Las Montañas de Maneadero

This weekend I had the wonderful opportunity to take a short little visit down to Casa Esperanza with a small group from our church to deliver Christmas boxes. There is more to write about the people I saw, but for now these pictures shall be my words.

Dina

Share a sucker?

Katelynn y amiga

Las Montañas, y mi "sobrinita"

Mirna

This is a story of a friend of mine in Mexico, which I’m sure has deserved telling for many months now, but has instead found itself gathering dust in the files of my computer. Here it is.

Mirna is the kind of mother who would do almost anything to ensure a good life and happiness for her child. When I first met her, I almost began to assume her neglectful as she would set her 3-month-old daughter in the baby carrier with a propped-up bottle as she taught her students at the Casa. But then I began to see the difference in Mirna as compared to other “typical” Mexican moms. When others would let their children complain on & on to deaf ears, it seemed Mirna could not stand to hear her daughter cry. Not for sake of the annoyance, either, but because she couldn’t seem to bear allowing her daughter to continue in unnecessary unhappiness.

Most children at the casa get their fair share of bumps and bruises and falls—this seems commonplace for most moms, hardly worth even coddling in most cases. But not for Mirna. Gazing at a smiling Dina ("Deena") crawling on the bed one afternoon, Mirna confessed to me (in typical Mexican expressiveness and humor) that, the first time she sees her daughter fall and scrape her knee, she herself might cry more than Dina!

Late another night, I visited her in her trailer. Dina was already asleep, and Mirna invited me in. “What are you doing?” I asked. “Mira,” she said, pointing to the ceiling to show me smears of a few dead mosquitoes. “Want to help me?” She shut off the lights and sat down next to me on the bed, explaining to me that there were cracks somewhere in the trailer that let the mosquitoes in. she hated seeing the tiny welts on her baby’s face or arms. “They come out when it’s dark,” she explained. “And then—“ she flipped on the lights and jumped up, scanning the air for the tiny blood suckers, smacking them in her hands. I followed suit until we could find no more. Then, off went the lights again. On again, off again, on again. She did this every night before bed, while her precious baby lay sleeping.

For a while, Mirna left the casa. She has this dream, her biggest dream, and she went to follow it. She found a house—a little ranch house, she told me—where they could live, just the two of them. All she ever wants is a place of their own and a life for them. It was a nice enough place—quiet, she said, and peaceful, hardly anyone else around. But it was very hot, and very dry. And not many people around meant not much work. For a while she worked a push cart, some days with good business but some days without. The heat bore down on them and they drank and drank but hardly found relief. Dina became sick, and her desperate mother could only do so much for her. Day after day Mirna would push the cart, and sometimes there would be money, but usually only just barely enough. There was no car that worked to drive to the doctor, even to the store, and they would lack basic necessities, and food, and—

Mirna pressed her lips together and bent her head into her hands. I held my breath, my heart captured. i had never seen this strong, kind, and upbeat woman cry. Finally she looked up again with tears in her eyes, wiped them away and continued her story.

Now that she was back at the Casa, she wondered why she ever left. She is living well now in this broken-down trailer on the dusty property, with plenty of food and water and diapers, with her bright and cheerful daughter who is getting her health and weight back and has learned to walk and be mischievous. We smile at Dina, who is standing up near the edge of the bed, grinning back at her mother. "Dina!" Mirna points at her, her voice firm (but loving). "Get back from there, sit down right now, you're going to fall." Dina pouts, but promptly obeys, and we chuckle at her. "Es intelligente," i say. "Si," Mirna smiles.

Perhaps they will find a way to move to the states one day. Or perhaps they will stay in Mexico. But either way, Mirna still keeps hold of her dream. And unlike many who may dream big but fall back into the cycle, i feel confident that she will get there. My heart swells with the thought of God's grace to my friend and my little "neice." Surely he will continue to bless her faith and wisdom and persistence. "One day," she tells me. "One day."

August, 2009

Mi Hermana en Maneadero

She was married when she was not much older than me (21 0r 22), to a man she'd known for just a few months. It was a mistake, she'd later realize--he did not share her faith in Christ, and it did not take him long to leave his churchgoing wife behind for a life in "El Otro Lado," in a city in the US. She never told him that she was pregnant, and even still he knows nothing about their beautiful two-year-0ld daughter with the huge brown eyes and his curly dark hair.

When she first learned she was pregnant and very alone, she had no idea what to do. Eventually she ended up at the casa-hogar (shelter) where I met her--the animated young teacher of the supplemental classes for the kids at the shelter, with her 3-month-old daughter just a day younger than my own niece.

We became friends, sharing life at the casa for a little while--humorous communication (or sometimes miscommunication), stories about life, and the different changes and challenges of the classroom and Casa life. I would remember her as a particularly devoted mom and an enthusiastic & caring teacher who saw her work as ministry. Unlike many of the women that may pass through the Christian shelter purely by government placement, Mirna seemed to be a strong Christian, and did her best to be content with the time God had her there, despite trials or loneliness (many other women do not stay very long at the casa, so it can be hard to make stable friends) and the strong desire to make a real and independent life for herself and her daughter.

It had been more than a year that i had not been able to visit her, but she wrote to me sometimes and I also to her. But she wasn't sure she should believe that I would come again to see her. "Many people visit, and afterwards they write, and then eventually they forget," she said. "I figured you would probably be the same."

The minutes had passed so very slowly as I waited at the casa for Mirna to arrive home from work. In the mean time I spent some time with my "mexican niece" as we'd come to call her--who, as even the others in my group casually observed, seemed happier than many of the other kids, and obviously very well cared for. She'd grown quite a bit since I'd last seen her, and was even talking pretty well. Her eyes were bright and adventurous and she hardly stopped laughing as I pushed her in the swing and helped her climb and slide down the slide.

At last Mirna and I greeted one another and made our way to her room with Dina to do some much-overdue catching up. She excitedly showed me the little artificial Christmas tree she had set up and decorated in their room, the first one she or Dina ever had. But we had barely sat down when suddenly the group was waiting and I had to leave--it was my mistake for having failed to ask permission to stay earlier on. I think we were both devastated but I told her I would try to return, my heart feeling heavy and sick. This, after a year and a half? I couldn't do that to her... But I couldn't make any promises.

But lo, by God's grace and the goodness of our driver's heart, I returned at dark, after dinner. Most everyone was in their houses getting ready for bed, but someone told me that Mirna was in cleaning the kitchen. I walked quietly in, carrying all my things, and said teasingly, "I don't have a house... can I stay here with you?" She gave me a warm smile. "Oh, I didn't think you would come back! I heard the car, but didn't think it could be you." She helped me carry my things to her room, and arranged to borrow an extra mattress for me. I followed her around like a puppy until she finished her night's chores, just talking.

As the night faded on and Dina bounced merrily on my mattress on the floor, we stayed up like schoolgirls at a slumber party talked about almost everything in our recent lives we could think of to talk about. My now-somewhat-rusty Spanish (made worse by lack of sleep) was a little frustrating, but we had always been good at getting our point across with each other no matter. "Oh, how good that you are here," Mirna would say animatedly over and over again, resting her chin in her hands as she laid backwards on her bed to face me. She'd had less and less friends visiting lately. "I'm so glad to have you visit me." I told her of my Nana visiting for Christmas, and family plans this time of year. "Oh, how nice it must be to have family around," she said. "Here it is just us, Dina and I, and the Lord." Dina eventually gave up her mischief for sleep, and we also finally began to give in to the yawns that interrupted our conversation. We said goodnight and I prayed before I fell asleep to the noise of the creaking space heater.

I rose drowsily and dressed quietly in the dim light of the approaching sunrise. Outside I heard my ride arrive, so I waved a hand out the door and turned back for a few moments to gather my things. Mirna stirred and sat up. "Goodbye," I whispered, coming to her bedside for a final hug. "Goodbye," she said, "write to me, please!" "Yes," I promised.

As we bumped along the dirt road away from the Casa, I took what last pictures I could catch of the mountains at dawn.