The two of them, along with Noé (Clemente's brother and Kevin's uncle), were some of the first kids I ever met here. Clemente was already in his twenties, working and supporting the family, but Kevin was just a boy then.
I wrote the following, anticipating that I would be expected to say something at the funeral, but now I realize it was probably for myself. And maybe for you.
Pray for Noé, who is now feeling quite alone.
-Brady
Genesis 1:26
Clemente was the first person in this country who ever invited me into his home. It was raining one night, and Noé and I were getting wet, so he invited me in. He was sick and he had been sick for some time; he had lost a great deal of weight and was not eating because he had little to eat. Noé and I stood while Clemente sat down on his bed. Noé reminded me just a minute ago that we all ate some sweetbread together.
Clemente liked to talk, if the situation was right. Certain women and girls, whose presence might cause embarassment, and certain boys and men, who would not understand his sense of humor or logic, would never be entrusted with his flowing conversation, although even with them he would extend the usual courtesies. But when the time was right, and when certain people were around (and certain others gone), Clemente would hold court. He loved a good conversation. He loved riddles - telling them more than solving them - and he loved a joke. He had a certain way of delivering a punch line (if telling a joke), or an answer (if revealing a riddle), or a serious thought (if engaged in deep discussion): he would repeat himself three or four times, and then make a little noise, as if he were agreeing with himself. He would ask me, for instance, "Chepe, what's invisible, spherical, and smells like carrots?" It never mattered that he had told me the answer many years ago, and that I repeated it to him every time since. "A rabbit fart,” he would say, pausing for effect. “A rabbit fart!" Another pause, a look into my face, to make sure I got it and was laughing (which I always was; I happen to like that one even though I’ve heard it so many times). Then one more, closing his eyes and bobbing his head in the affirmative: "A rabbit fart. Hmmm."
He was generous with what little he had - he once showed me how to build and weld a steel door, complete with lock and latch, just because he knew I thought it was interesting. He told me stories about himself that were not flattering, stories that he was ashamed of. I know he told them because he wanted to share them with someone. He wanted to be known, and he wanted to be loved.
-
Kevin liked a joke, too – clean, dirty, funny or not. He loved to make us – his family, friends, and even perfect strangers – laugh. Some of you know that groups of foreigners come down to work in the community, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that at least one person in every group that ever worked with Kevin sooner or later called or wrote to ask, “How’s Kevin? He was so much fun! We loved being with him!”
And that was Kevin. He loved to be with people, to come crashing into their lives somehow, with hard work, or a joke, or a smile.
I used to have a habit of walking around the park. My friend Nathan and I developed this custom years ago, when we were trying to get to know the community and the kids who lived in it. We would walk around and introduce ourselves to anybody who looked like they might not beat us up (or worse), and that's how we met Kevin, Clemente, Noé, and others. I kept up the habit for years, even when there didn't seem to be much reason for it.
One morning I went walking in the park, over by the basketball courts they built a couple of years ago. This was about a year ago, after Kevin had started to change into a man, at least in his own mind. In those days, I suppose we had all begun to be very concerned for him. We'd noticed that he was trying to carry a little more than he was able to handle. He was becoming a little harder. He was less and less like a boy, and more and more like a kid, and like all kids, he was thinking he knew everything and didn't need anybody.
And that day, I was walking right over there by the basketball court, looking for who or what I don't know, and I saw something amazing. It was the middle of the morning, and there were eight or ten older women doing layup drills! Right there in our park! They were all in their unfashionable sweats, and in various states of fitness and basketball ability, but all very earnest and serious about their practice. And there, practicing with them, not as a coach but as just another player, was Kevin.
As they ended their warmups and started playing a game, I found a place where I could sit and watch but where I wouldn't be too obvious.
I don't think it would have mattered if they had seen me. The old women played with an abandon and a joyful intensity. They were clearly having such a good time that they could not have been concerned with how they looked or what anyone thought of them. And so it was, I think, with Kevin. He wasn’t thinking about his image, his reputation, his supposed passage into manhood. He just played hard, had a good time, and enjoyed the company of these women, who were obviously enjoying his. All of them were older than Maritza, and some of them were older than Doña Rosa! [Maritza is Kevin’s mother; Doña Rosa, his grandmother. –BG]
I want to say two things here. One, that Kevin and Clemente were marked by God. They bore his fingerprint. As the scriptures say, they were created in the image of God. I celebrate this. We celebrate it. Thank God that he gave us all so many years with them both! They were his unique creations, and he loved them infinitely. This is worth thinking about, and it is worth our lasting gratitude.
The other thing is this. It was in their moments of what most of us would call weakness that the two of them lived most deeply. When Clemente told me all those stories of all those things he was so ashamed of, he showed me who he really was. He abandoned the coldness and the silence he used so often to protect himself. And what was the result? I loved him all the more, of course! In other words, he was sometimes desperate, and sometimes felt lost. He did, and I do, and you do! But it’s in the recognition of our lostness that we might find the beginnings of our long hoped-for foundness!
When Kevin was a little less macho and a little more like a boy, in the sense that he really wanted to be present with me (or with you, or with total strangers), it was then – in his weakness and in his need to be loved that he came closest to who he really was, and who he wanted to be. In the moments when he was most himself – like with those women that day, and with so many of us here at other times over the past 18 years – he was most present with the people around him. He was beautiful then, and he was most alive.
And I invite you to live that way today. People are going to say to you, “Be strong!” And I understand what we mean when we say that to each other. But you’ll please excuse me when I say I don’t agree. Noé, Maritza: Don’t be strong just yet. Friends of Kevin, friends of Clemente, all of us who are trying to get used to this empty space next to us, where Kevin and Clemente used to be: instead of pretending to live, let us all live. Let us recognize our need for God. Let us recognize our weakness. Let us turn toward it, instead of running from it. It will be in that moment and not until then that we may begin to experience the perfect love of the living God, who turns tears into songs of joy.
“Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy.
He who goes out weeping, carrying seed to sow,
will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with him.”
Psalm 126
1 comment:
I have been reading and praying for you guys and will continue. Love you guys and tell Cindy hi.
Post a Comment