Preservation

On Thursday afternoon I joined a small group of co-workers in the conference room for an impromptu prayer gathering, which often happens at Paz y Esperanza. Without any notice, a white wooden box covered in a blue plastic bag was carried in and placed in the center of the meeting table. I wasn’t prepared for a funeral.

A gathering of women followed soon after and sat along the wall as we began to sing a few familiar songs. I thought we might be giving a blessing to the casket, prior to a formal church service. I hadn’t imagined that a baby was lying inside, nor did I understand that this was in fact the funeral.

The mother stood near the table with a detached expression, twenty years old and living with Down’s syndrome. A survivor a rape, she carried the child for six months. He was born pre-mature and kept in an incubator for three days, revealing the same physical features of his mother.

“When children die they have direct access to heaven as they never knew the difference between right and wrong.” These were the words of my host father as he led a short sermon and Bible reflection.

After a closing prayer, we left the room, allowing the family a moment of privacy. I crept up to the third floor of our office, slid behind my desk and held my head in my hands. I felt numb. What just happened?

One of the psychologists came in and saw me hunched over on the verge of tears. “It’s better this way,” she said and explained the mother’s condition and the family’s difficulties. I responded quietly to myself, “No, it should never have been this way…”

I continue to struggle with the realities of life here in Huánuco. Some days I am so exceedingly happy, drinking fresh orange juice at breakfast or witnessing the birth of a litter of kittens outside my bedroom. Other days, I feel absolutely helpless and walk around in a haze.

Like Sunday afternoon.

After church, I sat down at my family’s computer, translating a letter hand written by a young woman who needed to send news to a missionary in the States. This young woman had been incarcerated for five years and had befriended an American missionary working at the jail. The missionary had offered to help finance her education when she was released from prison.

I agreed to translate the letter and avoided getting further involved. But even in just reading her words and her plea for continued support, I was completely overwhelmed by her dire need.

As we all sat down for lunch, my mind became a blank wall – partly due to the exhaustion of finding the right words to reflect the woman’s letter and partly because I wanted to completely remove myself from the situation.

There is a fine line between being compassionate toward a person in need and at the same time protecting myself. I am still learning where this line exists and how to navigate it.

During the informal funeral service, I avoided peering into the small satin framed window that would have revealed the swollen face of a lifeless child. I knew I couldn’t handle it. Likewise, after translating the personal letter, I asked my host father, in the most respectful way I could, if he would send the letter through his email, and not mine.

I’m protecting myself because I’m still new here. I don’t want to reach my saturation point and feel emotionally exhausted, just three months into this year of service. Furthermore, I am a gringa, a white American, who to many represents a source of money, a symbol of status and a variety of other markers, most of which have nothing to do with me personally. I recognize that a simple favor may lead to false expectations.

In this delicate balance between service and self-preservation, I am finding, more than ever, that I need the discerning presence of G-d and the support of friends and family. Thank you to those who have led me through the past few weeks and those who continue to support me through prayer.