June 6, 2013

I have made my way to a local coffee shop- one that is eclectic as any you would find in Portland. This is one of my refuges.
This morning I left in search of a place to think and write, and I found myself in front of one of our many Catholic churches. The funeral carriage was out in front so I saw this as a cultural opportunity. The churches here are the standard cathedral type- long and narrow with areas on each side for life-size images of Jesus, Mary, and other saints. I found an open bench in the back with a few other people and watched as they sang, prayed, spoke, took an offering, and burnt incense.
What was more interesting to me was a three-year-old boy that was enthralled with a life-size statue of Jesus holding a lamb. For ten minutes he was captured by this statue. He would look up at it, lay down on the ground in front of it, go up to every person in the area and tell them about Jesus, pointing at him and sharing his joy. Occasionally, he would walk away and look at other statues, but he would always come back to Jesus. I cannot think of a better visual for what Jesus would want for my life. It is funny how one little event can have an impact. It makes me think about Matthew 18:3, “And he said: ‘Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.’” I have something to learn from this child.
I was not disappointed by this cultural experience. As I was sitting there watching this little boy and the funeral service in the front of the church, a crowd of about one hundred people carrying another coffin came in the back, laid the coffin down, sat down, and waited their turn. Of course, silence is not a common trait among the people here, so many side conversations were happening around me. The people in the front of the church looked like they were likely at the funeral of a grandmother or aunt, where as those surrounding me were more likely attending the funeral of a trendy, homosexual man. Two different groups of people, but both facing the inevitable death of someone they cared for.
The first funeral ended, the body was carried out to the waiting carriage, and within minutes the other coffin was put in place at the front of the church. The crowd moved up and the priest took his place.
The coffee shop I am sitting in is on the road between the church and the cemetery. Here in Nicaragua, all who attend the service, walk behind the horse-drawn carriage to the cemetery. I see the people pass in the solemn procession, and I wonder what is going through their minds.