Link to the Mixteco Indians

http://www.peopleteams.com/mixteco/default.htm

The death of my best friend

The death of my best friend
I recently commemorated the death of my best friend, which happened some years ago. As I think back over our relationship I rejoiced in all the ways he showed his friendship. How many times he called me up and said, “Gerry, can we get together and talk? How are things going in your life, how is your family doing?”
Of all the people I know he was the one I could always talk to, because he knew all my past and still liked me. Wow! You know, the kind of a friend that you can call on in the middle of the night and he would listen. Of course he often had to tell me that some of my messes were my own fault, but I have to admit that he was always right. And it was such a comfort to be able to count on him laughing at my funny stories and crying over my sad ones.
And he was important, had a high position in some mysterious company that I never understood much about. Just hints, of course, he would feed me some fabulous meals and give me extravagant gifts – sometimes he would say, “Gerry, I made this sunset just for you, and sent the birds to sing outside your windows.” How many friends would do that for you?

The best part was when he would send me on errands, sometimes to my neighbor next door, and sometimes around the world. He’d say, “Gerry, I need somebody to take a message to that cashier in the checkout line,” or “pop down to Lima next weekend, I need you to remind some friends down there that I still have work for them to do and that the check IS in the mail.” He had such far flung interests, and yet he always had some errand to run for him, things that he said only I could do. What challenges he threw my way – look after foster children, open my home to some pretty unsavory characters, give cups of cold water and sandwiches with his company logo to the bag ladies living under the bridges, climb the highest peaks of the Andes to buy a blanket from a Quechua Indian and whisper my friend’s name in her ear, canoe down a small tributary of the Amazon to a remote cluster of huts and invite them to be part my friend’s company of friends.

He had friends everywhere I went on his business, all over the world. On the plane, at the beach, in the markets – big and small – you could just tell them by their smile and helpful hands. We’d start to talk and sure enough, they were part of his volunteer corps, giving out cold water and taking messages in their corner of the world.

But I’ve gotten sidetracked, I wanted to tell you how he died. You know, I’m a doctor and have seen dozens of deaths, and have thought about the best kind of death you could have. The person should be very old, so that death is just a slowing down of the body processes. There should be no pain, the person alert, surrounded by loving friends and grateful family, full of dignity and honors. The final goodbyes, and then the last peaceful breath.

But my friend didn’t die that way, not at all. His was an untimely death, cut off in the prime of his life, and not from natural causes – no, he was nailed to a tree and left to die by suffocation. Since he was hanging by his hands his chest couldn’t expand, and he had to push up with his legs with each breath. And dignity? Would you call being stripped and naked in front of his friends and his mother dignified? They had to watch people spit at him and hit him and mock him. And this painful, violent, shameful death was totally unnecessary, a tragic mistake. He was falsely accused of horrible things – rape, murder, robbery, incest, rebellion, false claims of divinity, wife beating, abortion – and he didn’t deny it! He could have gotten out of that terrible pain and disgrace and abandonment if he had just cried out, “No, I didn’t do all those terrible things, Gerry did them, Tom did them, George did them, Frank did them. Let them come to die here.” But he didn’t say that, he just died in my place.

So I remember his death with immense gratitude, the death of my best friend. Of course, he didn’t stay dead, but that is another story.

Gerry Gutierrez, Westwood, April 2005

The most Honorable Man

The most Honorable Man

“Carry this report back to the King immediately,” the field commander barked to the scout, “he specifically asked for you.”

The scout took the parcel and got ready for a trip back to his home town. After he stopped by the palace he could go home and spend the night with his sweet wife before heading back to camp. As he thought of her his long legs strode across field and stream, the miles speeding by effortlessly.
How blessed he was to have found his dear little wife! She had been the daughter of the wisest field general he had known, the apple of her father’s eyes. Long used to soldiers coming in and out of her home, she had not taken any of the young men seriously. He had loved her ever since she was a child playing in the courtyard. As she grew into woman-hood her beauty was only matched by her gracious ways. She had the innocence of her mother but her father’s good sense.
When she was of the age to be given as wife, there were many who sought her hand but she had been pleased have her parents arrange her marriage. Since he was older and battle scarred the scout had been greatly touched when his old friend had approached him and hinted that the scout’s suit would meet with open doors. Even more amazing was that she had gladly given him not just the first bloom of her young love, but her heart also. If only he could give her a child, many children, to play and chatter and grow into the sons she would need if he were to die in battle. How wonderful it would be to grow old surrounded by his fruitful wife and the children born of their love. Perhaps even tonight she would tell him of the blessed promise growing in her depths.

As he approached the city he switched back into his soldiering thoughts and attitudes. The reason that he was so highly regarded in his field was because of his uncanny ability to see, hear, smell, and feel what was going on in any place or situation. He had trained himself to notice and observe what others passed over – the little details that spoke of what was being hidden, the threads that in themselves meant little but that woven together by his experienced mind lead to unusual patterns hidden to others.

Now the soldier walked through the city streets, saluting the gatekeeper, greeting old friends, buying a piece of bread to gnaw, noting who had the freshest flowers to be taken to his wife after his business at the palace was done. The closer he got to the barracks and the palace, the more uneasy he grew, something was slightly off. He couldn’t put his finger on it and decided that he had forgotten city ways after months with his fellow soldiers fighting against their enemy. Finish with the king, he thought, and then to enjoy a wonderful evening with his wife, his little lamb.

As he entered the palace the doorkeeper startled when he saw the scout, and recovering himself, stammered, “Sir, we weren’t expecting you! But come in, how good it is to have you back from the battle. How is it going there?” As the scout replied and entered the palace he was on full alert – something was definitely wrong and it involved him. What could it be?

As he approached the king, his heart rejoiced again that he served such an incredible person – first a shepherd, then an outlaw hiding in caves, before being crowned king. Who would have thought that he, the scout, would have lived so long to see his friend sitting on the splendid throne, in the cedar palace, in a new city on the hill they had both conquered. They embraced, and the king asked for the news of the battle, as he always did. The scout handed over the report, and noted that his old friend seemed ill at ease, perhaps a bit pudgy, not rested and alert as he had been the last time they talked.
“Friend, I thank you for carrying the burden of the battle, and bringing this report. Now you can go home and relax for a day or two, before you have to go back to the front. Enjoy yourself, you have earned some time off,” his leader told him.
As the scout embraced his friend and turned to leave, he caught the faintest whiff of perfume that seemed familiar but out of place. Where had he smelled it before…perhaps if he mentioned it to his wife she would remember, she was very good about creating not just visual beauty but perfuming the world in which she lived. Ah, to be with her again, he thought as his steps quickened.
But of course he had to go by the barracks on his way home and report in before taking his leave. As he approached he noticed that small groups of men would watch him approach, say something and then smile a funny little smile. Really, he had to talk to his closest friend, the barracks commander, something was very wrong. If he heard the latest gossip about the army, perhaps that would help him shake off his disquiet.

In his home not far away, his wife hurried about preparing for his surprise visit – everything must be just right, so much depended on it. She was freshly bathed and coifed, the sumptuous meal laid out and ready to be cooked, wine and fruit stood on the sideboard, the bedroom clean and welcoming. How eagerly he would stride in the door, sweep her up in his big rough arms, kiss her with lips salty from his long walk. And even after longing for her for weeks, he would bathe, sup with her, listen to her happy chatter, and then, only then draw her close in his embrace. He treasured her so much, he blessed the One above for giving him such a fragile flower to hold that he was gentle beyond knowing.

Oh, yes, she knew the difference now between his loving and that of the other. The other had many wives, much wealth, charm and sophistication, feasted at banquets, had men and women dancing in his honor and singing his songs, and He sent armies of simple men like her husband off to fight battles while he ruled everything he saw. How incredible that when she took her ritual bath outside several months ago, hot and sticky inside the house but fresh and carefree in the cool moonlight, he had seen her. And when he saw her, he wanted her!

She shook her head, now was not the time to dreaming of Him, when she had to welcome her husband and make him sleep with her so that later he would think that the swelling in her belly was his. Well, now she knew a few more tricks to please him and enthrall him. Really, what was taking so long? Her maid had reported that he had already been to the palace, he should have been home long ago. He never stopped at the wine shops like other soldiers, he desired above all else to be home with her, enjoy her cooking, smile at her artless stories, be covered with her kisses, watch her sleep.

As her table grew cold, and the candles wavered and burned out, she panicked. Their plan wasn’t going to work, he smelled a trap. All night she tossed and turned in her lonely bed, agonizing over her dilemma. He just had to come sleep with her, she couldn’t be branded publicly as just one more unfaithfully wife of a noble man who betrayed him while he was away. And with the king, no less! The king who would even now be feasting with his nobles, enjoying fine wine and music, while she sat in the ruins of her life.

At daybreak her maid took a note to the palace, entering by the not so secret door, “He didn’t come home. Help!” She never noticed the beggar leaning up against the palace, huddled against the cold morning air. But he noticed his wife’s maid sneaking word to her lover of their failed plans. Now what would they cook up to cover their tracks?
And what was he going to do with the broken shards of his life?

Back at the barracks the summons came to dine with the king that evening. His old friend, subtly changed, showed off all his wealth and splendor, and plied him with wine, women and song. Surely the scout understood what was at stake, surely he would do this one simple thing for the king, just sleep with his wife and pretend that the son she carried was his. Was that so hard?
Indeed, the scout thought long and hard about the choice the king wordlessly gave him – sleep with your wife and raise my child, the child you haven’t been able to give her, cover our shame, but live. Otherwise you have to die, because we will not tolerate your outrage.
Could he do that for his king? He had done harder things, risked his life not one time but many. He was one of the thirty bravest warriors in the army, the elite. Yes, he could choose to serve the king and have a wonderful son. What he could not do was face the change in his wife. She who had come to his arms full of innocence and artless love, now waiting to seduce him, to deceive him after leaving her perfume and her fluids on the bed and body of another. How could he love the king’s child as his own flesh, knowing that her body would receive seed from another and not his? How could he lift his head among his fellow soldiers while they made jokes behind his back? How could he fight battles for the man who snuck into his bed while he slept on the ground?

All night he pondered his choices as his wife again waited with her smile and table and bed prepared. The king had said that he would send the scout home, drunk but homeward bound. Well, drunk she had seen in other soldiers, not her husband, but if a few sloppy kisses would serve the purpose, she could do that. But as the night came in and she sat alone as before, her defenses crumbled. He wasn’t coming, he never got drunk, how stupid to think that would work. That would work for most of the men at the king’s court, of course, but not her husband, she could see that now.
He was the most clear headed, farsighted, honorable person she ever knew. How pleased she had been when her father and mother had told her of their marriage. “He is older, but there is no one who will be more tender with you and cherish you than he will.”
And for years she had basked in that love, sheltered by his name and love even when he was far away. Now when she went out she saw her friends disapproving glances, the snickers of the soldiers, his supposed friends offering more than friendship with their glances. Dear God, what had she done? Exchanged the pure and spotless love of a noble heart for the stolen caresses of one who had caressed many other breasts and kissed many other mouths. Oh, if only he would come she would fall to her knees and confess her sin and beg to be forgiven. Would he come, please come, she pleaded as she wept through the endless night.

At daybreak he took the final message from the king to the field commander, the message sending him to his death. He would not sully the memory of his dear wife by gazing on the false, painted woman who now walked in her clothes. Better far to die with an untarnished picture of her in his heart, the heart of the most noble of men.

Gerry Gutierrez, Westwood, 2005

* Preparing the Way-man, the Truth, and two baby boys

Preparing the Way-man, the Truth, and two baby boys
The Arranger went over the list of things he had to arrange for the Fleshing to happen:
- two sets of parents – an older couple for the Way-man and a younger one for the Child
- a Wicked King
- two heralds – male and female
- world peace, a common culture, and good roads
- the Festivities – really, this last had caused more problems than any other because the Watchers had wanted aurora borealis for all the world. Of course that meant the Arrange had to cause the sun to flare, well, it was just too gaudy, even for the birth of the Child. Finally the Awesome one had decided on a simple heavenly choir – made up of Watchers, of course, plus a star in the east to alert the king-makers who would have to come and confirm the birth of the Child.
- The Heavenly Spokesperson was ready – he had been busy flying back and forth in time telling the Writers clues to be planted in the Holy Writings for the most important event in history. The Awesome one wouldn’t entrust the Announcement to anyone but his Hero, Gabriel.
- Minor personages such as the Sheep herders and inn keepers and poll tax collectors and soldiers … and the donkey, he almost forgot the sturdy beast whose grandson would also be important – but that was another event he had to Arrange.

The Arranger hummed quietly as he nudged and arranged the final happenings which would precede the Seeding of the boys. How he love his job, overseeing thousands of lives and working all things according the purposes of the Awesome one for the good of those who loved him!
Right then the Awesome one sent a tendril of thought his way, “are you sure that Emma won’t be frightened when I overshadow her? The Seeding requires her acceptance and cooperation.”
The Arranger replied, “I’ve been preparing her since she was a child, sending sparks of love, giving her promises and whispering in her ear that she is special. Other than a few moments of straying and choosing her own way, she has responded to Our voice. Her father and mother are the result of several centuries of shaping and molding to produce their genes and character, since they had to prepare a woman different from most of the peasant girls in her era. They had teach her to read, to work with her hands, to have a quiet and gentle spirit, to keep her own counsel, have good judgment, to trust them and by extension, Us. Above all, she has learned to hear our voice in the intimacy of her family and in the House of Prayer. When Gabriel speaks to her and you begin to pour out love to her, she will respond. It is the season of receptivity in her life, although she dreams only of the Carpenter. And have you observed Seedings enough to touch her gently? “
The Awesome one replied, “I have centuries of observing this race of people, fragile as the flowers of the field which spring up in the morning and wither at night. Choosing the X and Y chromosomes for each person for thousands of generations of Seedings and overseeing the growth in the mother and fleshing the bones and sinews and breathing life into each born since the First Man has taught me how to be gentle. But Seeding the Child into one of them – combining Our seed with theirs to produce a Son of Man and Ours – Fleshing Ourselves with their frailty to feel their pain and live among them – We’ve never done that. The Child must be sure that it will be done with out harming his Emma.”

The Arranger spoke, “We will have Watchers set up a safe zone around the parents of the Way-man from the time of his Seeding, perhaps we should have Emma moved there for her Seeding and the shaping of the Child also. We must be careful to send just Our shadow over her, softly and slowly, as she opens her heart and body to accept the Seeding of the Child. She will be loved and known and cherished in a way that no other person has or will be. Because of the Seeding and Fleshing she will be the most famous woman to ever live since the First Woman.”
“Yes, I see that you have chosen her well, and prepared her for the Seeding. And her relatives, the parents of the Way-man?” He continued, “tell me of them.”
The Arranger replied, “Well, as we decided, both they and the heralds are two generations older than Emma. Way-man’s father has been selected to serve in the House of Prayer, and thinks that this will be the high point of his life, since he has no children. His wife, Emma’s aunt, has been resigned to her shameful state and only prays that she doesn’t outlive her husband and be left in the street. The Heralds also are ready, for years they have been living in the House of Prayer telling those who love us that We are shaping events, that the Fleshing is about to happen. Really, there is beginning to be a stirring, sparks of life among the dead coals that only need Our breath to be fanned into flames.”
“Yes, the plan of the ages is about to come to pass, the Child who will become the Second Man is ready. But one last question,” murmered the Awesome one. “How will you get the Child’s Emma and the Carpenter to the City of David before the birth? The Carpenter won’t want to move Emma once she is carrying the Child.”
“Ah, well, I nudged the local ruler to declaring a Numbering which requires everyone to return to their ancestral home. The Carpenter will resist, as he will the idea of being a surrogate father, so we will have to send the Spokesman to visit him also. Really, since we chose him to be a strong shaper of wood and character, as well as protect Emma and the Child, we couldn’t combine that with the mysticism and sensitivity to Our voice we got in Emma. But together they will provide the home, security, and training that the Child needs after the Fleshing.”
And so the Arranger, the Awesome one and the Child set in motion the Fleshing which became the rescue of our lives from the rule of evil.

Learning from my mistakes

Recently I have been frustrated at a relationship that has been damaged. Some friends just had a child, and are struggling to adjust to the change in their lives. I have helped over a thousand women give birth and bond with their babies, so it is hard to be shut out of my friend’s lives at this crucial time. They are stressed out and making mistakes that I could help them avoid. I know that our friendship will be restored, but how much needless hurt will happen to them and their child, and how much time will be lost that we could have enjoyed together.
While I was praying about our past, present and future hurts, God whispered softly to my heart, “Child, think about your life and my love. I am very wise and have offered to guide your steps many times. You are prone to do the same thing as your friends. Instead of coming to me for help and wisdom you think, ‘I know what to do, how to guide my own steps. I want to do it my way.’
“When you think and live this way, I don’t get mad at you, but it makes me so sad to see you make bad choices, that will lead to years of pain and tears. Just ask for my help, ask for my wisdom, admit that you can’t guide your path through life without me. I love to make things better, to fix your messes. Don’t shut me out now when you need me the most. Give me a chance!”

I can do that today, and so can you. Gerry

The Vacuum

The Vacuum

The woman thought of herself as a cold, scaly lizard perched on a rock, trying to absorb enough energy from the bright sun to continue. Her hands were withered and dry, her frame shrunken from the constant drain of vital fluids from her deep wound. She sat quietly, shaken from the short walk from her friend’s home just around the bend. This was her last hope, her last day to live in misery. Her friend had mentioned that the Healer was coming to the village, if you could dignify a handful of families with that name. The Healer, she thought to herself angrily, surely he was a quack like all those others who had sucked up all her family’s money over the years, put her through endless probing and tearing and shame only to leave her more wounded than before.
As the sun restored her feeble strength, she thought again of her family – her dear strong John who must be in agony not knowing her whereabouts and cursing himself for not being able to cure or protect or even hold her close; her dear children who over the years and been concerned, then bored, then repelled by the constant weakness and smells and crying; her mother and sisters long dead with the same bloody wretchedness; her friends at first sympathetic but as the long years dragged on, grew tired of her same sad story and moved on to more cheerful pastimes.
As the woman saw that her family shunned her more and more she acted out her final gift of love. Taking a small sum of money she had hidden, she fled to a distant relative in a far town to spare them the grief of seeing her waste away. The money was almost gone, she only ate enough to keep her body from crying out as she waited for death, which would be a welcome end to her suffering. Unless the Healer… if she could just talk to him quietly, explain her problem and hear his advice…it was too much to hope that he would examine her privately since she had nothing to offer him…
She was startled out of her musings by the noisy crowd approaching, surround-ding a tall man striding down the road – the Healer was about to pass her by and she could barely see him for the throng of people. With renewed strength she jumped to her feet and began to push her way through the mass of people, desperate to get close, to touch his clothes at least. Knocked about by stronger bodies, she stumbled and as she fell to her knees managed to grab the hem of his robe.
Astounded by the shock of energy that charged through her she sat in the dust, feeling life surging from her fingertips to every part of her body, swirling joyfully in all her bones and coursing through her blood, drying her wound and renewing her youth. Oblivious to her surroundings, she didn’t notice the crowd had grown silent around the Healer, who had demanded, “Who touched me? I felt my life force go out in healing, who drew it out?”
Looking around He saw her sitting in the dust, entranced with her now strong hands and arms. His quiet gaze finally broke through to her as he repeated, “Who touched me? “
She who had spent years hiding her shame, blurted out her wounding, her anguish, her hopelessness, even as her body inside her rags and dirt shouted out health and vitality. The Healer smiled that sweet smile as he replied, “Go in peace, your suffering has ended. Of all those hundreds who jostled against me, only you had the desperation and faith to draw out my healing power. Go back to those who love you, bearing gifts of strength and dignity and joy.” And she did.

Gerry Gutierrez, Oaxaca, Mexico 1996

The Stampede And The Space Cadet

The Stampede And The Space Cadet

“Dig up a new angle on last month’s stampede in the Quarry,” the reporter muttered as he stormed out of the newspaper office. “He just wants to get me out of his hair and keep me away from the good stories.”
But as he drove out of the city, the simple beauty of the sky and hills and trees worked in his spirit and he began to look forward to time away from the fast pace of the city streets.
As he turned off the highway to the windy Quarry road he reviewed the facts of the story. Years before the Quarry had been turned into a vast, terraced farm for exotic angora goats, whose wool and meat were the basis of the local economy. Last month, an itinerant preacher had caused the valuable animals to panic during some kind of exorcism and the whole herd had plunged into the lagoon at the bottom of the huge pit. What a stinking mess they made as they quickly drown and began to rot. He needed a new angle, a new perspective indeed, and hopefully one that was down wind.
He drew up to the gate and spotted the Cowboy’s pickup by the office. He thought, “Well, at least I can ask how things are going now that he is out of a job managing the thousands of sheep.” Poor guy, he was probably packing his bags and sending out resumes, if he knew how to type.
The Cowboy rocked quietly in the hammock he had slung between two shady oak trees planted at the edge of the top level. He had made himself a lookout so he could keep a close eye on the goats during the few hours a day when he wasn’t down among them. As the reporter approached he turned and motioned to a comfortable rocker nearby. “Sit a spell and take the load off,” he invited.
The reporter gazed over the edge, expecting to see and smell rotting bodies as he had a month ago. He was pleasantly surprised at the clean air wafting up the incline. “How did you get rid of the stink! “ He exclaimed.
The Cowboy smiled as he replied, “Well, when you have dead body you put it underground. So we dug a big hole, brought in some earth movers and buried them all right there in the pond. Course we had to do a quick environmental study, and all that nonsense, but its done. They’re dead and gone and the living earth will recycle them into good fertile soil.”
The reporter had never thought of death and recycling rotting bodies in a very good light before, so he had to think about that for a bit, looking out over the now quiet Quarry. “But now what will happen to the Quarry and what will you do now that you are out of a job managing the operation,” were his words while he really thought, ´I can’t imagine there is too much demand for a manager of a quarry full of dead goats.´
“Now that is really good question,” replied the Cowboy, “I’ve been chewing on that same bone for days. You know, it’s funny how the same thing happened when I was a kid. You see, my daddy owned the Quarry after his daddy died. The good stone petered out, the townfolk didn’t have any work, my brother and I couldn’t stand our daddy and left town, and my parents didn’t know what to do about any of their problems. It was my momma who got the idea of the goats, it just came to her one day as she sat in the shade of these trees she had planted. She used to come bring lunch to daddy, and they would sit here and watch the men and machines make money for them.”
“She could see the end of the Quarry coming, the breakup of the family, hunger and idleness creeping up on the town, and I guess she could feel the tendrils of darkness closing around my brother and me. More and more she would sit and rock, in that very rocker, thinking and seeing and praying. “
“One day she said, ‘Daddy, when the Quarry runs out, we should landscape it and run goats.”
“Course Daddy laughed at her like a crazy woman, but that idea stuck in his mind like a burr. One time she drug him on vacation to some Island up in Canada that has a quarry that was made into some gardens, to see what could be done. Daddy wouldn’t cotton to the idea of flowers and a tea shop, but he saw money in the goat idea.”
Momma and Daddy worked it all out in their heads for a couple years before the stone ran out. They’d have to get permission to change the land use, learn which goats would make money for them, how to raise them, retrain their employees, put in a meat plant and smoke house, find craftsmen to work with the wool, and develop new markets.”
“It was a huge change for them, but it took their minds off worrying about me and my brother. It kept them going all those years that I never called home and my brother slipped deeper into booze and drugs and craziness.” The Cowboy fell silent as he remembered those years.
The reporter sat quietly thinking of his own crazy years, not too distant, not quite over, seeing his own parents keeping busy to avoid thinking about him. Eventually he gently nudged the Cowboy to get back to his story, “So how did you get back here as the manager?”
The Cowboy came slowly back to the present, “ah, well, Momma got sick, Daddy got old, my brother went totally crazy and had to be locked up. Daddy finally got in touch and begged me to come back to help with Momma, and we had a peaceful year before she died. Its funny how things work out, I had drifted all over the world and ended up on a sheep ranch in Australia, there’s where Daddy found me. So when Momma died I just stayed here and kept things going until Daddy went.”
“But the stampede last month, you lost all the goats! Didn’t that ruin things for you and the town? And the crazy guy, I never understood what really happened there?” The reporter sensed that there was a deeper story behind the facts he had heard.
“That’s another funny thing, about the goats. Yeah, they were our town investment, our savings fund, our source of income. You know, everybody pooled their money to buy the first herd, and it kept the town going and growing when everything else dried up in the area. But we had a ten year surplus of wool on hand for the weavers, the old employees either died or retired and their kids have gone into computers, not cowboy boots. It was time to move on, only we couldn’t see it. Maybe I needed to be up here on the rim rocking and praying instead of down with the sheep all day. It took the stampede to wake me up.”
“And the exorcism that they went on about was very simple. Daddy had taken in this crazy kid years before, his name was Space Cadet, let him roam the Quarry as long as he didn’t go where the goats were grazing. He would come and go, spaced out most of the time, but being near the animals calmed him down. There were times when he was lucid and would ask questions about the flock, and pet the kids. I always thought that he and his crazy buddies would benefit from working on a farm, planting and seeing the earth produce, feeling the earth speak to them through their hands and feet and knees. That is how I found peace, grubbing out the stalls and tilling the manure into the soil, watching the sheep lamb, sleeping out under the stars. And since the Healer came and got the nasties out of the Space Cadet he has been helping me bury the dead goats, and begin to lay out a garden. See way down there, he’s over to the left, and a couple of his buddies have been coming to help and listen to him talk. It looks like the Quarry is going to recycle dying people into good soil, just like it is doing with the herd.”
The reporter thought for a while more, then mused, “yeah, but wasn’t that a pretty steep price to pay, a priceless herd of productive goats traded for a new life for Space Cadet?”

The Cowboy smiled, “I don’t think so. You see, Space Cadet was my brother.”

Gerry Gutierrez, Cuixtla, Mexico, 1990

Lighthouse I painted in 2004 

The Drill

THE DRILL
As the news clips of the near disaster flashed on the screens, the Drillmaster slipped into his seat. He was one of the geniuses of the first Notification section, in charge of planning and executing the Drills. For days he had studied the wiring on the huge airplane, searching for the weak spot, the frayed wires in the worn metal. Once he had the plan worked out, the team was recruited and the Drill was carried out flawlessly, as always.

The deputy Drillmaster began his report, “We chose to Drill Oriental Airways flight 918 bound from Hong Kong to Seattle. 0 hour was at 90 minutes into the flight, with the craft at cruising speed, over the ocean, in darkness. With the team in position, the hydraulic linkage was stressed. The captain lost both control of and data from the tail – the Drill was on. Samuel Observed and taped the cockpit crew, Patricia the cabin crew, and the rest of the team Observed the passengers. As we know, the purpose of a Drill is to serve the First Notification, “there comes to every man death and then the Judgment”, although, of course, those undergoing the Drill don’t know if it is just a Drill or the Final Call. Notifications were served on all 280 of the passengers and crew.

The Drillmaster accepted and initialed the deputy’s computer files of those who had been Notified. Really, even with computers is was tedious to keep track of the Notifications, but all the defendants were legally entitled to them. The deputy Drillmaster continued, “during the 14 minutes of the Drill we noted the reactions of those being Notified, as required. The majority began to plea bargain; the 7 who abandoned their self-sufficiency and cried for mercy to the Judge will be reached by a defender to help prepare their cases. There were 20 on the pardoned list, of those, 15 had no current charges. The remaining 5 settled accounts immediately. They were actually sorry that it was a Drill and not the Final Call, and were able to speak to some of the defendants about pleading guilty and being pardoned. We found a few skeptical people who have been through Drills before, we need to work out a Super Drill for them.”

The head of the Second Notification section sniffed to herself, “What do they expect with all this newfangled ‘technology’? I’ll take an old-fashioned wake or funeral any day. For a Second Notification ‘these are the charges against you’ I need at least an hour with the defendant, where he can’t get away from thinking about his or her case.”

The section head took the 280 files from the Drillmaster and sorted them according to how soon the Final Call would arrive. Several came due in a month, so she handed those to members of her team for immediate action. The last file was a man who had suffered severe chest pain during the Drill. The head saw that he had already has his First Notification months before, so the Drill had served as the Second Notification. She passed his file to the Final Warning section.

The head of this section was the oldest of them all. He had been a compassionate field worker for scores of years before he began becoming section head. The Judge required someone to be with defendant constantly from the Final Warning, "this is it" , until the Call to the Judge’s chambers came.
The section head handled all of the tough cases, leaving his younger workers to keep vigil with children and those on the pardoned list. It took special firmness and grace to wait out the last hours of defiant defendants; sometimes they tried to bluff their way clear up the final Call. One unseasoned prosecutor almost made a deal on the defendant’s terms – as if she doubted that the Judge of all the earth Judges justly!

As the meeting was about to break up, the head of the Final Call section, AKA Angel of Death, walked in with his section chiefs who carried stacks of files. He was unusually somber as he announced, “the Judge has planned a massive Call for next month and you are all needed for Notifications. A tanker carrying liquid natural gas will explode while filling a depot in a major harbor. Tens of thousands will be Called instantly, these are their files.”
He handed a stack of printouts to the head of Second Notification. “They have been sorted by the continents where they are now, and these,” as he handed over a smaller stack, “are on ships on the seas. You will note that all have had First Notifications from past Drills. You have two weeks to give Second Notifications and pass the files to the Final Warning section.”

As he handed over another two stacks of printouts he spoke to the head of Final Warning, “30,000 people will be injured, and trapped for days in the debris. These,“ he said as he handed over a small stack,“ will be rescued, the rest will be Called. You are to have someone with each person or groups of people, to counsel, encourage and prepare defenses as necessary.”

As each section head began to plan how to bring their workers in from the entire world, angel of Death spoke to them. “All the Drills are canceled for the next month, the Judge wants his workers to help with the Notifications. And if you think you will be busy, remember that you only have to Notify, we have to prepare charges against each defendant and prepare the case for the Judge.”

The Drillmaster asked what they all had been wondering, “Why such a massive Call?”
Angel half smiled and replied, “Why, you yourself suggested it. People hear about wars and earthquakes and flooding so much that they ignore the Notifications. This is the Super Drill.”

Now, gentle reader, for you is this a First Notification, a Second, or the Final Warning?

Gerry Gutierrez, Oaxaca, Mexico, May 2001

My purpose in life is to be a lighthouse

My purpose in life is to be a lighthouse

I am rooted on the sturdy foundation of being God’s beloved servant
He places me in places of danger and darkness and hurting people
He fills me with light that burns away the dross
My flame must be constant, not wavering
The windows of my soul must be kept clean and transparent
My walls must be strong enough to withstand the storms of life
My words must be like flashes of truth and life to those around me
My life provides illumination of the reality of eternity
I can guide many wanderers to a safe harbor

Gerry Gutierrez, Westwood, 2005

* Song for my Son

Song for my Son

The Singer sat on a rock at the mouth of the cave, peering into the moonlit night, searching for any sign of his pursuers. His ragtag group of soldiers slept in exhaustion in the dark, safe after the hard day’s march. He had chosen the night watch because he wanted to talk to the One Above, pour the anguish of his soul. Did he not have the Promise of the kingdom? Then why was he still running for his life, hiding in caves like a dog?

As the Singer’s mind churned with angry questions, his spirit sought out other moments of despair. Looted villages, slaughtered innocents, anguished women of other times passed before his eyes. He was drawn to one scene of a procession emerging from a magnificent city, a mob hounding a Man dragging a forked tree. He could see that the Man was bowed as if carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. His followers watched helplessly as the man was hung on the tree to die. As the Singer watched, the Man called out, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”

The Singer was shocked to hear the Man repeat those words, part of the lament which had so recently poured out from his own heart,

“My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?
Why are you so far from saving me?
So far from the words of my groaning?
O My God, I cry out by day but you do not answer,
By night and am not silent.

I am a worm and not a man, Scorned by men and despised by people.
All who see me mock me, they hurl insults, shaking their heads;
‘He trusts in the Lord, let the Lord rescue him,
Let him deliver him since he delights in him.’

Many bulls surround me, strong bulls of Bashan encircle me.
Roaring lions tearing their prey open their mouths wide against me.
I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint.
My heart has turned to wax; it has melted away within me.
My strength is dried up like a potsherd
and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth;
You lay me in the dust of death.

Dogs have surrounded me; a band of evil men has encircles me.
They have pierced my hands and my feet, I can count all my bones
People stare and gloat over me, They divide my garment among them
And cast lots for my clothing.

Deliver my life from the sword, My precious life from the power of the dogs
Rescue me from the mouth of the lions Save me from the horns of the wild oxen.”

After pouring out his soul in the bitter lament, the Singer felt strangely relieved. As his senses strained for any sign of danger in the shadowed forest at his feet, the Singer’s spirit again traveled. This time he surveyed a woman and Child in a humble home. The Child, barely able to walk and talk, tugged at his mother’s skirt. “Emma, read with me!”

Emma calmly finished her chores and reverently placed the scroll on the wooden table. She smiled as the Child helped unroll the scroll to the Song he was learning to read. Chubby fingers traced the letters as he pronounced them, “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want....”

When he finished, the Child smiled at his mother and asked, “Emma, who wrote this Song?”

Emma replied, “Our ancestor who lived more than a thousand years ago wrote this when he was a Shepherd, before he became the great Soldier, and then the great King who founded the City.”

The Singer was astonished to hear these words and realize what they meant. His Songs had survived thousands of years, recorded in scrolls. He had become King, a great King, and founded the magnificent City! More than that, he had become the ancestor of this Child, precious in the eyes of the One Above. The Singer bowed in worship in his silent cave, moonlight streaming over the peaceful scene.

Again the Singer’s spirit slipped through the years, one more time seeking out the mother and Child. Emma was older, the Child a slender Son. He came in from Joseph’s shop, brushing the curls of wood from his clothes before taking the scroll from the shelf. Emma continued her work as she saw him rocking slowly, reading to himself. Gradually she sensed his distress and came to read over his shoulder, “My God, why have you forsaken me?”

The Son began to talk with his mother, his teacher. “Emma, many times when I read the Songs, I feel that they are written about me in a special way.”

Emma replied, “Yes, my Son, they are.”

Her Son continued, “Emma, when I read about the bulls and lions and dogs encircling our ancestor, it is frightening. Is this also written about me?”

Emma stamped her foot in irritation. It was all good and well for the Singer to pour out his despair in the Dark Songs, for those who Speak from God to talk about the Suffering Servant, but she was his mother. How was she supposed to explain to him the joy, the purpose, behind the sacrifice of the Lamb, her precious Lamb? How could he face being God’s atoning Lamb, when he was but a Child?
The Singer was shocked as he thought of Emma trying to explain his Dark Songs to the Son. Of course the Son would read everything written in the scrolls, seeking to understand the Presence which burned in him. The Singer himself, recipient of great Promises, had been in despair until the One Above showed him the future.

The Singer reexamined the Dark Song. Yes, his despairing words were a true distillation of anguish, but he had to intertwine the larger truth,

“Yet you are enthroned as the Holy One, you are the praise of Israel.
In you our fathers put their trust, they trusted and you delivered them.
They cried to you and were saved
In you they trusted and were not disappointed.

You brought me out of the womb
You made me trust in you even at my mother’s breast
From birth I was cast upon you
From my mother’s womb you have been my God
Do not be far from me, for trouble is near and there is no one to help.

I will declare your name to my brothers, in the congregation I will praise you
You who fear the Lord, praise him!
All you descendants of Jacob, honor him!
Revere him, all you descendants of Israel!
For he has not despised or disdained the suffering of his afflicted one
He has not hidden his face from him but has listened to his cry for help.

From you comes my praise in the great assembly
Before those who rear you will I fulfill my vows.
The poor will eat and be satisfied, they who seek the Lord will praise him
May your hearts live forever!

All the ends of the earth will remember and turn to the Lord
All the families of the nations will bow down before him
For dominion belongs to the Lord and he rules over the nations

All the rich of the earth will feast and worship
All who go down to the dust will kneel before him
Those who cannot keep themselves alive
Posterity will serve him, Future generations will be told about the Lord
They will proclaim his righteousness, to a people yet unborn
For he has done it.

As the dawn began to lighten the eastern sky the Singer ended his vigil. He would never again doubt the Promises, his countenance was firm and joyous. Above all, he had sent a message of hope for the Son of the Promise, many years unborn.
Gerry Gutierrez - 1995

Worms, leaves and a new beginning

Leaves, Worms And A New Beginning

As it rained last night I listened to the wind in the trees and heard the birds sing as they pulled fat worms from the ground. When I was a child I would look at flowers and leaves and birds and the sky and people singing, and think, “When God made everything, it was perfect.” I would imagine all the perfect trees and birds and songs and people, and spotless and perfectly shaped and tuned and shining – the lion and the lamb playing, mosquitoes buzzing around in tiny formations tickling us, spiders performing like little trapeze artists for us to enjoy -until sin came to the world. I could just see the blight and poison and twistedness of sin spreading in all directions from Eve’s apple. The Mosquitoes now loaded with parasites and looking for tender flesh to pierce, viruses mutating into pathogens, each leaf slightly deformed, each song a bit out of tune and with words that didn’t quite rhyme, the mothers and fathers loving their children but acting out ancient hurts.

In my childish mind I would think, “if just one tree could produce a perfect leaf, if just one canary could sing the perfect song, if I could just write the perfect story or color just one picture staying in the lines, maybe then God would put everything back to how it should be, maybe he would take away all the hurts and stings and we would all be happy.” The older I got the more I realized how terribly bad things are in the world, and I gave up on the idea that people or birds or trees could ever do just one thing, anything at all, per-fectly, so that God could take away all the pain and sorrow in the earth and our hearts.

But last night I remembered that one little baby was a perfect baby. Oh, sure, he cried and kept his mom up at night, but that is baby perfection. And when he grew up he spilled his milk, and skinned his knees, and broke his dad’s tools, and once he even got lost for 3 days without telling his parents where he was! Imagine that, and yet he still did it all perfectly. He was a pest as a teen, asking way too many questions, looking for his “real” father, bugging his brothers. As he grew older he took on too many burdens, shared too many griefs, touched too many lepers, laughed with too many prostitutes, drank with too many lowlifes, walked on the water too many times, forgave too many evil people, didn’t heal all the people in every town, didn’t meet people’s expectations, didn’t overthrow an evil political system, didn’t convince his accusers of his innocence.

He couldn’t even die a decent death at a ripe old age, surrounded with a loving family and honors, after living a productive life, quietly drifting off in a dignified manner – no, he had to die an untimely death, shamefully naked before his mother, mocked, with violent men tearing his flesh. Worst of all, he died by mistake, accused of terrible things –lies, robbery, murder, rape, incest, horrible things, disgusting things – things he never did. All he had to say was, “It wasn’t me that did those horrible things, it was Gerry, and John, and Sam and Judith. Let them hang here instead of me,” and he would have been spared the beatings and thorns and spit and humiliation and fists in his face.

But that death and that life counted in God’s eyes as a perfect thing, a perfect song, a perfect picture, a perfect love. And after that death God did wipe out all the evil and sorrow and pain, and began another ripple in the universe, a ripple of goodness and hope and new beginnings that has crossed centuries and will spread to every corner of our world. He did that one perfect thing and today we are free!
Gerry Gutierrez, Easter 2005

* Emma’s First Wound

Emma’s First Wound

At first Emma was too tired to realize the implications of the rumors she heard at the river. She had gone to scrub the boy’s dirty clothes; she and Joseph still had a few clean things after their mad flight. She shook her head, Joseph and his dream, which had frightened him so badly that he insisted on saddling the donkey and dragging her out of her warm bed in the middle of the night with the boy asleep on her back! Emma was still sore and tired from riding day and night, with just a few hours of sleep in the home of Joseph’s friend on the way.

Now as she relaxed in the warm Egyptian sun, she thought of the fragments of gossip she had heard while washing. Her neighbor on the left had been scrubbing a soiled soldier’s tunic, although the bloodstains would never come out completely. She had whispered to her friend, “my brother had to leave Jerusalem to hide after Herod’s last madness. Isn’t it enough that he kills any rivals, but now he has to slaughter little boys?”

Emma had continued scrubbing her little boy’s long robe, not wanting to interrupt the woman and draw attention to herself. “A dozen little boys killed in some Judean village just 5 days ago because Herod thought there was a baby king among them! They say the mothers are beside themselves with despair and grief.”

Later, as Emma sat in the courtyard watching her boy sleep peacefully, she realized that the baby King Herod feared was her son. They had escaped only because of Joseph’s obedience to the warning. But her friend’s sons? Susannah’s baby Samuel dead? Micah’s little blond curls smashed bloody in the dust? Petey’s chubby brown arms and legs broken as he was slammed against the walls? Emma moaned and shook as she felt the terror of her friends as evil devoured their sons. And what must they think of her, the only mother to escape with her son? How did she know to flee? Why didn’t she warn them? How could she have brought this danger to Bethlehem and then flee, leaving their sons to be slaughtered? Waves of pain and anguish washed over her as she realized that her boy, with no thoughts of kingship in his innocent sleep, had already been the cause of bloodshed. How could she rejoice in their successful escape when others had died? Suddenly she remembered the words spoken to her at his birth, “a sword will pierce your heart.” The words had not made sense to her at the time, but now, as Rachel weeping for the children of Ramah, she felt the sword’s first wounding.

Gerry Gutierrez

Oaxaca, 2002

* FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE QUESTIONER

FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE QUESTIONER

As Emma unpacked the baggage she felt a surge of irritation at the boy for not being there to help her as he always was. Well, he was off with his cousin and forgot she needed him, which was rare. At dinner she took time to scan the tables where the family sat. Spying the cousin, Joel, alone she frowned and motioned for him to come. She asked him, “where is my boy, isn’t he with you?”
“No, auntie,” he replied in surprise. “I haven’t seen him since we packed up this morning before dawn. But if you like I’ll ask around among the cousins for him.”
“Do that, please,” she nodded gratefully, returning to help the baby with his soup.
As they prepare for bed Emma and the boy’s father waited for Joel to return with the boy and were shocked when he came to tell them that his cousin was nowhere to be found. Their irritation dissolved into fear and concern. He had always been so responsible; it was impossible to think of him deliberately not coming with them.
The next day Emma left her other children with her sisters-in-law and rode with the boy’s father back into the City. How eagerly they had gone just a week before on the way to the family dinner. That was the occasion for the trip but she and the children loved to go to the mall, the sports events, to the concerts – why, her boys even went to see an arcade. Each child had found cousins his or her age, often she didn’t see them until they gave her a sleepy goodnight kiss. Now, in whose house had her boy slept?
By noon they were at Cousin Anna’s house, gratefully sipping a cold drink and explaining their return. “How strange! Are you sure he isn’t with any of the family that travels your way? “ Anna exclaimed.
The mother had been sure that the boy had stayed with Anna, now her embarrassment at admitting her negligence in watching for him vanished. Anna’s boy went to the homes of all the relatives in the City with the father as the mother waited anxiously.
As evening tinted the buildings shades of crimson, the boy’s father came slowly back, alone. “There are so many people in the streets from the fair that you can hardly walk. If he isn’t with family he must be on the streets but I didn’t see him.”
Emma had been thinking, “Perhaps we should go to the police and check the hospitals tomorrow.” Her tired mate looked at her for a long moment, sharing her fear, trying to keep her calm. “Tomorrow.”
The next day at the police station the sergeant was incredulous, “You want to report a missing boy! Lady, I got 20 drunks locked up, a dozen people who got mugged last night, there were 50,000 people here last week and you want me to find your boy! He probably went home with someone else. You already looked? Well, we buried a boy yesterday, about 15, got knifed a couple days ago. He was fair-haired and had a scar on the cheek. Not yours? Well, try the first aid station and the hospitals.”
They spent the morning and afternoon going to schools, hospitals, the arcade, the speedway, the soccer fields, anywhere that a boy might have been captivated. At last they went back to the police, trembling from worry and exhaustion. No one had seen their boy or could remember him. The sergeant was still busy but asked, “No luck? Well, tonight check the bars and the baths. Your boy isn’t that kind, eh? Well, there are people who like innocent little boys.”
Now frantic with worry, the parents struggled through the blaring music and drunken bodies in bar after bar, sickened at the sight of the degraded humans who came out after dark. The street hustlers took pity on them in their quest but hadn’t seen the boy.
In bed that night the mother lay dry eyed, unable to sleep. How long would they search, was he even in town? She would go to the temple tomorrow to pray, there was nowhere else to turn.
At that very moment the boy slept peacefully, watched by the Scholar, who considered him thoughtfully. He knew so much about him and yet so little. The first time he noticed the boy was at the public lecture on “The Future of the City”. The Scholar was the youngest and, he told himself, the most talented of the panel of speakers. After he spoke his attention was drawn to the boy sitting in the front row, listening intently to the City elders.
He had popped up that afternoon in the middle of the monthly forum held in the temple library. There had been the usual mix of political, religious and cultural talk when a thin voice spoke up in a momentary lull. “Why has the Giver of Life not sent us any messages for hundreds of years?”
Clothes rustled and aged necks creaked as they regarded the interloper in their midst. The child would have been hustled out, except for his question – the question that they, the leaders of the City and nation had not dared to ask themselves. They had read the old musty history books, full of action, dashing soldiers, and brave kings; full of denunciation of wrongs. They didn’t know why in their time and their forefather’s time there had been silence. Perhaps it was because the forefathers hadn’t liked the messages the Giver of Life sent, and had silenced his messengers. The whole question brought up ideas that the Council didn’t want to face so they had ignored it. The Scholar, had asked that same question in private with a few friends, with the longing of those who sensed the reality in the musty old books. Now this extraordinary boy had put that longing into words. As he was drawn forward and given several explanations he was not put off with their knowledge or lofty positions. His calm bearing demanded the one thing in short supply – the truth.
Later the boy asked many more questions and listened carefully to the answers. Really, it was as if he were examining them and hearing beyond their words to their inner thoughts. The first night the Scholar had invited the boy home and over supper tried to find out more about him. The boy instead had drawn him out about the workings of the Council and asked him that which could not be answered, “Why is the Presence gone from the temple?”
Now, after two days of observing the boy he had deduced much about the sleeping child – his mastery of the ancient books, his singleness of purpose, his penetrating questions, which cut through extraneous matters and caused the recipient to think deeply, his gentleness, strength and courtesy. What he didn’t know was where the boy had come from – he must have parents who cared for him – where were they. And why wasn’t the boy concerned that they hadn’t looked for him?
The Scholar was in the temple library reading, watching the boy lose himself in study of a volume that he hadn’t tried to understand in years, when the doorman announced, “there is a couple looking for their boy.” Only the Scholar saw them enter hesitantly, the marks of sleepless nights and harried days lining their faces. As they saw the boy the worry dropped away to be replaced by irritation and anger. The mother chided him, “How could you do this to us? Father and I have been frantically looking for you.”
The boy looked up at them with love and a hint of reproach. “Three days it took to find me? “
The parents and child faced each other for long moments. How could they have forgotten his character and looked in the arcades and bars? Now they remembered the promises at his birth, his chubby fingers tracing the ancient letters, his baby voice asking to hear the stories, his astonishing grasp of history, his endless questions which had gone far past the limits of their knowledge, his intensity as they went to the temple each year. Then had known the seed of Otherness in their child, has glimpsed it growing through the years, had seen it bud and flourish – and had mistaken his restlessness these last months for adolescence. The pull of the Presence had been ever stronger and now the sudden awareness of Otherness had flowered in his spirit. His desperate need for more knowledge had overcome his filial duty. He finally asked, “Didn’t you know I had to come to my Father’s house? “
As the Scholar watched, he sensed the momentousness of the encounter. It brought back memories of when he was much younger, learning from the old masters in this very temple. One master, Simeon, had been sure for years that the Presence would appear in his lifetime. The Scholar had been with him when a humble couple brought their firstborn son to be presented. He remembered the old master studying them, the measured tread crossing the room, the uplifted baby, the outpouring of prophetic praise, the words to the mother, “A sword will pierce your own soul. “ The Scholar thought to himself, that was about a dozen years ago, and realized with a shock that the boy was just that age. He looked at the middle aged Emma and saw her serenity, intelligence and good sense underlying the weariness.
As the Scholar watched he saw the boy and his parents accept that henceforth the boy would be obedient to the Presence and not to them. The boy stood up, closed his book and walked over to his parents. Yes, he would be going home with them, after all he was still young. He would still need the sanctuary of their home, the boyish play with his brothers and sisters, their deep wisdom to understand what was happening as awareness grew within him.
Emma glanced at the Scholar who had watched over her boy, saw his recognition of her, and read all that he had learned of the boy. He too would treasure his knowledge and be ready for the next appearance of the Questioner.

Gerry Gutierrez
Oaxaca, 1995

Jesus Wept

Jesus Wept

When Jesus came to Mary and Martha and the grave
Why did he weep?
He knew that soon Lazarus would come forth,
Dance out of the grave clothes
Raise his arms for joy and shout to the heavens
So why did Jesus weep?

Because for the first time Jesus felt and drank
And soaked up the grief and anguish of humanity.
The terror and torn flesh of those struck down in anger
The abandonment of the childless widow
The loneliness of the solitary husband
The fear of the orphaned child
The shattered dreams left behind in a child’s death
The rudderless course of a nation robbed of a wise leader
The anguish of those facing eternal darkness and pain


No, he didn’t weep for his dear friends
Who would again laugh and break bread for a time.
When Jesus wept, he wept for you and me
And most of all for those who never will see his face
Or feel his voice or hear his loving, “Welcome home, my child”
That is why Jesus wept, and that is why I weep in the night
And go forth in the day to speak his name.

Gerry Gutierrez
Mexico City
1986