What really matters? Prayers for Marco
As I walked through the cool morning air, lost in sad contemplations of disturbing events, I saw them walking together. Grace showed up again with her most unexpected and impeccable timing.
As I walked, I asked myself and God a question: “What really matters?” What matters in life, beyond the latest news I get? And I have to admit, I wasn’t feeling particularly delighted, despite my surroundings. I am editing this a few days later now. I don’t know what the events were that particular morning that were troubling me, but here are a few I can mention off the top of my head: Bitcoin is no longer legal tender in El Salvador and this news is tied to a recent treaty the country signed with the IMF (International Monetary Fund). Almost right after I heard about the treaty, I started seeing chem trails over the city in the early morning. I don’t know if the two things are related. It sounds like the US has also made an agreement to send prisoners here. I read the news is a win/win. It is less expensive for the US to house prisoners here, and provides a nice income stream to this tiny country I saw recently as so bold, to be the first to adopt Bitcoin. I purchased the newest version of Confessions of an Economic Hit Man and am reading it again, before bed. It is probably not the best time to read such a book as I don’t think it soothes my system, although I want to be reminded of what it says.
And despite all I hear about the highly disturbing things many of the gang members here in the maximum security prisons have done, I wish for a solution that includes care for them and other prisoners, no matter where they are from. I do not wish them released on society, which is so grateful for the respite from the fear and aggression they propagated. Neither do I wish for prisons to be a place where things I purchase are made, so a few people, like the private owners of prisons in the US, can profit from the almost free labor within the walls. I believe in hope and rehabilitation, even if people are never free again. It is a rabbit hole I have only taken a small dive into, when I read about the prison systems in Norway and have been inspired by them ever since.
I am sure you have your own thoughts about the state of the world and what seems best which are equally valid. And perhaps you have different perspectives on some things above, which I don’t fault you for at all. What matters most is where one’s perspective comes from and I imagine anyone reading this cares deeply about others, and wants the best for everyone.
So, let’s hold that wish together, regardless of our views and whether they are the same or not. I am sure you have your own version of disturbing thoughts that come at times. And of course, they are not always about news either. Sometimes, they are about people I love who face hardships. Sometimes the thoughts are about my friends.
That morning, I had begun my walk down the steep hill to the gate of this gated neighborhood, which I usually tap with my hand while I greet either Manuel, or Lionel, who have been up all night guarding the entrance and opening and closing it by hand. Then I planned to walk back up the hill, with an extra stroll around a grassy lawn off to the side that Juan the gardener, has crafted into an oasis before beginning what I expected to be a busy day. I like to watch the early morning light shining through the tall pine trees and listen to the sound of the sprinkler he has attached to a hose swishing somewhere nearby.
I was going to the Plan B Bitcoin Conference and I had a ticket because my driver, Juan encouraged me to get one. I feel Juan was Grace in disguise again, as the event sold out, as interesting speakers were added to the program.
I would be leaving soon to attend the first day and was careful to make sure I put my friend Giacomo Zucco’s talks on my calendar, so I wouldn’t miss them.
Since I find it both interesting and tiring to be around hundreds of people while I listen to talks that are often over my head, I decided it was a good idea to get a walk in before I left. But then the disturbing thoughts began…
It was still early and cool on the edge of the volcano where I live. The tall pine trees and cypress lining the street were shrouded in mist. As I strolled through the damp, I saw two of my neighbors, a young woman walking slowly, next to her elderly dad. She told me the first time we met that she comes to spend time with him and helps him with his medications. There are so many medications now, they are getting harder for him to manage.
They were a bit behind me on the other side of the street, so I waved and kept walking as I wanted to be quiet. I was busy talking to God about my question.
I wanted to get my bearings in this life full of uncertainty and center myself before I plunged into the energy of the conference.
I walked faster than them. They didn’t go all the way to the gate at the bottom like me. I gave it a tap with my hand and said, “Buenos Dias,” to Manuel, who was the one working the twenty four hour shift that day. Manuel is the one who likes to feed the pigeons early in the morning and this was no exception. I saw their silvery forms with purple shimmers hovering around the tiny guard house as they waited for him to scatter breadcrumbs on the sidewalk for them.
I continued my regular routine and headed a bit up the hill where I veered off the sidewalk to walk around the large grassy lawn and pause to look at the pine trees and the mist that remind me so much of Ireland.
As I headed back up the hill I saw that they were ahead of me. They hadn’t gone all the way to the bottom. They were moving slowly, the kind of slow that comes with age, and love that walks beside it. They were close together and I felt a whisper of memory come to me, as I was reminded of how I felt walking beside my grandfather years ago, before he passed. The last time I had seen them, the elderly father told me in Spanish that she is his favorite daughter. She laughed as she told me he says that about all his children and I believe her. Then he repeated that she was his favorite and I knew it was also true. I think that when it comes to love, there can be lots of favorites.
And as I approached them from behind, I heard words playing in Spanish from one of their phones. It wasn’t music, but repetitive phrases that sounded a bit scratchy somehow, like audio that is rough and unedited. That was when I noticed they were both holding rosaries in their hands and moving them through their fingers softly, with reverence.
The rosaries looked like they matched.
I wasn’t sure if I should speak as I passed by them, so I smiled and waved. But then something caused me to pause for a moment. I greeted them and mentioned I had met the architect in the neighborhood they planned to introduce me to and the daughter was happy to hear that. Then I must have asked a question. I think I mentioned that I didn’t want to interrupt them…
She smiled and told me it was the first time they had walked like this, praying together.
Her father looked at me, smiled, and mentioned he needed forgiveness for his sins.
I don’t believe in sin.
But I do believe in forgiveness and compassion and I hoped as he trailed the beads between his thick fingers with such care, he felt that he was both loved, and forgiven for whatever weighed on his heart and that it lightened a bit.
They saw I was moved as I looked at the beads in their hands and her father held his rosary out to me. I wasn’t sure if I should touch it. I have met crystal loving friends who feel strongly about anyone touching the stones they wear around their necks.
And I saw a friendliness in his eyes and the offering gesture in his hand, so I touched one of the beads.
I noticed the beads of his were a little more faded than hers, although otherwise, the rosaries seemed to match. Perhaps like him…his had had more time to age. I felt the beauty in the subtle difference.
The daughter told me the beads were made of roses. She seemed to be describing the seed pods and I wasn’t sure.
But it seemed right that those beads were filled with the frequency of roses, roses which reminded me of Mother Mary and Magdalene energy.
I noticed the ceramic medallion hanging from his had the divine mother, with a tiny baby Jesus held gently on her lap.
She said they were praying for her nephew, Marco, because he was struggling with some health issues. Since she was younger than me, I imagined Marco must have been in his twenties or younger.
Our brief interaction touched my heart deeply and I told her that I would pray for him too. They smiled in gratitude.
I walked on ahead as they continued slowly up the steep path, listening to the chant, which must have been a Catholic prayer, as they moved the rosewood sweetly, with love, one bead at a time, thorough their hands.
And I meant it when I said I would pray for him, even though at times, I tell myself I still don’t know how. Not formally. I tell myself I may not get it “right” whatever that means. But none of that is true. I know how to form a wish in my hands filled with love and hold it softly, to know that I am not in control and that God knows best and to ask for whatever I may not be holding in my hands, that would be supportive for someone, helpful and welcome, to be added by the angels. Then I release the little ball of wishes and care to heaven. It feels to me like it is delivered. Maybe with the scent of roses.
For Marco.
In case you want to pray for him too.
I hope this little snapshot I am sending you touches you in some way, as it is touching me, the non-Catholic, who was trying to center herself a bit this morning and wondering about what matters most?
I think God showed me.
But I don’t have words for it.
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