Tonight I lit a candle....

My abuela Carmen used to tell me about the shining stars in the night sky of her mountain village of Potes, the place where she was born in 1903.

“never again will I see brighter stars than the ones I used to see in my sky as a child in Espana” she would say to me in her room during those evenings when she was preparing to say her evening prayers. The tone she used in her voice would make me realize that the image she was reliving was deeply missed and a cherished one that she wanted to pass on to me.

I tried hard to imagine what that might have been like; that image she was describing suspended so concretely in her minds eye. Her childhood’s starry nights could not have been any brighter or any closer to the heavens as hers. She wanted to make sure I understood that.

My grandmother and I grew up in a contrasting time and place. What was consistent between us was our dedication to educate and raise morally good children, try hard to live a good life and our desire to worship and love God.

I was born well into the 20th century in a tropical and then progressive and cosmopolitan city, just 23 degrees north of the equator. At the time of my birth, Havana had seen centuries of colonialism by the Spanish, then Cuba became independent, followed by a rapid progress into the 20th century; its citizens had enjoyed a most progressive place up until the time I came to be. It had been a country where steam engines debuted in the island at about the same time they did in the U.S., in the mid 20th century, color TV debuted first in the island before it did in the states, fashion trends catered to the Parisian industry, doctors flocked to further their specialties in modern labs, bright university professors lectured in impressively old neo-classical buildings and the construction industry had begun to re-surge with an innovative style of buildings that became known as the International style.

My abuela Carmen had immigrated to this island in her teens, following her entrepreneurial older brother, Tio Pepe. This is how I ended up being born of her son’s wife, in Cuba and not in Spain.

All this good progress brought artificial light to our surroundings, available at all times, to even the most remote areas. It is no wonder abuela Carmen was never to see “such clear and bright stars” in the same way again. I rarely look or think of the night sky and become inspired the way she obviously did.

My abuela’s family stone home still sits next to a running stream, today there is electricity, but there was none when she lived there. She depended on the moon and stars for light and for direction at night. For her the night sky beckoned the seasons, the passage of time, and was a constant source of awe and wonder.

Why do I write about this? Because tonight I lit my advent candle and reflected on its’ meaning.  It came to me that such a lonely flame on my dining table has lost its significance with my day to day life. Sure, it’s pretty, but it has competition! It is not the only source of light in my home. We don’t depend on a flame like my grandmother might have in her home. For her, a flame cooked her families’ meals, warmed their beds, sanitized their clothes, and provided them security during the darkened moments of the year. They had to work to keep the flame going.

I think my abuela may have had a clearer notion of what lighting a candle really stands for. She was more in touch with the mystery and struggle of life than I am.

As I helped my son light the match in order to light our candle, for an instant, I found myself sitting on her bed after dinner time like old times, abuela already settled into squeaky aluminum rocking chair, black rosary beads in her hand. She was reminding me again of the closeness and brightness of those stars in the night sky. She took me back to her childhood once again, in my mind, I pictured her old rustic Spanish tiled house tucked away high in the mountains enveloped by a very starry bright night. I became thankful of all the blessings that God had bestowed on my abuela and through her, onto us. Tonight I prayed that I would be as in touch with God, with the stars, and the reverence and the mystery of life as she was. She wanted to pass this onto me. Tonight I want to pass this onto my child. This is what this candle stands for tonight.

To Be-Long



To Be.
True to my Self
At peace with my Heart
I Bless my struggle

A nod.
 To my limits
Embrace past failures
I Absorb and Become

I am.
True to my Past
Absorb the Now
I am healed, I be-long

We are such creatures of habit, for some of us, change threatens our sense of who we are.  As we grow, we must reflect, and we should have a point of reference to reflect from. My point of reference allows me the freedom to be who I am called to be.  My point of reference is Someone; He is my creator.  He has instilled in me a sense of longing to be loved by Him, he has placed in my heart a knowing that I am being called by Him. I realize that I long to love that Someone. His love heals and transforms who I am. Although I may not be worthy of such love, I yearn for such love. When I freely respond to that longing I know that I belong with Him.
I wrote this poem as I reflected on this sense of longing.

Photo by Zac Cayon 11-22-11

A Cuban Thanksgiving Memory

My earliest memory with Thanksgiving was getting together at my Tia Berta’s and Tio Alfredo’s house in Indianapolis with all my United States born cousins.  My Melendez cousins: Ronnie, Debbie, Karen, Kathy, Stevie, Bobby, Roger, Twyla, Nicky, Alicia, were mostly all blonde haired, blue eyed, and very much radiated the confidence of kids who knew what tribe they identify with.  I, newly arrived to this county, was a novelty to them and I was trying to identify myself with them, but I was different in many ways. I was born in a country that was repressed, I had learned early on to live in fear and mistrust of neighbor, I  didn’t know English, and I had not become yet too comfortable with the North American tradition of eating Turkey and stuffing and cranberry jelly.  My earliest memories of Thanksgiving are not about the food we shared though, it was the fun we had in getting together in my Tio’s basement around a very long make shift table and listening to our family stories being told by the adults. It was in those celebrations that I learned to figure out where I came from and who I was.

Having entered this country in December of 1966 after being “expatriated” by Cuba, my family were able to rely on my Tio's who had already settled here years prior.  We came with only the clothes we were wearing.  We were not allowed to take any personal belongings with us, it all belonged to Cuba.  My five year old mind was looking forward to seeing snow. I was not disappointed because as we got off our small plane at the Indianapolis airstrip, not only did I see snow, I smelled snow.  Ok, I know that sounds odd, but I so remember the crisp, cold, minty, smell of snowy air.  It hit my olfactory senses and registered in my mind, that to this day, that smell brings me back to that hour I landed in a new northern landscape that would become my home for the next 6 years of my life.  For me that distinct sweet aroma is how I would describe what freedom smells like; yes, freedom has a fragrance!

Looking back, I see how privileged I was to be taken in generously by our family and all my cousins. We were needy, but never hungry, never alone, never without a gathering to celebrate an occasion. My parents worked more than one job each; having had a profession in Cuba they had to turn to factory jobs here.  We were too proud to take handouts from the government, even though we probably qualified, and I remember my parents always sharing what we had with others who had just immigrated too, and not just from Cuba.  The first house my parents purchased was small but we had the largest parties!  Cubans are like that, we celebrate any small occasion. In fact, we will make up occasions just to get ready to celebrate an official occasion. For example, in December, we spend the entire month getting ready for Christmas Eve.   The day we shop for our food is an occasion to celebrate, the day we marinate the pork is a party, the day we decorate our tree is a bash, and there are usually friends or family in town, so reunion revelry is usually in the works. Then we celebrate Christmas Day, mom usually bakes a ham,  and then we have the next few weeks of get togethers and visiting friends houses until we get to Epiphany in January, which in the Cuban tradition, is when we celebrate "Three Kings Day".  So for us, the entire month of December into January was one big festival with my family and friends sharing time and meals together. How blessed was I as a kid? 

This same experience is repeated at Thanksgiving.  Just taking the turkey out of the freezer can be an occasion. We have a “marinate the turkey” night usually the night before Thanksgiving; my family traditionally bakes bread also (thanks to the electric Bread maker, no need to knead anymore) and we always love waking up on Thanksgiving morning to the smell of freshly baked bread.  After breakfast, we wrap up the bread loaves, place them in a basket, insert a few wine bottles we plan to share at our family dinner and take it with us to Mass that morning.  There is no better way to celebrate than being a part of a wider more diverse community, all who gather together to have their bread and wine blessed, so that we can share those blessings in our homes later.  I now realize that that is what makes Thanksgiving more than just about the food we will eat, it is about the gathering experiences and those traditions that bind us.  At Mass, we gather around our Lord’s Table and share a Eucharistic Meal, later that day we gather around our own family table and share again with those who are one with us. 
"Eucharist", a Greek word that means Thanksgiving; this is what it means to be Catholic and a Cuban living in this country- to be a thankful people, to be a celebratory people and though many and dispersed throughout the world, we are all One in the Lord!  Thanks to my parent's traditions and Catholic faith, our Cuban culture melded with the North American culture beautifully. I have not lost my Cuban culture, but it has been transformed. I know who I am today, because of my traditions; the traditions of my family and of my faith have shaped me.  Now 40 some years later, I can look back and see that what I was taught  in those gatherings through the years was to be generous, to be humble, to be accepting and welcomng, to be proud of our stories and to always take advantage of those invaluable moments when as a family we can give thanks for one another!