Children of God

Tonight, a barrier was broken.  I had, for about while, been praying to God frequently, but the rosaries and the responses in Mass, and the little daily petitions, felt distant and superficial, as though I were trying to reach someone through a tinny phone connection.  I had, and still have, unresolved questions about my faith; and, I occasionally feel the weight of the distance between myself and the people with whom I would normally share my joys and my doubts. Often, these led me to urgently plead for God’s intervention, craving understanding and comfort.  And, I had been less able (or perhaps less willing) to find consolation in the intricacy of the natural world, which has always been for me a testament to God’s presence.  Tonight, I was able to reconnect with God more fully, due partially to the influence of two remarkable books and to the frustrating but ironically providential failure of our local wifi. Though I had originally hoped to discuss my reaction to the books with a friend, the little message of internet problems drove me instead to the chapel, where I had the chance to share my thoughts with God.

Over the last couple months, I have also been reading two books: The Sparrow, and its sequel, Children of God. These books follow the physical and spiritual journey of a Jesuit linguist-priest and his various companions to a brilliant new world called Rakhat, where they encounter two sentient species.  The author creates convincing, tangible personalities for a jumble of characters, many of whom are intelligent and strongly devoted individuals. Together, they study, adapt, love, suffer, and catalyze a cascade of unprecedented societal changes.  The books were recommended to me by a beloved friend, who knows my passion for languages and other cultures and who has shared spiritual discussions with me on a regular basis.  Although she quite rightly predicted that I would be enamored with the linguistic diversity present throughout the books and the intensely imagined novelty of Rakhat, I don’t think she realized just how much the books might offer me.

As I mentioned, loneliness has been a frequent struggle during mission, but one for which I was at least somewhat mentally prepared. Although I try to focus on God instead of on the absence of people whose physical presence I miss, the intriguing conversations and interactions of the characters created a familiar and easily-accessible haven to which I could retreat when feeling alone (or, just as often, when my curiosity was piqued by some new event in the story).  I think books, prayer, and the gleeful hugs of the Hogar children have been my fuente of renewal and strength in facing this challenge.

So, tonight, conscious of the slightly-saddened resignation that always accompanies the end of an enthralling adventure, I finished Children of God.  Over the course of the past two months, the story had raised several difficult questions, brought me to tears (which, of course, happens for me with anything remotely emotional), and generated thoughts that kept me awake all night (a considerably more remarkable effect, as I can only remember one other sleepless night not brought about by studying or writing papers).  Though I will not relate the details, the final chapters of the book reveal a stunning idea, weaving together the wonders of music and biology in a glorious demonstration of God’s Providence.  I found myself moved, not just by the drama of the story, but by the realization that the Beauty and Truth represented within it are actually an extension of the incredibly complex and awesome reality with which we have been blessed. (I find it especially fitting that, at the very moment I am writing this, Barber’s Adagio for Strings has just reached its tenuous, wrenchingly beautiful climax.) And, although it may be in part my human desire for order and meaning that has driven me to see this, even so, I thank God profoundly tonight for the grace of that realization and for the unexpected and strangely fitting way in which my life has unfolded up to this point.

Sitting in front of the tabernacle in the quiet, reassuring familiarity of the church, I thanked God for the multitude of experiences which have drawn me to this current place and time (and here, I’m reminded of a song, Bendita Tu Luz, by Maná).  I thanked God for giving me a clearer direction and purpose in the last few months, through my research project, through my work in Bolivia this past June as an assistant and translator for a series of academic conferences, and through my interactions with a delightful and odd little boy I babysat this summer, all of which pulled me into closer contact with autism. I asked for His bendiciones on the dear children I have tutored and cared for, on my supportive parents and brother, on my friends, on the girls at the Hogar, the Sisters, the families of children with autism whom we encountered during the conferences, on my fellow missionaries in many countries, and my wonderful students.

Tonight, after finishing my book and talking to God, I walked back to my little house arm in arm with one of my favorite Sisters. There, I joined Madre Clara outside for a long, quiet unmeasured time, relaxing in chairs of metal and woven plastic cords. After retrieving Lalo (one of Madre’s two new kittens) from the tree by the house, we both just shared presence, alternately dozing and playing with the rescued kitten’s energetic sister. I woke up after a time with a horrible crick in my neck, but I was happy to be immersed in the nocturnal coolness and the chorus of little chirping sounds, warmed by the kitten that had fallen asleep in the crook of my arm.  I mused and enjoyed a few bites of imported American chocolates, then walked across the field to the Institute, under the night sky. That walk is always one of the most peaceful and fulfilling moments of my day, and tonight, it brought back all the wonder and joy in God’s creation that had been muted.  The beauty and the overwhelming number of the stars, and, even more staggering, the infinite unknown beyond them, drew my eyes al cielo, as I breathed in the scent of the freshly mown grass, hearing in my head Javert’s song from Les Miserables (Stars, in your multitude, scarce to be counted, filling the darkness with order and light, you are the sentinels, silent and sure, keeping watch in the night, keeping watch in the night…). Thank you.