It’s early morning on Palm Sunday and this morning I woke up with a trail of thoughts.  It doesn’t seem like that long ago that I was writing about Palm Sunday in Moab, and Easter Sunday in Durango.  And yet a lot has happened since then.  Well, one big thing, I moved.  Dare I be so cliche as to say a year flies by so quickly.

This year I will celebrate Palm Sunday in a little Spanish church, in a little village called Santa Ana.  With a whole bunch of new neighbors.  There’s a special sort of comfort in knowing I’ve become a familiar face to them.  Some I know will notice my absence.  Like the two young boys, Julio and Jovento, that “run” the little tienda just a couple of doors up the hill.  Jovento can barely see over the counter but knows the price of every single item in the store and can make change with the best.  Early on they used to charge me 25Q for my big bottles of water.  Now they charge me eighteen. 🙂

And the girls at the lavanderia who long ago stopped needing to ask me my name when they write out my factura.  I will miss them.  And I will miss my Guatemalan family.  Friday night street food dinner, Sunday mass and breakfast, and Monday dinners at their home, always traditional.  But I miss my kids at home terribly, and I can’t wait to see them.

Being away from home at holidays has become the new norm for me.  And while some might read that and feel a sorrow there, it is in fact something that I feel a great blessing about.  When I think about it, it seems more appropriate to say holidays away from Minnesota.  As I think back, I’ve spent a number of Thanksgivings with my sister and brother-in-law in New Mexico.  And my niece has been there sometimes as well. I remember a Christmas with them at my niece’s place in Dallas when she lived there.  There’s been four wonderful Christmas’ and New Years in Mexico with my kids.  If their memories of that are half as great as mine, then those trips were worth every penny I spent on them, and then some.  Two years ago, I drove from Flagstaff to Green Valley, AZ so I could celebrate Easter with a group of great friends.  And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that their have been years in Minnesota when I celebrated holidays with my mom and step sisters.  Do you get the picture?  Being away from MN hasn’t always felt like being away from home.  Fast forward back to this morning.

When I get down to the square, the faithful are already beginning to gather for the procession into the church.  Agua is looming majestically over this square, and many others, in the hamlets that surround her base.  Fuego, as usual is having a casual smoke.

And look, there’s a visiting gringo Padre.  I never did catch his name, but I did catch that he is from Dodge City, Kansas.  i waited for a little bit after mass, but it seemed like most of the town wanted to greet him and get a little minute, so I left them to it.

Crushed or no from the trip home, my palms will find a special place in my apartment.

I mentioned at the end of my last post a rather longer than normal interval between posts of late.  Several of you have brought this up to me, most notably my sister, who, bless her heart, always brings it up with a voice somewhat convinced that something dreadful has happened to me.  🙂  She loves me, no doubt.

Anyway, some friends have been down visiting, a friend from Cursillo, Monica, her adopted daughter Maria, and Monica’s friend Denise.  Maria was born in Guatemala and was making her first birth country visit.  So I’ve been spending a good portion of my time regaling them with useless/useful information while following their meanderings.  Part of their time here included a trip up to Lake Atitlan, which of course meant a return visit for me.  Thus the post title.

One of the things I didn’t specifically highlight in my first photos of the lake area was the fires.  Guatemala is at the height of the dry season, so fires are a problem.  And it will probably come as no shock that Guatemala doesn’t have a lot of fancy water dumping aircraft. (read that any water dumping aircraft)  The mountains around the lake, and throughout Guatemala, are very rugged and remote.  So there’s nothing to be done but let them burn.   A scan around the lake revealed more burn areas than were evident during my first visit.

One of the villages we visited was San Juan del Lago.  Many of the pictures in my first Lake Atitlan post were from San Pedro.  Only a short, over the hill, TukTuk ride separate the two.  But the differences in atmosphere between them are very noticeable.  San Pedro is loud and bustling, with a definite hippy vibe to it.  San Juan is, in Spanish, tranquilo.  You don’t have to speak Spanish to figure out what tranquilo means.  BTW, for you photogs that might be wondering why I didn’t shoot this building from the other angle so the sky was blue instead of appearing grey?  The other side of this very interesting looking hotel was just flat, plain, concrete block.

It isn’t evident from the photo, but these appear to be connected projects.  In the foreground they were working on a foundation right up by the street.  In the back of the property was this “tree house” looking structure.  No way to tell if the intent was someone’s home or future short term rental.  The lay of the land would give the “tree house” a spectacular view even from the ground floor.  Below is the church in San Juan.

These two guys were busy building some simple merchandise racks.  I wasn’t quick enough to take a picture, but later I saw one of them walking from booth to booth, on the main market street, trying to sell them.  He was carrying all of them in this ingenious interlocking stack.

The final four pictures were all from the same vantage point.  We stopped to have some lunch in a little restaurant toward the top of San Juan that had a spectacular vista view.

This photo gives a contrasting view of the beauty of the lake and housing of the poor.  And below is a close up of how the pieces of corrugated steel for roofing were placed to allow these trees to grow up through their house.  They are fruit trees of some type that appeared to be limes.

As I’m posting this it is early in the morning on Palm Sunday.  It’s the beginning of my final full week in Guatemala.  In the coming weeks another Easter Season will come to a close and I’ll be back in my apartment in St Paul waiting for the good biking weather to come.  Did I mention that I have a brand new bike sitting in my apartment that’s waiting for it’s first ride?  My previous bike was stolen.

This week the final and largest processions will occur, and unless something unforeseen and unusual happens, I’ll probably be closing this years travels with a few more procession images.

I am well and hope you all are too.  And I appreciate that you are out there.

On the walk down to Paulina’s house from the clinic where we park the van, I caught a few photos of these siblings (presumably), moving their goats.  As soon as the young girl realized I was preparing to take her picture, she started laughing and smiling.  I took several photos, including this one after they had walked past.  As you can see she continued to look back at me all smiles.  It wasn’t until later, when I was editing and loading my photos for this post, that I realized the stark contrast between her and her brother.  I could give you my own interpretation of difference, but what fun is that?  You can see and caption for yourself.

Paulina is now two and half months into the schooling for her chosen field, which is Bilingual Administrative Assistant.  When I visited Paulina last November she was near the end of her time at the school here in San Rafael.  Now her two schools, one being the Admin and the other English, are both in Chimaltenango, which is about an hour and fifteen minutes away on two different buses.  She studies English three mornings a week, and the office skills are everyday in the afternoon.  She very matter of factly told us that “her time is in conflict now”, because it’s easier if she does her outside studies in Chimaltenango, where she has access to tools, computer, internet, books, etc., but then she doesn’t have enough time to help her mother.  Her older sister, Viviana, recently got married and now lives in the neighboring village of Santa Marta with her husband’s family.  So Paulina is feeling some extra responsibility where her mother is concerned.  This may be the dearest young soul walking the earth.

I was thrilled when she told me last visit that she had chosen the bilingual program.  At this point she really doesn’t have any idea what sort of opportunity knowing English will open up for her.  For better or worse, English has become a survival skill in developing countries, particularly in Latin American countries.   I was afraid that she would not want to take on the extra challenge of bilingual training, and she told us that she is finding English to be very hard.  But the shy, quiet ones can fool ya. When I first met Paulina she was just this little slip of a thing.  I don’t think she spoke without being spoken to for several visits back then. Now, each time I see her, she is becoming more confident and outgoing.  She is definitely finding her wings.  When we were taking pictures she started laughing and asked Brenda, the social worker, if she could get a Padrino that wasn’t so tall.  I just love this girl.

I know it’s been awhile in between posts.  More on that later.  But I am well and hope you all are too. 🙂

The Procession was due to return to the Church in Santa Ana at 11 PM, so a little prior to that I wandered down to the square.  There was no indication that the procession was getting close, so I began to backtrack the route.  There were people still making carpets in the final sections of streets.  Turns out it was about an hour behind schedule.  The good news in that was I got an opportunity to actually process the last mile or so of the route.  This is the first sight I’ve had of a float at night, and as you can see they are quite spectacular all lit up.   This is El Calvario Church, the final church the procession passes on this route.  In a previous post, when I wrote about people doing the Stations of the Cross, I mentioned El Calvario as the location of the final two stations.  And below is the final station outside the church grounds all lit up for the procession.  

The photo to the right was taken just moments before the main float disappeared back into the church.  And below, the very last carpet the procession walked over, meets it’s end.

It’s been an amazing thing for me to live this experience of a procession up close and personal.  There have been things happening in Santa Ana for a couple of weeks that I now realize were all part of the village preparing for this weekend.  I’ve been witness to excitement, lots of hard work, creativity and artistry, amazing reverence, and colorful pageantry.  And the culmination of all of it, Semana Santa, is still to come.  I feel so blessed.

I am well and hope you all are too.

The Roman Guards post on the first street off the church grounds.  Tonight the procession will return back to the church at this same point.  The tall poles with yokes at the top are used to lift overhead wires clear of the floats.  I took the picture below to show the rails that come out through the church doors.  The main float is so massive that it couldn’t possibly be carried low enough to clear the doorway.  So it slides out and then is taken up by the bearers.

Moments before the main float emerges from the church.  You can’t imagine how massive this thing is until you are right next to it.  At any given time it is being born by fifty guys.

There is a marching band that follows in the wake of each float.  The musicians are the real endurance athletes of this day.  They spend the whole day processing and playing in tuxedos.

The float of Our Lady emerges from the church.

It is born by women but not for the entire day.  There are also teams of men bearers for this float.  Below, the condition of the first carpet after the procession passes over it.

The Procession passed right in front of my house and I was lucky enough to have a birds eye view from the second story windows as it passed.  The pace of the procession is very slow.  It had already been working through the streets of Santa Ana for nearly two hours by this point.  These men are positioning and preparing to switch out and take their turn as bearers.

Which took place right below me.

The Procession works it’s way down the main street of Santa Ana after passing my house.  At the bottom of the hill it will turn right and begin it’s journey into and through Antigua.

After what in most cases was an entire night’s work, as soon as the procession passes, the “ruined” carpets are cleaned up by crews of workers.

Next, the midnight return of The Procession.

As soon as it was light enough to shoot pictures I went out to check on the night’s work.  My first stop was the roof for a big picture assessment.  Read that, did I need my hoodie.  This is looking down on my next door neighbor’s artistry.  And below, looking down the hill.

The artist’s materials.

Just outside my door, here was a look up the street, and then below, down the street.

Ooops, broke one of the cardinal rules; keep your shadow out of the picture.

What a way to start a day. 🙂

I was out and took these shots at about 11:30 PM.  One of my little neighbors was watching his family begin work on their carpet.  For life in Santa Ana, this is like watching your folks play in the Super Bowl.  Work on these carpets was going on all over town and would continue through the night.

On Friday night materials are being staged for the upcoming carpet creations.  Here are a bunch of large bags of different colored sand, and below, one of my neighbors is sifting and working through some sand to make it as fine as possible.

Inside the church, up towards the front was a carpet and this display of spirits.  I don’t honestly know what it all meant but someone worked very hard on it.  It was so packed in there that there was no chance of getting up to see the carpet.

Then it was time to eat some of Dona (pronounced donya) Luki’s great food, and find some treats for desert.

Below are buenuelos.  They are very much like a popover and they are served with a warm syrup that’s mostly honey, cinnamon, and cider.  Oh man!

To the right of the buenuelos is mole.  I think that’s how it’s spelled and it is pronounced moe lay.  Fried plantains in chocolate.  Below, Sammy is trying to decide between churros, on the right, and some caramel apples she spotted earlier.  The churros are essentially sugar donut sticks with chocolate sauce poured on.  Oh man, again!!!

I think I’m gonna like procession weekend in Santa Ana. 🙂

Before I came to Guatemala this time, I knew I was going to return to Santiago, and I knew I wanted to write about Fr. Stanley Rother.  I pictured myself laboriously penning this long dissertation  that people would marvel at.  It would be filled with information about the man, his family, the priest, and the death of the priest.  But look at those eyes. Can’t you just hear this man saying to me, “Eric, thank you, but that’s so silly.”  So, realizing that that was more about me than about him,  my novelette has been cast aside in favor of a simpler attempt at tribute.

I sat alone for a long time in the room where Fr. Stanley was murdered.  I read things around the church grounds about this place and this man.  The violence of the early 80s that took his life also orphaned my friend Renato and his older brother Mario.  They were just small boys.

In recent days I’ve read about, and thought a lot about, what I wanted to write to honor this man.  Those of you who have followed my writing from the beginning, know that I avoid taking  photos in worship spaces.  And that it’s hard for me to take pictures in places I consider hallowed ground.  I tell you that as prelude to the first thing  that speaks to me about Fr. Rother.

Stanley Rother wasn’t doing well in his first seminary.  Recognizing his passion, the Rector of that seminary asked a friend from another seminary if he would accept Stanley for another chance at achieving ordination.  While he should have been studying, Stanley Rother was fixing things and doing things that needed to be done.

The exquisite altar area inside the church in Santiago is largely the work of Fr. Stanley’s hands and supervision.  Stanley Rother grew up on a farm, and thus had all of those skills of do-it-yourself and self sufficiency that we’ve come to know most farmers have.  During the course of his seminary years and throughout his priesthood, especially in Guatemala, Fr. Stanley was carpenter, confessor, electrician, homilist, bull dozer driver, teacher, plumber, pastor, nurse, neighbor, dentist, mourner, mason, and man of God.  And he was all of those things in an atmosphere of unrest, and during a time when his parishioners would just disappear.  Or tortured bodies of people he knew would turn up in the streets.  We can’t begin to imagine.  When all of this was happening I was expanding my suit wardrobe and deciding what color my company car should be.  I know, suit wardrobe?  Go figure. 😉

While he was with us, Fr. Stanley never stopped doing things that needed to be done.  For his parishes, for his parishioners, for his Church, for his neighbors, for hundreds of school kids, for what was right.

Secondly, I could not write about Fr. Stanley without including the fact that he was safe at one point.  In January of 1981, learning that Fr. Stanley had been put on a death list, The Church had pulled him  out of Guatemala determining that it was just too dangerous to leave him there.  Made sense.  But not to Stanley Rother.  Believing, and living the example, that the shepherd does not leave his flock, he prosecuted a campaign with his superiors, and in May of 1981 was granted permission to return to Guatemala.  Before July ended, he was dead.

This photo is looking across a small garden area to the entrance, (in the corner), of the room where Fr. Stanley was shot twice in the head.  It’s in the area on the church grounds of the original school and rectory.  In the early morning hours of July 28th, gunmen forced their way into the rectory.  The story of three men is the final thing I want to share with you, because their story is emblematic of not only the violence of civil war, but also the politics of power and corruption.

Three men were arrested for killing Fr. Stanley.  One other man and one woman were brought in for questioning concerning the murder.  Eventually it was announced that the three men confessed, saying they broke in to the church to commit robbery and killed the priest when he interrupted them.  Many of the people, if not most, that were familiar with all of the circumstances, never believed that the three men killed Fr. Stanley.  Instead the convictions were a set up, and a cover up of paramilitary involvement in what was in a truth an assassination.  Due to pressure from the US Gov’t, and the church, the convictions were eventually vacated.  No one else was ever charged with the murder.

It’s right now well after midnight and I realize I have no idea how to close this post.  Stanley Francis Rother and Fr. Stanley have been parked in my head for days.  Putting together these few simple paragraphs has taken me hours and hours ’cause I so wanted to be brief and do him justice.  I feel like it would have been an honor to know him.  The love that is felt for him and his memory is still very evident in the place where he lived and died.  A young girl that was working in a small memento shop, locked the door and led me to the room when I inquired about it’s whereabouts.  My sense is, that in keeping with the man, it’s location is understated.  When I left, she was standing by the garden a ways down the corridor.  She had tears and said, thank you for coming.  It was an amazing moment that only later came to full register.  I mean hundreds of people come to visit this place and Fr. Stanley was killed long before she was born.  I have my own small understanding of his love for this country and it’s people.

And so, I’m going to exercise a closing technique I’ve used before.  When in doubt, just stop.