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