Ode to Ofelia

She was always smiling. That’s what I’ll remember about her. 

She lived just down the street from our ministry centre so it didn’t take me long to meet her and strike up a conversation. After that, I would see every week, usually several times a week. I’d smile back at her and wave, or stop by her doorway to talk a bit.

Diabetes had bound her to her wheelchair and only on rare occasions did she leave the house. Even so, she was always smiling, content to sit in the doorway of her house and watch the world happen around her. Without a doubt, no one knew better than her the events that occurred on the corner of Main Street and Francisco Carbajal. 

She was never very chatty, and neither am I, so often I would just pause for a brief greeting, comment about the weather, or a question about her health. On occasion she would tell me a bit of the history of the neighbourhood or about a particular Mexican tradition.

When I asked about her faith and she was always quick to reply that she prayed everyday to her Heavenly Father. She probably prayed to the saints as well, as the Catholic traditions were ingrained in her religious DNA. But if I made a comment about human sinfulness or about the unmerited grace of God, she was more than ready to agree.

I remember distinctly the day I asked how she was and, instead of hearing her usual, cheery reply, she told me: “Bad.” Her son had died suddenly and she was grieving. Sometimes it’s ok not to smile. 

That was also the time I got to know her other son. I was a bit intimidated by him at first. He dressed in black and tattoos, and had a little figure of Saint Death hanging from a chain on his neck. His heavy metal music often blasted its way up the street to the ministry centre. But once I got to chatting with him he seemed friendly enough, if not skeptical of a religion that claims absolute truth. 

I wasn’t surprised at his skepticism, but I was surprised the day he asked me to come and pray for his mom. For the better part of week I hadn’t seen her sitting in the doorway and when I asked him about it, he said she was quite sick and bedridden. Then he asked when I had time to visit her and pray. So I came back the next day and sat in a dimly-lit room filled with medical stuffs and pictures of Mary with rosaries and candles, and I prayed. 

Sadly, that was the start of her downward spiral and she ended up in the hospital soon after. Her son came to me again asking for prayer and a month or so later he even came to church two Sundays in a row. He seemed to me to be carrying a heavy burden and was weighed down with the responsibility of caring for his sick mother. I told him God uses the dark to teach us to search out the Light. 

Then, last week I saw the ambulance in front of her house. She had gone downhill again and the paramedics were taking her back to the hospital. The next day, I saw her son from across the street, just as I was heading home with the kids after soccer practice. He waved me over and told me the news. She passed away shortly after arriving at the hospital. 

They had already cremated her body and her ashes were in a box in the house. Her son invited me in, along with the kids, and we stood for a while in the kitchen with a few of the family members. One of her friends was there and had been drowning his sorrow in tequila. With slurred speech he told me to pray, so I did, although I was interrupted by the arrival of a few more family members and friends. They asked who could say the rosary and the drunk friend told me to do it. I did not. We stayed a few minutes longer and then excused ourselves. 

On the walk back home, I marvelled at the situations God places us in and was reminded that often a prayer is more needed than a sermon. Sometimes just showing up and sitting with another person is more effective than a preplanned gospel presentation.

I think I’ll remember Ofelia for a long time and when I think of her I’ll remember her sitting in her wheelchair, surveying the street, and a wide grin on her face.

“¿Cómo está señora?”

“Muy bien. Aquí nomas”