It was a long, hard way
that she walked, the mother of Ronel.
And like the long, hard
walk of Christ, it started with a very bad verdict.
Ronel, at 8 years old,
had cancer of his kidney.
Marise was tormented,
and pondered in her heart what this might mean for her little
son.
So began her way of the
cross.
Weeping came easy now,
for this strong and weathered woman.
Like dewfall on her
cheeks, and river mist shrouding her eyes.
Marise would become
known for this sorrowful look.
Jeremy is very far from
Port au Prince, by water or by land
(travel by air is not a
choice for poor people).
Mother and Son travelled
the long road, with other poor women who also hoped that Port au Prince might
bring some kind of relief from their woes.
It was a rough trip for
Ronel, like being on a very bad road when your whole body aches with the flu.
Christ was buffeted and stricken. Ronel was not without his literal hard
knocks. Hundreds of eyes gawked at his gaunt and pale smile .
The journey ended, thank
God, by an encounter with our team of good Samaritans at St Damien Hospital.
Help took a rough form.
As Christ on the Cross was offered a sponge soaked in gall to quench his thirst,
before long the bitter gall of chemotherapy became a staple for Ronel.
As Christ’s side was
pierced by the sword, Ronel’s side was lanced by the surgeons spear, for the
removal of the tumor.
As Christ anguished for
many hours in the heat of the day, Ronel was blasted with the wild energy of
radiation to burn the cancer away.
“Thank you for helping
my son,” said the bewildered Marise.
God be praised, Ronel
seemed better.
And so, back to Jeremy
went the world’s newest Lazarus.
Long, lazy days in the
family “lakou” at Jeremy.
New memories of sunny
days and balmy breezes, of grandma working hard in the fields, looking often to
see if her precious young treasure was alright, as he lounged on a hammock, held
up by two coconut trees, which shaded him and gave him drink.
As Marise started to
recuperate her widows mite, to renew herself with the energy of her friends,
both lost during her difficult months away from the marketplace in the face of
tragic illness.
The sun rose and the sun
set in Jeremy
Ronel studied and
worked,
Ronel laughed and
played.
Ronel began to grow
tired,
Ronel started to become
pale.
Marise could not NOT
notice,
Back to Port au Prince,
guided by hope.
Battered again in
crammed busses, walking through the hospital gates to the same good Samaritans,
But this time their jaws
dropped and their hearts tightened.
It was too late. Very
sadly, Ronel was beyond help and was going to die.
This is when I met
Ronel. He was in agony. His eyes were like deep lakes, trying to drink in
understanding. His body was skeletal, his belly bloated. Marise held him in her
arms, and the weight of his body on hers, and the weight of his illness on her
heart were very obvious. She was the sorrowful mother. “Blessed is the womb that
bore you and the breasts that nourished you!”
Heaven and earth were
locked in an embrace, under the names of love and sorrow, under the names of
Marise and Ronel. This was holy ground. Fools need not tread
here.
The wish was to return
to Jeremy. Marise was telling Ronel they would go back to the sunshine, to the
cool breezes, to grandma and the shade of her trees. She pulled me aside to say
that grandma’s hammock was the best place for Ronel to die, though she
appreciated what we had done. She sobbed as she explained that if she went to
Jeremy now she could start to save for a new shirt for Ronel’s burial, for a
coffin to be made, for a grave to be dug.
I packed them some pain
medicine. I packed some food and drink, I gave money for the tickets and to help
later with the funeral. And they left after we had a simple prayer together.
Marise had the idea, I
discovered later, to be at Portail Leogane late at night, and be first in line
for the morning bus. She would sleep in line, on the ground, holding her place,
holding Ronel, so as to be sure of a seat on the first bus.
And so she did. She sat
on the ground, against a tire, cradled her son, and fell
asleep.
Marise slept lightly,
but deep enough to dream. She dreamt she was flying a kite, in the calm blue sky
with light winds. Birds were singing, children were laughing, an old, wizened
women looking on smiled her approval and enjoyment of the
scene.
The kite soared, and
out-powered the string.
The string broke, and
the kite was lifted by the spirit-wind higher and higher,
And became lost to her
eyes in the strength of the brilliant light of the sun.
Marise woke up. Two
hours to go until dawn.
Ronel was dead in her
arms.
Stabat mater dolorosa,
juxta crucem lacrimosa, dum pendabat filium.
Two hours to wait. Two
hours to grieve, to ponder, to pray.
To grieve on public
display in the streets.
Public transport would
start up before sunrise, but would not accept a corpse.
Even if you paid two
seats.
Marise made her way to
us, for a third time since she began her way of the cross in Jeremy, nearly two
years before. She arrived on foot, carrying the lifeless Ronel in her arms.
I was preparing for the
morning mass as she walked into the chapel, and in wailing and grief, gave me
her precious son, for the mass of the Resurrection, and burial.
HIS WAY was to walk our
way.
He was born in a manger,
on a bale of hay,
Noticed only by those
who loved him
And by those others whom
the Holy Word describes as wise,
Who understood the
language of a rogue star.
HIS WAY was to walk our
way,
And brighten it by the
heroic witness and sacrifice,
Of mothers and of
strangers,
And to quicken the way
with many small resurrections
HIS WAY was to surrender
to the tragedy he could not control
to conquer it, and
ransom its energy, transforming its terror into healing,
HIS WAY was to be buried
in a borrowed grave,
and to rise again
quietly and unannounced,
leaving only the sign of
the folded shroud that had covered his face….
…and when needed, for
people like Marise,
the sign of the soaring
kite with the broken string.
RESURREXIT SICUT DIXIT,
ALLELUIA!
He has risen as he
promised. God be praised.
Happy Easter to you,
with shared faith!
And may God bless and
reward you,
for all the Ronels and
Marises who come to our doorstep
who have bee helped by
your generosity.
