News 13 -- Sept. 1992

Sometime after Christmas of 1991 it struck me that I must begin preparing physically and mentally for my departure in the summer. At a given moment, the thought occurred to me, "why not bike to the U.S.?"

[In some of his letters Larry used the word womyn as his way of expressing the equality of women and men.
campo = farm field or farm region. Campesino(a) = peasant farmer]


NEWSLETTER #13

SEPTEMBER 1992
El Salvador

Dear Friends,

It took my community of sisters and brothers in Nuevo Gualcho, El Salvador, to implant in me an appreciation of faith in light of my own personal history. After three and a half weeks of riding my bike back from El Salvador to the U.S., my sense of faith within this process of history has deepened.

As I listened to the accounts of the war years by both young and old in Nuevo Gualcho, and saw with my own eyes the strength of this community in dangerous and most trying times, it deeply affected me.

It was in August, a year ago, that I reached an agreement with Jim Deegan, my Oblate provincial, to bring my work in El Salvador to a gradual close. We did what we could within the community to make my leaving as easy as possible. We also worked to see that the pastoral ministry would continue without dependence upon the priest or upon others who lived outside the community.

Sometime after Christmas of 1991 it struck me that I must begin preparing physically and mentally for my departure in the summer. At a given moment, the thought occurred to me, "why not bike to the U.S.?"

I knew that I didn't wish to walk out of the field with my cuma (hand-sickle) one day and be stepping off the plane in the states the next--too much shock to my system, even though I usually return to the U.S. from El Salvador by bus. This time however, something inside told me to carry some memory of my people with me in a more profound and meaningful way.

I imagined that riding a bike across the roads of El Salvador, Guatemala, and Mexico would exact, for sure, some sweat and tears. However, I had no idea if such an adventure were physically possible for me, since I had little idea of the details involved.

I knew only that the idea to bike sprang up out of nowhere, stayed, and slowly I dealt with it as the early months of the new year unfolded.

Almost immediately after conceiving the idea to bike, my search for a bicycle began. I had heard of an appropriate technology cooperative in San Salvador that assembled and sold bikes as a way to encourage people to keep the environment clean.

I didn't hesitate long in purchasing the Co-op's fine mountain bike and taking it to our volunteer's house in the capital. Little by little on my trips to the city, I familiarized myself with this newly acquired vehicle.

The inner urge to `bike it' didn't leave me as April, May and June passed quickly by. We were into the thick of the planting season in Nuevo Gualcho and there wasn't much time to think or fret about my leaving. Also, the time of sowing corn is the peak time of year, when the heart and soul of the campesino man, womyn, and child comes alive.

Though it is an intense, grueling time of work, it is also the time when family, neighbor and community are most one. With the rising of the sun till its going down, a rhythm is set in motion, each person playing out his or her distinctive role. A spirit of joy is felt in the air.

There will be heartaches when the rains fail and tensions when the first guzanos or earth worms are seen. Yet, the campesino and campesina continue to do what needs to be done, never once turning to look behind.

Days of parting came and went, but deep and heartfelt sentiments lingered on long after the departing liturgies of joy and resurrection were shared.

I had gradually gathered together the basic necessities for my bike trip: water jug, extra tire and tube, tire patches, pump and other tools. On Tuesday, July 21st at 5:30 a.m. I went out the front door of our volunteer house, feeling a bit lonely, anxious, and terribly excited all in one -- what was out there facing me? Am I totally crazy? A friend had cautioned: "Lorenzo, there are two things to fear--those who are going to want to steal that nice new bike and others who will beat you up in order to get your passport.” So what's new?

I had pondered over and over my motives for this bike journey. I felt I needed to move away from my friends in Nuevo Gualcho in a very special and personal manner. And so the bike ride. And so the setting out in darkness, after a fashion, going to the road beneath the heat of the sun. A way--though small--to remember my friends in the fields as they too, are sweating, aching, and tired. As with their lives, this journey demanded that I keep pedaling if I were to finish what I had set out to do. Si Dios quiere (If God so wishes).

From that first experience as I plunged down and around that beautiful hillside leading from the capital of San Salvador to the coastal city of La Libertad, 23 kilometers away. From that first day's experience to the last day of my journey, when I would look up and see the greeting: Bienvenidos a Matamoros, la ciudad del cambio (Greetings to Matamoros, the city of change). I reached the US-Mexican border city, 3 1/2 weeks after my date of departure from San Salvador.

Within that span of weeks, I would know and experience my God and the people of the Nuevo Gualcho as never before. I was grateful--though my seat, hands and body in general ached--that I had endured. During the first few days, symptoms of the "piles" occurred, followed by a raw sore throat, and muscles screaming from exhaustion.

Yet, it is the way of life for the campesino and campesina to be plagued continually with sore and tired bones, chills, colds, and fevers which often lead to sudden death of family members, both young and old.

I saw myself privileged to share a relational identity between the living aspects of my bike venture and the daily life of my friends in Nuevo Gualcho. I had hoped that the efforts endured on this bike trip be as a parting prayer for my friends, for all they had shared and given me.

But I would be painting a false picture if I focused only on the difficult elements of my bike trip or the sweat and tears of the campesinos.

There is a mystique, as they say. that is to be discovered, that makes all journeys passable--that hidden force enabling my Salvadoran friends to survive those 12 war-torn years in which sons and daughters, mothers and fathers were tortured and killed and yet today they are alive, joyful and more hope-filled than ever before.

I do not pretend to be able to explain or put this phenomenon into words. I just know a little clearer now, from this experience on the bike, that things happen when we step on to that road of gigantic trucks, inhumane, narrow, bumpy and cursable holes; that if done in faith, the impassable can be made passable, the impossible, possible. We as wayfarers are called to witness to those wonders along the way (Amen! Alleluia--Ha).

There was that long down hill "up" for me that very first day, that affirmed my being on my way.

My bike got tossed about and broken up on the top of a rickety bus for a short span of bad roads the second day. The event sank my spirits, yet literally, with a little adhesive tape and a shoe string, my "busted-up" back fender held together the remaining three weeks of the trip.

I know these small isolated things may well be just that--small isolated things, but when one is out in the desert, and it's hot and dry and bones are aching, small things can seem like giant miraculous things.

One day in particular, at the start of the 3rd week, I felt I had had it. I had to stop pedaling several times because of the heat. At one point, after discovering a concrete slab in the middle of nowhere, I stretched out on my back to let the shade revive me. Some very greasy eggs eaten that morning were grumbling in my stomach and I soon had to find a place to relieve myself. That, along with the rest in the shade, gave me restored energy to continue on.

In the community of Nuevo Gualcho, the sowing and harvest seasons are like new blood to the veins. But on May 10th of each year, Mother's day is celebrated in El Salvador. The group called the Madres or Mothers of the disappeared plan a liturgy--a celebration commemorating the sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers who have disappeared or lost their lives in the war.

Such an occasion fuels the emotions with sorrow. Yet, at the same time, stronger bonds of trust and unity are established within the community. And as the litany recalling the names of family members lost in the war begins, all respond "Presente!": Maria Elizabeth, PRESENTE!...Carlos Palacio, PRESENTE!... Maria Elena, PRESENTE!... a great surge of energy rises and fills the hearts of those present. For those having fallen are truly resurrected among us and their Spirit--the force needed to carry on.

Skipping ahead now, to the second to last day of the journey. I had actually come this far, i.e., 140 kilometers from the border cities of Matamoros, Mexico and Brownsville, Texas, USA. I had come to a small town, San Fernando, Mexico, and had spent the night in an inexpensive hospedaje or motel. The following morning I was on the road by 6 a.m. speeding down a hill on the outskirts of this town. Suddenly, I felt and heard something snap. It was my bike chain. My heart sank as I came to a halt.

I looked down and saw the links to the chain scattered on the street and a sprocket terribly bent and in irreparable condition. Picking up the pieces from the road, I headed up the hill to a nearby gas station.

Gas attendants and small boys making money washing car windows were sympathetic and asked all about my trip. They told me, however, there was nowhere in town to have my bike repaired.

I stood there dumbfounded. One minute feeling exhilarated, realizing I had all but completed my trip to the US, and now facing the reality: I wasn't to finish--on my bike--as the gradual buildup of expectation had promised.

Giving thanks that it wasn't my body, broken and splattered on the highway, I began humbly asking motorists if they could take me and my bike those remaining miles to the U.S. border.

After an hour of doing this, without any luck, I decided to walk to the center of town in hopes of boarding a bus for Matamoros.

Walking despondently down the highway in the direction of the bus terminal, I looked up to notice a small storefront where two or three bicycles stood beside the entrance way. As I drew nearer, I saw a young man standing in the doorway. "Have a problem?" he asked, even though the answer was obvious. "Bring your bike inside, perhaps we can help you out." He examined the broken chain and damaged sprocket and said, "Give me about 20 minutes and you'll be back on the road again."

Unbelievable! As I stood watching this man replacing the broken parts with new ones, I realized that these entire 3 1/2 weeks had been filled with similar `unbelievable' incidents. I had prayed only this morning on this vigil of the feast of the Assumption of our Lady, that I might cross the border tomorrow, on this grand feast day. The feast on which Oblates everywhere gather to give thanks for their blessings and to renew together our commitment to serve the oppressed and marginalized the world over.

You cannot imagine how overjoyed I felt as I set out from this small bike shop, headed once again toward the Mexican-U.S. border. At about 4 p.m., though, I got caught in a downpour. Looking about, I spotted what appeared to be an abandoned farm house. I quickly made a beeline for it. The door was open and the place perfect to keep out of the rain. Later when the rain let up I spoke to the owners who lived on the same property, and they were glad that I spent the night in their vacant house.

So, bright and early Saturday morning, the 15th of August and the feast of Mary, I was off and running (riding). It was still raining a bit, yet nothing was going to deter me this day. At 2 p.m., as I was riding along, I happened to look up and caught a glimpse of the sign: "Welcome to Matamoros, the city of change.”

As I sit here now two weeks later in my mom's apartment, near St. Louis, Missouri, those words of greeting on that sign in Matamoros take on added meaning.

Whenever we feel something deep inside, and this feeling doesn't go away, but keeps bugging us until we act upon it; the result, we can bet, will be change--an experience which deepens our vision of, and faith in, life itself.

Six years ago I set out for El Salvador, not knowing what lay ahead. Though perhaps the hardest years of my life, they were, by far, the richest.

I am just back in the U.S. now a little less than a month. I have the okay to spend some time off as a sort of sabbatical period. At the end of October, I've decided to enter a hermitage-like setting where silence, reflection, prayer and study will allow me to evaluate my past 29 years since ordination and to determine to some degree, my future years.

You will all be a part of this quiet and prayerful time, as you have been so much a part of my past. Let us keep one another close in prayer and love.

Hasta luego!

Lorenzo.