Graciela’s Tears

My friend Analinda called a couple of weeks ago and asked if I would do a favor for her and her husband, Oscar: bring the Eucharist to Oscar’s mother, Graciela. She had taken a fall at home, and although she wasn’t seriously injured, she was unable to come to Mass. I said I’d be happy to do it.

Graciela is 93 years old. She’s cheerful, spunky, robust and full of life. She attends Mass faithfully with Analinda and Oscar when she’s well and the weather is good. We often talk after Mass, with help from Analinda and Oscar because Graciela speaks only Spanish and I speak only English. She loves it when I use my few words of Spanish. I tease her and joke with her, and we laugh a lot.

The Sunday after Analinda called, I brought the Eucharist to Graciela’s apartment after the noon Mass. Oscar met me, and we went inside together. Graciela was sitting in an easy chair. She looked as cheerful as ever, despite having her right arm in a sling, and she even wore a brightly colored, silky scarf.

All of us made the Sign of the Cross and recited the Our Father. Graciela and Oscar prayed in Spanish while I joined in softly in English. Then I said, “The Body of Christ,” while Oscar quietly said, “El Cuerpo de Cristo.” I placed the host on Graciela’s tongue.

The room was silent. Graciela closed her eyes and seemed to be steeped in prayer. When she opened her eyes a few moments later, I saw that they were filled with tears. Oscar stepped to her side, leaned down and put his arm around her shoulders, sharing the moment of emotion and supporting his mother with his own strength of body and spirit. When he stood up there were tears in his eyes, too.

Graciela spoke, in Spanish of course, and I caught the words for “the Lord.” Oscar said something to me about his mother’s reaction, but I knew what had happened. She had not been able to receive Communion for a while, and now she was again united with the Lord she loves. Her joy was so great that it spilled out in tears.

We all talked briefly, and then I said goodbye to Graciela and promised to bring her the Eucharist again the next Sunday.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the experience, and also about the season of Lent that we have just begun.

I have to confess that I don’t begin Lent with enthusiasm. In fact, I suppose that my attitude is like the reaction of most people to the news that on Groundhog Day the groundhog saw his shadow, and we’re in for six more weeks of winter. Lent looks to me like a six-week endurance test. How long can I go without chocolate? Will I stick to my resolution to spend more time in prayer? Shouldn’t I be doing more? But what should I do?

I try to think about what Jesus suffered for my sake, but the physical horror of the Passion frightens me. I wish my sins frightened me as much.

In Graciela’s moment of grace, in her tears of love for her Lord, I found a different way to think about Lent. It struck me that Lent ought to be what Graciela experienced: a loving union with the Lord, a deeper openness to him, a time for being more aware of his love for us and his desire to enter into our lives and transform them. Not that Lent ought to be emptied of sacrifice and sorrow—that would betray its meaning—but neither should it be filled with unremitting gloom and fear.

This year, I want my Lent to be a time of trust—trust in God’s love for me, in his mercy and forgiveness, in his compassion for my weakness and his desire for my company on the journey that is Lent.

My Lent is off to a better start this year because of Graciela’s tears, which needed no translation.