Here in Xenacoj, Guatemala the greeting on the street is “Adios!” instead of “Hola!” We may want to say Hola as to greet a passing stranger, but some things don’t directly translate. If I want to say hello, I must literally say goodbye. This blog is about a very sad goodbye and something of a hello.
On Thursday a 12 year old girl died. The funeral was yesterday. We walked with German, our Guatemalan contact here in Xenacoj, first to get his brother and then to find the service. We knew we were in the right place because people were lined up all along the street.
When we entered the small church where the service was being held the seven of us gringo girls just stood in the back. The family was up on the stage and were being prayed over by two men with microphones. The woman in front of us was crying while her baby nursed. A song was sung and then the girl’s mother talked about her daughter. She spoke about how her daughter wanted them to continue on, but she spoke in such a way as though her daughter had known she was going to die. Germain said the girl was sick on Monday but never treated at a hospital, and when a kid at school pushed her on Thursday she was weak and fell down and died. My brain longs for the details but I will likely never know exactly what happened.
The family stepped down from the stage to stand weeping in front of the casket and many people waited to embrace them. Although we’d never met any of these people, we got in line too. All I could think of as we waited for what seemed like an eternity was the conversation we had at breakfast about raising the dead by the power of the Holy Spirit in us. We’ve seen God blow many of our expectations out of the water this week, including emotional breakthroughs in a taciturn culture and what I believe was a physical healing of pain. As we waited in line I truly believed God was about to raise this girl from the dead. When the music would pause between songs the wails of the family could be distinguished. It wasn’t that they were trying to be loud for the sake of it. Their grief simply could not be contained. Last month I read a quote from Relevant magazine: “I think it’s possible we cry tears of grief as a way of washing out debris from around our souls.” All I wanted to do was lay my hands on the casket and see her dancing with her family.
When my time came at the front of the line I held each member of the family without hesitation. Even us, strangers and foreigners, were clung to and wept upon. I was reminded of the girls’ home last month in Honduras when I held that weeping girl whose story I didn’t know. I asked God to let me carry some of this family’s grief the way I had that girl in Honduras. I glanced into the open casket and was startled to see dried blood on the tiny girl’s face as though it had dripped from her nose. Her hands were folded on her chest. I’ll never forget the color of her skin.
We began praying that she would be raised. In my mind I saw it happening. Was that a breath? A movement? No.
I held on to hope until the moment Amanda and Kapri walked away. Only then did I realize that I wasn’t going to witness this miracle today. We prayed together in the back of the church and my chest grew suddenly heavy, my head hurt and my body felt hot. I had to sit down several times as they carried the casket out into the street. We followed it down the road all the way to the school where the girl had attended. The schoolyard was filled with kids, many crying. It felt so wrong to see small faces filled with grief. Sitting on the road outside with our backs to the wall we waited out the ceremony in the school. We headed home just as the procession moved on to the cemetery.
Later in the day I noticed that I looked at the kids around me a little differently. I want to hug them a little tighter even if I don’t know them. I want to cherish them because in a moment they could be gone. I don’t want to take such blessings for granted.
Was I disappointed, you may wonder, that I said goodbye to a girl I expected to say hello to? Maybe a little. But maybe the miracle today was that I prayed for resurrection from dead. The miracle was that I really believed God could use me to breathe life back into that girl. I’m not disappointed today isn’t the last word of the story. Today feels like the beginning of the rest of my life walking in a stronger faith and praying for the miraculous every time I get the chance. Praise God that today I believed.
