In the city of San Felipe, on the island of Fogo, I never saw a Catholic priest. I heard their voices transmitted via radio waves every Saturday night. The only people who had radios were the people who owned the bars---mass coming out of a bar, great. So I knew the Catholic priests were on the island. What I did see, occasionally, was the work of the matriarchs of the Catholic parish. Usually women in their 50's and 60's, usually women of some means, usually educated, always respected. They rarely let us in their homes, but I saw their faith and their work.
Once I saw one of these women walk the road where we were. The children clamored around her and she smiled down at them. I was close enough to hear her interaction with one of the children there. He was five or six, and squirrely. He obviously wanted to be near her, but wasn't paying rapt attention. She got his attention and said to him, "Recebe bencao." Receive the blessing. He raised his chin and she touched his head. It was holy, that touch. I didn't understand the culture behind it, but I understood the meaning. Receive the blessing.
When women meet Danielle, like the lovely chaplain at Lucille Packard's Children's Hospital, or the wonderful woman who brought me dinner from her daughter (my friend) two nights ago, so often, in parting, they reach out to touch her. They put a hand on her little chest and say, "Blessings. Blessings to you."
Yes, Danielle, receive the blessing.
So often on this road that won't end in the foreseeable future and which has a blurry past, I have had people tell me that they are praying for my little lady. People I know well. People I don't know well. People who love my parents. People who have only seen me once. Or twice. Or every day. They pray.
My daughter, receive the blessings.
The only time I've snagged on the word "blessing" on this journey is when people hear of what we're going through and they say, in sincere compassion, "We were just so blessed to have healthy children. I can't imagine what this is like for you," and "It's a blessing my child never had to go though this." And it is a blessing to have healthy children. A blessing for us that our two boys just came home . . . no surgery . . . no IV's . . . no agony.
But what I want to say, and eventually will find the words to tell these blessed people is that God has blessed us with Danielle. She is a blessing, come how she did. I'm not at the point yet where I think this experience is a blessing. I may never get there. What I want to tell them is that it is, indeed, a blessing to have Gerber baby born to you. But it also a blessing to have a child who comes to you who needs something more.
When I remember this, the doubt and fear that has swirled so fiercely, parts for a moment. And that is when I feel closest to God. For a moment there is quiet and peace. For a moment, I'm not afraid. And for a moment, I feel Father say to me: "Deborah, my daughter, receive this blessing."
Receive the blessing.
Receive the blessing.
Receive the blessing.
