most for the lovely laugh– ter. We laughed in a beautiful knowledge that He is already doing the completely impossible. All tha t was some years ago. But sti ll , going back to Cuernavaca now is like going h ome. The wriggling, bright-eyed boys who smiled at me that first Christmas are gone now -most of them are teaching, some are married. And though their places have been taken by others of Mexico·s beautiful children, Rudi and his friends - including wonderful Father Wasson , who still labors on - are not to be forgotten. They never can be. For they brought me a special gift that Christmas - not in a sack, tucked in with toothbrushes and new clothes and sugar cane. My gift came as an oasis of peace in a time of sadness - a gift of new love given me at a time when I desperately needed to love. There is the time in every life, I think, a time of the star. a mo– ment very dark when one must look up and - if h e is wise - follow the light as the Magi did , a light that leads to love and hope. • Helen Hayes will be the guest oJ honor at the USD President's Club dinner January 24. Adapted with permission from Guideposts magazine. © 1972 by Guideposts Associates. Inc.. Carmel. New York 105 12.

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