Loss and New Life

"The storm is coming but I don't mind ...
All that I know is I'm breathing
All we can do is keep breathing
Now."
- Keep Breathing, by Ingrid Michaelson


All day long, it rained on and off. Before leaving, I slipped into black stockings beneath my turquoise-blue sheath dress, layering it with the long pink coat I've owned for over a decade. I was, perhaps, overdressed, yet when in doubt I often overdress, I think. Like some sort of defense mechanism; putting on my armor in wordless assurance of my belonging.


We would turn out to be a group of twenty-five in all, arriving at the property at different times, all there for "Ana", who was to be baptized. As usual, I felt protective of Ana. I had met her three years ago when she came to Casa Adalia, escaping a horrible situation. Since that time, I had woken up in the middle of the night to pray with her when she felt a dark presence in her room, and had twice caught her when she fainted. Since graduating high school, she no longer lived at Casa Adalia, but when I heard the news that she was to be baptized, I called and asked to go. It was a simple oversight that I wasn't invited right away, yet even so I would normally have felt wrong about pointedly asking to be included, except perhaps that the day in question was also the day of a funeral. It had been a week of hearing the news from afar: how the eighteen-year-old daughter of friends back home had died in her sleep. How, because of her apparent health, the local Sheriff had labeled the case as suspicious while thoughtlessly, foolishly tweeting just that. How all the local news stations had run with that headline - 'Suspicious Death' - while the family mourned. The family whose home I had been to a number of times, warmly welcomed to share about missions with their Bible study group even when my moving to Ecuador was nearly a year away.

Finally, the autopsy came back and the news stations ran a laughably brief retraction about how the death was in fact due to a pre-exisiting yet previously unknown medical condition. The funeral was set to Friday, and while friends back home organized food and meals and gave hugs and condolences, I made a black band and wrapped it around my wrist. I've always loved the British tradition, seen in old films, of wearing a black arm band to very simply signify when in mourning. My fingers played across the black band, thinking of my grandmother's funeral in October, the heart-wrenching funeral of an acquaintance's two-month-old baby in December, and now this one in January. So much loss, so much grief. Instinctively, my shoulders turned inward, my body cocooning itself protectively around my heart.

All morning I worked at Casa Gabriel and Casa Adalia, before meeting the group heading out to the baptism. A friend of Ana's had offered the vacation home of her brother-in-law as a nice space outside the city. We caravanned in three cars, arriving at a tall, slim home surrounded by trees and flowering hedges. The place had an odd mixture of beauty and neglect; the sink piled high with dishes, the lovely view from the circular windows, a bedroom strewn with mattresses, the manicured garden and the unfinished terrace. Even so, there was an overall quality of calm to the place. I wandered, camera around my neck, collecting photos.

For the baptism, a cement pond, oddly narrow and deep, was filled with water. Because of the nippy air, two huge pots of water were boiled on the stove and added at the last minute. White plastic chairs were set up in the yard and a few people began to play worship songs in Spanish as Ana emerged from the house, a fuzzy blanket wrapped tightly around her. She was shaking a little, more, I think, from nerves than the cold.

Scripture was read and prayed over her. Ana dropped the blanket to reveal a while robe worn over shorts and a t-shirt. It looked like a choir robe, likely some traditional baptism attire which I'm not familiar with. My camera clicking quietly in the background, Ana stepped into the pond before she was dunked; back and under and up. Everyone cheered. Helped out of the pond, Ana clutched the fuzzy blanket to her once more before running up the steps to the house. Everyone else had begun to sing a final song, but after a minute I turned and pursued her indoors. Wet footprints marked a trail across the tile floor straight to the bathroom, where the shower was running. She had music turned up loud, yet even so, I could hear her sobbing.

I hoped that they were good tears; even so, I sunk onto the nearby steps leading upstairs, and waited. "She shouldn't have to come out and be alone," I thought. As the music ended, everyone began to bustle about getting a barbecue dinner ready, hurrying inside to fetch the meat and sides to take to the outdoor grill and patio. When the shower shut off I knocked gently, handing Ana a towel and telling her I was there if she needed anything. Then sitting down to continue to wait.

It was just Ana and I in the house. Everyone else was outside near the grill. I thought about how if nothing else, perhaps I was there that day to make sure she didn't open that bathroom door after an emotional event only to find no one there. To walk with her outside and join the crowd (who would surely look at her expectantly and shower her with questions, exclamations, and hugs) a little easier. For myself, I wouldn't have wanted to walk out into the center of attention alone. So I waited until she came out, once again warm and dressed. Her expressive eyes seemed cautious, unsure of what was next. In that moment, my own eyes filled with tears. I motioned her to sit beside me a minute. We hugged, and I asked in a choked voice how she was and said how happy I was for her. I had been tearing up on and off all day, and right then I considered telling her about the funeral that same day and how miraculous it was that she was here choosing life and how there is always hope and joy living alongside the most terrible sorrow. But I didn't. I smiled through the tears as Ana relaxed and smiled back. Arm in arm we rose and walked outside, letting go when others came forward to embrace her.

Later, Ana turned to me and said, "Thank you for coming," before adding, "I know it was an obligation." As in, anyone associated with Casa Adalia was obligated to attend.
"No," I said, my hand gripping her arm. "I didn't know about it until yesterday. I asked to come. I wanted to, for you, so I did." A fierceness had crept into my voice, for suddenly it felt all-important for her to know how the truth. People had put in time and effort to make the day meaningful, had shown up for her. To diminish any of it would be to diminish the significance of the day and the care for her.
"Really?" she asked, and I nodded firmly. "Okay. Thank you. I love you."
"I love you too," I echoed, squeezing her arm before letting go.

There was dinner and conversation. There was cake and clean-up and piling into the cars to head back into the city. In the far back seat I twisted the black band on my wrist back and forth, back and forth. Ana sat in the seat in front of me, and when she she reached back to touch my hand I asked if she was alright.
"Yes, you?" she asked. I nodded.

We drove along, city lights twinkling in the distance, love and loss all blended into one day, hoping that all of us were or would be alright.