The first story of motherhood is that of St. Anne, the mother of Mary. Not much is known of St. Anne or Mary’s childhood. St. Anne was married to Joachim and their marriage produced Mary who would one day be the virgin mother of Jesus. St. Anne is the grandmother of Jesus -the matriarch of the Holy Family. She is the patron saint of grandmothers, women in labor, unmarried women, and she’s the patron of the city of Chinandega, Nicaragua. Only knowing this small amount of information about St. Anne, I have created an entire “back story” for her. None of which is rooted in church doctrine. I think about what her life was like as the grandmother of Jesus. I have decided that she was a cuddler and a snuggler and that she gently pinched Jesus’ nose to make him laugh. I have imagined her to have had a temper and to have stomped her foot in exasperation when the situation called for it. I believe she was frugal, resourceful, and disciplined. I think of St. Anne when I feel like an old mom. I think of St. Anne when I feel the weight of my family on my shoulders and ask her to pray with me for Heavenly guidance and the wisdom to lead my family. I feel united with her as a mom. I hope to remain united with her as a grandmother one day. I think she “gets” me.
My second story of motherhood is that of Carina, a mom who lives in the village of La Chuscada – just outside of Chinandega, Nicaragua. Carina has a husband and two children – Edwardo and Dolce. Her daily schedule includes waking up when the sun starts to rise and the roosters begin crowing. She prepares rice and beans for breakfast, but if milk is available, she will make rice with milk and save the beans for another meal. Breakfast preparation and life has become so much easier in the last two years since, after much physical labor and financial savings, her village established an irrigation system to bring fresh water to the town. After breakfast, she helps the children off to school and her husband off to work in the fields. Then she begins her daily chores of hand washing the family’s clothes and hanging them on the line to dry. She sweeps the floor of their home and the outdoor space surrounding it. Both of these spaces have dirt floors and are swept daily. These chores are very challenging during the rainy season as Carina’s home is made of cinderblocks and open air spaces. She has no windows. One room is fully enclosed and the other room has three walls with the room facing the outside. After chores, she makes her way around the village to check on the elderly and returns home to make fried plantains for lunch for her and the children. Her husband has taken the breakfast leftovers out to the fields for his lunch. If the morning runs smoothly, she will take a little time for herself and watch a soap opera on a small television that has a dial knob and antennas. Then there is preparing rice and beans for dinner. Occasionally she will add chicken to the dinner. They have a family meal together. Carina washes dishes and everyone heads off to bed a couple of hours after sunset. Sunset is a little after 6 PM. She has survived earthquakes, flooding from hurricanes, volcanic eruptions, and draught….And she smiles.
The third mother is me, Judy Wind – Midwestern American suburban mom of two daughters. I am also a wife and educator. My daily schedule begins with moaning the moment the alarm goes off in the morning. My husband brings coffee to my bedside to help me move from my bed to the hot shower. Breakfast is “every man for himself” - whatever you want – cereal, Ego Waffles from the freezer, a freshly blended smoothie - just put your dishes in the dishwasher. Lunch prep is completed by the person in the family who is running ahead of schedule – which means lunch is never prepared. That doesn’t really matter; we can each buy something to eat at some point during the day.
I get in the car and head to work in my Ford Explorer, which not only has heated seats, but also air-conditioned seats. At work, I answer emails, answer phone calls, facilitate meetings, occasionally say something smart and meaningful, advise people, and then they generally follow my advice. I come home and go for a run in the neighborhood because I have not had any physical activity and I have so much stress to get out of my system. I have a well-balanced healthy dinner with a glass of pricey red wine, watch TV, and go to bed. When I crawl in bed, I kiss my husband “good night” and I say, “I love my bed. I love my bed. I love my bed.”
With such diversity among this group of mothers, how could our lives possibly intersect?
July 2016, I was preparing to embark on a mission trip to Nicaragua with my 18 year old daughter, Emily. She had volunteered with a non-profit organization, Amigos for Christ, for a week the summer before and convinced me that I would love it! I was almost ready. I had prayed about it. I talked about it. I made peace with the thought of physical labor, no air conditioning, and sleeping in a dorm. All of my immunizations were up to date including TYPHOID. I had work clothes and shoes. I purchased leather work gloves so that I could shovel and pic ax my heart out and not screw up my manicure. I was well hydrated. I was set. But, I needed to include the saints. I love my saints. They are my Heavenly team. Just as I would ask my friends and family to pray about a situation as my earthly team, I also ask my Heavenly team to do the same. I went to the Catholic supply store and bought a few one dollar saint medals to pin to my work shirts and be united in prayer. The plan included one saint for each day:
- St. Christopher (the patron of the traveler) I would wear him on Saturday which would be a long travel day from St. Louis, Missouri to Chinandega, Nicaragua.
- St. Dominic (patron of Managua) – Sunday, we are scheduled to climb the Cerro Negro Volcano. It seems appropriate to have the patron of the capital of Nicaragua while climbing a volcano.
- St. Terese, - The Little Flower of Jesus. She is all about embracing the suffering. Such a foreign concept – to embrace suffering, but I think I’m going to suffer so I might as well embrace it. I will offer up this small and short sacrifice for all of those who suffer.
- St. Anne: Tuesday is her feast day! I don’t know much about her, but she’s Mary’s mom so she must be strong and awesome. I’m a mom. I’m headed to Central America with my daughter. I surely need St. Anne.
- Mother Teresa – she is known for promoting “small things with great love.” I don’t know what I will be able to do but I am sure it can only be a small contribution to this community. By Wednesday, I will probably need this reminder.
- St. Sebastian, the patron of endurance. YES. Endurance. Definitely.
- St. James is the patron of the Pilgramage to Santiago de Compostela – a goal of mine. I have called upon St. James for over twenty years to support my journeys near and far. Life is about the journey and not the destination and he keeps me focused on that.
- St. Jude is my patron saint, for whom I was named. By Saturday, I will require the saint of the desperate and hopeless at my side.
After a 15 hour journey that included a car ride, two planes, an airport tram, and a 2 and a half hour school bus ride into the unknown I was glad I had all of my saints with me. In fact, once I laid my weary body down in my bottom bunk, in a dorm of women and girls, I realized that I had completely over estimated my abilities and that I would likely die by morning. I channeled my saints. I knew my friends and family were also praying for me…so I began to call upon every dead relative that I could think of and asked them to also pray for me. It was definitely a “pray for ME” kind of thing. Emily was already asleep in her bed. She was fine. I needed all those prayers for myself.
The next day, I was much much better. My spirit was well and confident despite feeling a little nauseous. By Tuesday, I was completely in the groove. I was living a “mindful” existence (although temporary). I had opened my heart to whatever God had in store for me. This is what I had wanted. This was my prayer. I was in Central America with my daughter, digging the foundation of a school, working side by side with people of La Chuscada. I was sweating, and laughing, and actually seeing the face of Jesus in others. I felt uniquely blessed.
And on the blessed day, a group of us were invited to leave the work site and go to a family’s home and share a meal together. Since it was the feast of St. Anne, school was closed, and families were together at home. Carina and her family had not yet hosted a group of missionaries in their home, but they were willing. Amigos for Christ purchased the supplies for the meal as to not burden the family financially and our role was to visit, connect cultures, and be open to the Holy Spirit. (I can totally do that.)
Our troop of Americans included a few teenage boys, a few teenage girls, a dad character, a mom character (me), and an interpreter. We set out on a dirt road with the following conversations:
Where are we going?
I don’t know.
Are we really invited?
I don’t know.
Are we just showing up?
I don’t know.
How far away do you think we are going?
I don’t know.
What are we going to eat?
I don’t know.
The dirt road reached a dead end at a field, a farmer’s field. We just entered it. We walked on his field. It felt weird and wrong and rude. Then we came to a barbed wire fence. We followed our guide who squeezed between the barbed wires. That felt wrong too. Once through, we realized that there was actually a gate to our right. We walked across someone’s yard. It seemed like a yard because it was close to a hut and the dirt seemed newly swept so it must be a yard. Our group came to a dried up river bed with lots of poop from lots of different animals of different sizes. I thought, “Is anyone else noticing that there’s a lot of poop around here?” We passed pigs and wild dogs and children waving at the parade of white people. Oh, this is very weird. But, Lord, I am open to the experience. I’m sure whatever you have in store for me is blessed.
We arrive at the home and are greeted by Carina, her son Edwardo (11 or 12), and daughter Dolce (5). Our interpreter, Paola, assists with introductions and we are shown the yard area, the wood burning stove in the kitchen hut, and the table in the home where we will be sharing the meal. The spaces are very small so only a couple of us are in the kitchen hut at a time while the rest are playing with the children outside. The kitchen is hot and full of smoke. It takes a while to get used to it and even with becoming stronger, we still have to take breaks and go out in the fresh air when our eyes begin to burn. In the kitchen, Carina models how to peel and slice plantains. Next they are boiled in water, smashed on a wooden counter top, formed into loose patties, and then fried in oil. Carina is so proud and happy to teach all us how to make one of her favorite meals and we are enchanted by the experience. I am so happy to be cooking along side a Nicaraguan mom, on the feast of St. Anne, while I have my St. Anne medal secretly pinned to the inside of my shirt. I feel a connection between Heaven and Earth. I feel a connection across cultures. I feel a connection mom to mom. Oh, no. I might cry. No, I’m not going to cry.
Later, we gather in a sitting area on benches outside. With the help of Paola, we talk about what our daily lives are like and ask Carina about her life. We share our stories and are very conscious of not describing the square footage of our houses and the numerous cars we all own. I watch and listen to these interactions and my mind drifts to the rainy season. When it rains or storms, my life is the same as the day before - nothing changes. I just get a little wet on my way from the car to the building where I work. When it rains here, Carina’s husband doesn’t have work in the fields. Her kids don’t go to school. Her home has a dirt floor. I don’t know what happens. I don’t know what that looks like in the raining season. I see that the roof is metal. What does that sound like? Her clothes don’t dry on the line. But without the rain, they have no harvest. Rain changes everything. Water changes everything.
I asked Carina about an earthquake I had heard about months before. She replied, through Paola, that it was scary. It happened about 9:30 in the evening. They had been asleep and were awaken by the shaking. They ran out of their home and were at first concerned that it was the volcano. Then they realized that it was an Earthquake. The kids did not have school for two weeks because of the following tremors and her family slept outside during that period. I had experienced some mild earth tremors before, but nothing in my life changed. And I had never once been afraid that my home would be engulfed by lava.
I placed my hand on my right hip, where my St. Anne pin was resting. I felt the medal and I told St. Anne, “Carina is stronger than me, but she also needs more strength than me. Pray for her.” Oh no, I think I’m going to cry. No. I’m not going to cry.
As the time to head back to the work site approaches, we take photos on our iphones. We laugh and hug and I feel as though the moment is still unfinished. The group of teenagers and Dennis head down the path. Dennis has a strong sense of direction and leads the group. I linger. Emily lingers with me, sensing that I feel sensitive in this moment. I asked Paola if it is okay if I extend a gift to Carina and if she will help me. Paola and I stand before Carina. I tell her with the help of Paola that I have been wearing St. Anne because it is the feast of St. Anne. I explain that St. Anne was a mom, and I am a mom, and Carina is a mom. I want to give her my St. Anna medal as a gift, mom to mom, and that I care about her. She accepts the gift. We hug. I cry. I head down the path to catch up with Dennis and the teens with Paola on one side and Emily on the other. Both of them extend a loving hand to rub my back, squeeze my hand, and nudge me along. Soon, I compose myself, join the group and begin to notice my surroundings: the wild dogs, pigs, children, riverbed with poop, barbed wire fence, yards, farmer’s field, and dirt road. We are back at the work site and I don’t remember the work we did that afternoon.
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| Our Visit to Carina and Family in 2016 |
At dinner that evening, I sat with some college girls. Everyone shared about her day and I told the story of Carina and St. Anne with tears in my eyes. They encouraged me with great excitement to share my story at evening devotion. My response was a firm “No.” This story is not for public knowledge. This is a mom to mom thing. This is personal and I had only shared it with them because I was feeling sensitive. I am not going to share it in a group of almost 70 people. That evening I shared a very edited version. I shared my reflection of motherhood and my thoughts about rain changing her life drastically and how I don’t even attend to the rain. I talked about the awareness of having lots of stuff and Carina has a hut with a tin roof. I addressed that I have no pity or sorrow for her because she is happy. I have great admiration and respect for her. I shared nothing about St. Anne alive in my life.
Fast forward to 2017. I am not going to Nicaragua again. Nope. Not going to do it. It was great and beautiful and blessed. Been there – done that. I was rubbed raw. I was made vulnerable. I cried. I learned lessons. I have grown and evolved. I ‘m good. A month later, Emily got a job with Amigos for Christ, working in Nicaragua for her three month summer break. I wouldn’t see her that whole time, unless I go to Nicaragua. Oh, God help me, I am going to Nicaragua again.
Mid May – our daughter leaves her family and friends to follow where Jesus is calling. I shared with her that I have never experienced a calling like that. I know when Jesus is calling me to do something hard when he dumps it in my lap. Then, and only then, I think, “Crap, I guess I better do that. “ I never have heard a calling that hasn’t been dumped in my lap. Her convictions were strong and faithful. She left to spend her summer mixing cement, hauling cement, pouring cement, and cleaning out buckets of cement. And she was happy.
My thoughts were consumed with “I don’t want to go to Nicaragua.” “ I don’t want to take malaria medicine again.” “This is not a Jesus calling me thing. This is a motherhood calling me thing. What if the trip is not blessed because it’s not a Jesus calling me thing?” “What am I doing?” “Why am I doing this? “There is clearly something wrong with me.”
I packed work clothes, work gloves, bed bug spray, sunscreen, inspirational t shirts, and a set of saint medals for each day. On a particularly turbulent flight, I realized that even with all of my doubt, I had still over estimated my ability to cope and that I would likely die before I ever arrived in Nicaragua. But I got there. And from that moment on I could feel all of the blessings. I could feel all of the prayers. I could feel my friends praying for me. I could feel the saints praying for me and I could feel all of my dead relatives praying for me. It was time for me to walk with my Lord and see where he takes me.
This is where he took me – back to La Chuscada. He led me to Carina.
130 missionaries were divided into two groups to travel to different work sites. I chose El Chunco. I find Emily that morning and she said, “Nope. I’m working in La Chuscada. Come with me.” I replied, “I want to, but I made a commitment to go to El Chunco.” She continued, “Mom, this is Nicaragua. No one cares where you work. Just get on the bus to La Chuscada.” I just couldn’t. I couldn’t break a commitment. I raised my hand for goodness sake. That wouldn’t be right. Just to appease me, she spoke to the youth minister and returned to me. “Mom, it’s all good. Get on the bus to La Chuscada. “Oh, I was not comfortable with minimal information. I needed to know the context of that determination. “Mom, I talked to Dan. Three girls are going to get off the La Chuscada bus and get on the El Chunco bus and you are going to La Chuscada.” I was pretty proud to have been traded for three college girls. My daughter saw the shallow compliment run through my brain and said, “That’s right mom, you are worth three college girls.” Ha. It’s gonna be a good day!
As the school bus approaches the La Chuscada work site, Emily turns to me with a giant smile and says, “You know the preschool has been open since February. You are not going to believe the process that has been made. It’s awesome. You’re gonna cry.” “I’m not gonna cry!” I replied. Soon after we began for the day, a little girl approaches with a big smile. I realize in an instant that it is Dolce. She is a year older and even more beautiful. I bend to my knees and we share a hug. Oh and it was so good. Emily is behind her smiling and says “Are you crying yet?” (no). Dolce invites us to her house and Emily tells her that we can maybe go tomorrow. I make an attempt to tell her that if we are going to visit, she needs to tell her mom that she has invited us. She agrees. I think. I don’t really know though.
The following day, I have the opportunity to go to a different village and work, but I make sure that I am on the bus to La Chuscada. When it’s time to break for lunch, Dolce is nowhere to be found. I ask my daughter and she comments that she is more than willing to try to set out on an adventure and find the house again. Okay. It’s a plan. She grabs her friends Zac and Maddie. I see my friend Dennis. I have to take Dennis. He was there last year. This would be important to him. We can’t go without Dennis. I call to him and tell him we are going for a long walk. I didn’t offer up a choice. I just said we were doing it. He yells to our friend Jim – who grabs his adult son Colin, and we head down a dirt road. Once on the road, I share with Dennis that we have set out to find the home we visited last year. He’s excited. Because I have no sense of direction, he and Emily lead the way. The dirt road leads us to a farmers field…there’s the barbed wire fence, ….wild dogs….pigs…..freshly swept yard, riverbed with poop….I think we are getting close.
As we are in the dry riverbed, I am lagging behind and watching this group of people that I have called a beautiful combination of misfits and heroes. This is another blessed event. We are happy. We are a little goofy. We are on an adventure. I feel alive. As I look at the rest of them, I know that they are also alive and that somewhere the angels are singing. Oh, there are the children and their families waving to the parade of white people, yes, we are definitely almost there. And yet, I was still surprised when we found it.
I think Emily hugged Carina first, but I’m not sure. I used a little Spanish to communicate, “I remember you? Do you remember me?” And Carina said “Si” and she touched her hand to her heart with a little pat. And there, on her shirt, she had pinned the St. Anne medal I had given her the year before. She told me in words that I could understand “manana es Santa Anna.” I burst into tears -the boo -whoo-ing kind of tears. My group of adventurers did not know what was happening to their friend who was suddenly overcome with emotion. Emily briefly explained my experience with Carina and St. Anne last year as I composed myself. Dennis kindly placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “I didn’t know.” And I, in a less than kind and slightly snippy voice replied, “ I know. I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell anyone. Look at me. I’m a crying.” He chuckled. I chuckled and we continued our visit.
Carina asked about Dennis’ kids, who were on the home visit last year. He took out his cell phone and showed photos from that visit. We shared with Carina what each of the teens were up to these days. She had remembered everyone and without a photo to reminisce.
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| Us Misfits and Heroes with Carina and Dolce - 2017 |
We headed back to the work site. I might have had tears in my eyes, but I didn’t boo-whoo. Along the path, Dennis turns to me, “you need to share this tonight.” My reply, “I’m not going to share it.” Jim chimes in, “Judy, you need to share it.” My voice resonates with defiance and sass, “I’m not gonna share it.” The two men face forward and I think to myself “Damn it, one of them is going to make me share it!”
Parade of white people, riverbed of poop, pigs, wild dogs, barbed wire, farmers field, dirt road, and back to the work site. My group of adventurers is happy. I’m happy. St. Anne is smiling down on us. I don’t know that I will ever see Carina again but I feel connected to her and I will always pray for her. We are the same and we are vastly different at the same time.
That evening, our group of over a hundred people met for devotion. We broke out into small groups and I tried to tell the story but started crying so Maddie did a beautiful job telling the story from having spent the day with me on the adventure. We gathered for large group sharing and I kept thinking, “Shit, one of those guys is going to call me out. I know it.” It was Dennis and I suspect that if he hesitated at all, Jim would have done it.
I followed through and I cried. My intent was to highlight the activity of saints in our lives. St. Anne was present for both of those moments in time. Jesus said, “Follow me.” And I said, “okay.” I said to St. Anne, “Will you come along?” And she said, “okay.” And then blessings followed. I know I have guardian angels. I know that my team of saints pray on my behalf. I know that when I have worries, I can go to bed and ask Mary to climb in too and hold me and pray for my intentions while I sleep and I sleep very well.
The saints draw me closer to God. All miracles and all goodness come from God. My invitation to work with the saints and for them to journey with me does not change that. Sometimes I like to work alone and sometimes I need a team.
Upon writing this story, I realize that the final piece of this tale of three mothers include two men. Dennis, who implemented an action plan in which I would have to tell my story and Jim who has encouraged me to write about it. Our friendships are new. I have known each of these men for a total of two weeks, separated by a year. They have seen me cry and most of my friends have not seen me cry. They have seen me without makeup and most of my friends have not seen me without make up. They have taught me that vulnerability is not the same as weakness. I am so blessed to know them and to have shared an amazing adventure with them. My prayer is that they will always feel united with three mothers. Amen. Nica 2017 from Dan Huss on Vimeo.
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