What would I say to someone who listened? What would I say to someone who got ‘it’?
I don’t think I’d even know where to begin. Maybe I would talk about how it felt to be handed the weight of several thick photo albums brimming with pictures of mutilation, torture, death, hatred, and unchecked rage. I would say that the weight of those albums and the burden that I carry for the souls of those who were literally torn apart, couldn’t possibly be significant compared to those of the people who actually experienced it, to those who lost loved ones, to those who belonged to the conflict. I think I would mention what it is to see with your eyes, to hear with your heart, to touch through an embrace, to taste the salt of weeping sadness, and to smell the terror and tension of the enormity of that much violence, evil, and deep, deep, hatred of another human being.
I would tell someone, anyone, who wanted to listen about the innocence forcefully and violently taken. Of the women, children, men, grandmothers, and grandfathers. Of myself. Of the students I traveled with. I would scream that I wanted the innocence and goodness returned and replenished tenfold.
I would ask the questions without answers. Why does this happen? How can we prevent it from happening again? How can we stop what is still happening now? Why are we so tempted by power and wealth? How does it happen that one is suddenly viewed as less than someone else? Where is God in this? How do we heal? How do we teach others about this? How do we spread the understanding and the need for intervention and change? How can people know about things like this and not do something?
I’d yell with all the pain in my heart about the question that we all ask, but don’t actually listen to the answer to… WHY DOES GOD LET THIS HAPPEN?!?!
And God’s answer, which is really just another question, would have to be whispered because of the absolute responsibility it bears… Why do WE let this happen? Why do I let this happen?
I would need to talk about the ways that I saw God working in El Salvador. I have never experienced, what I suppose would be called miracles, ever in my life. They always seemed like tales of whimsy and hope blown out of proportion by sheer need to believe in goodness. But when I walked amongst the people and stories of El Salvador, I could see the trails and fingerprints of God absolutely everywhere. He had been there during this violence. He is still ever-present among the destitute, oppressed, and poor. Romero’s organs dug up 4 years later, still in perfect condition. Glass melting off a picture in the throes of flames, but Romero’s face remained virtually untouched. The martyrdom of Romero and his conversion. A bullet piercing the very heart of a tabernacle from across a church and a city square. The resolve of an entire people in the face of terrible violence and evil to push on and fight for their freedom. These, and countless more examples, are nothing but God. Nothing but miracles.
I would need to talk about my reflections on resurrection upon our return and during the season of Lent. If you traveled to El Salvador, and had no prior knowledge about the country’s bloody history and important players, you would hear an awful lot about someone named Romero. You would be fairly certain that the man they call Romero was alive and well. It might be a shock to learn about his assassination and that, he is, in fact, no longer bodily present on earth. It would be a shock because Romero, his life, his sacrifice, his fight, has been resurrected among the people of El Salvador. He is very much still living-he lives among the people he died for. His life is an example to all those coming after him. An example of what it is to stand for something. Of what it is to have faith. Of solidarity. Of justice. Of conversion. Of hope and conviction. Of what it is to step into the shoes that God calls each one of us to fill. I have realized more and more how beautiful this resurrection is—a miracle in itself.
I am also called resurrect. I am called to resurrect Jesus, Romero, and all those people who lived lives for God. I am called to stand with the poor as Romero did, to walk in the footsteps of Jesus and love everyone without exception. My life is for the struggle for human dignity, love, hope, and freedom. The footsteps of these great and holy humans are to be only the beginning. My life, others’ lives are the continuation. Our lives are the resurrection. May I be given the courage and conviction to live up to my processors’ footsteps. May I be able to one day be able to offer everything for the struggle for love.
I would absolutely talk about the face of the grandmother in the campo. I would talk about the face of God and how I imagine that it looks similar to hers. The lines in her face told a story of a beautiful life. The sadness and triumphs of her life are forever etched in her face, and like a weaver makes pieces of thread come together in a masterpiece, each line connects and forms the story of her life. Her eyes shone with a quiet strength and peace and deep love. When I asked her for a picture, she frittered about, saying she wasn’t presentable. I wished I had known how to say that my breath had left me because of her beauty and the image of God I saw within her. I did not know Spanish, but that was not why I did not have the words to communicate how this true and pure form of beauty affected me. The beauty of God left me speechless.
El Salvador will never leave me. What I witnessed and became a part of there, has changed the course of my life and is deeply imbedded in my commitment to love.
That’s what I might say if someone truly listened.
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