Mass of Healing

The first Wednesday of every month, Santisimo Sacramento celebrates una Misa de Curacion- a Mass of Healing. People travel for hours to pray with the parish. They come from Lima, they come from Ecuador, they come by foot, mototaxi and carpool from the neighboring villages. This is all a preamble to the fact that the church is standing room only: the aisles are body-to-body, the entranceways overflow and the musicians share chairs.

  

The obvious question you might have right about now is WHY? Which is quite honestly something I was struggling to remember earlier this evening. As I dutifully made my way to Mass early tonight to secure seating, I was feeling tired, hot and irritated by the expectation that the "missionaries" bestow special blessings upon the parishioners following the Gospel. Not that I'm not eternally grateful for this opportunity. Not that I don't know that it is a privilege to be a part of this community in any capacity. Not that I don't spend every night before bed contemplating if there's a way to wrap the entire staff of this parish in my arms and give them a hug.

   

My irritation lied in the persistent discomfort that the red carpet is rolled out for us as volunteers. We sit in a specific section of church. We (sometimes) wear matching t-shirts. We use physical and symbolic barriers to further distinguish ourselves from "these people." We are hailed as and present ourselves as The Great White Hope and tonight I felt like a ticking time bomb of pent up emotion and frustration.

   

But then the music started. And 1,000 people started singing. And clapping. And dancing in the overcrowded aisles. By the time Padre called forth the nurses and missionaries to assist with the "laying on of hands," I was only minorly annoyed. The lights were dimmed, the atmosphere had mellowed and I, if not happily then at least resignedly, made my way to the foot of the altar to commence the blessing. Once I got past my irritation that nearly 30 missionaries got up to start the blessings (Who am I to bless someone? Who are YOU to bless someone? I was asked to do this and am participating despite my better judgment, etc.), something truly unexpected happened. Parishoners started gesturing to me to pray over them. To pray with them.

   

After placing one hand on a woman's shoulder, the other on her head, and reciting the Hail Mary and Memorare, I said a prayer for everything this woman's life is and everything it will never be. I said a prayer for her children, her children's children and one in thanksgiving for her faith and for her strength. I prayed that God would provide her with health and in the absence of perfect health, grace. And then I started to cry. I started to cry for everything I have ever wanted to say or do for a patient. I cried for everything I will never be able to say or do for a patient. I cried about the unfairness and injustices of the world and my limitations to make them anything less than what they are.  I cried because I cannot heal her, I cannot cure her, I cannot make her feel better about whatever is ailing her tonight. I can't even give her a guarantee that she will always have a roof over her head, running water or food for her table. 

   

But I can pray with her. I can share her hope that God not only witnesses her triumphs and shortcomings but shares in her joys and despairs. I can be with her in this one moment and see in her everything MY life is and everything it will never be. I can pray for all those like her, all those like me, and all those like us—anyone who has ever supplicated themselves in the hopes that they can be healed.

   

And then this emotional catharsis repeated itself a dozen more times. (It is important to note that I am not a pretty crier. I can't pull off the single tear running artfully down my cheek kind of cry. By the time I returned to my seat, I was the "did the girl behind me just snort/ sob into her shirt" kind of crier).

   

Because with each encounter, I felt my own brokenness turn into something more vulnerable, something more hopeful. The ailing bits of my soul that have hardened as a result of prejudice and fear (of bedbugs, fleas, lice, HIV, violence, dementia, age, sameness, differentness) were given a new chance at life. I came to Piura a broken person just as much in need of healing as anyone else and feel from the bottom of my heart that this community is slowly --sometimes tediously and painfully--putting me back together.

 
I will never be able to adequately articulate the profound and concurrent sorrow, gratitude and awe I have for the people of this parish, but I will forever hold them in my heart with the hopes that in bearing witness to one another's brokenness, we can be made whole.

Kate

(Ps. Sorry for the double post. We have been without internet for awhile).