Year: 2012

18-year-old Maura stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb and trying to keep out of the cold wind’s icy grasp. Layered as she was, in long dress, sweater, coat, and blanket with newspaper wrapped around her boots for extra warmth, one might have missed the very large bulge in her middle.

Maura was, in fact, not only pregnant, but in the middle of labor. By anyone’s standards Maura had not been thought of as exceptional or heroic. But even in the face of this cold winter’s night and the desolation of this place, her certainty of decision did not waiver.

Trying to keep her mind off the sharp pains, the piercing cold, and the desolation of her surroundings, Maura thought about her parents’ large, warm house in East Windsor, Connecticut. Life had been good to her and she had always been appreciative of God’s gracious gifts. She was especially grateful for her family, who had nurtured her and given her the foundation in faith that defined who she was.

Looking back on her life now, Maura could understand her parents’ concern about her beliefs. She had always been different than other children. As a young child, she was not interested in jump rope or hide-and-seek, sidewalk chalk drawing or castles in the sandbox. She had just not been attracted to playing with other children. Instead Maura was drawn to the quiet of her room. She was a voracious reader, and read cover to cover the Bible she had gotten from the vacation Bible school she had attended when she was ten.

When she wasn’t reading, Maura would draw or play with her dolls. She loved to re-enact Bible stories or make up stories of miraculous healing. She would have her dolls argue, letting Solomon come and resolve the dispute. Or a doll would be lost under the bed, crying, and Maura would send kind Ruth over to comfort her. If she had been teased too much by her siblings or other children, because she seemed so peculiar, Maura would imagine Samson, or Deborah, bringing a strong and just revenge. But afterward she always felt a tinge of guilt for wishing the others harm. Her favorite person in the Bible was Hannah. Maura admired her faith; a faith so strong that after many years of having no children, God had blessed her with a child, Samuel.

Ahh! Ahh! Ahheeeee!” Maura had not meant to scream, but she had been caught off guard. The stabbing pain came quicker than expected, frightening her. Jose rushed to her side, holding her and feeling terribly helpless. As the pain began to subside, she slid down the door jamb and sat for a moment on the sill. The labor pains had taken Maura’s breath away. She had not known the pain would be this intense. But she could not comfortably sit long and, standing up, she moved slowly toward the fire to warm herself.

Maura hadn’t spent her whole life in her room. She enjoyed going to church. At first her parents were pleased by her willingness to go to Mass and C.C.D. They began to be a little uneasy, when she set up a prayer corner in her room. In the corner she had placed a small table with a candle, a crucifix, her rosary, and other small items that had importance to her. When she was given the Bible, it was lovingly placed on the table.

Maura appeared to change a little the summer her parents sent her to the Baptist Church’s two week vacation Bible school. Neighbors had invited Maura and her siblings to go. It seemed convenient to have the children occupied and supervised for ten mornings in the summer, so her parents agreed to let them go. Maura was attracted by the hymns and children’s songs. She even liked the “boring” children’s messages the minister gave during the opening ceremony. Most important, Maura had discovered a faith tradition different from her own and she was intrigued and fascinated by it.

By the time she was 12, Maura had not only worshipped at the Baptist Church, but she had also attended a Congregational Church, a Friends Meeting, a Pentecostal Church, and a synagogue. Maura’s parents were in awe of their daughter’s unusual interest in God and her strong, quiet faith, yet there was something troubling for them about the growing intensity and seriousness of her faith search. So, while her parents did not forbid her from exploring these different traditions, they in no way encouraged her.

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Editor’s note: Check back here tomorrow for the fourth installment in Rev. Bill Sterritt’s modern adaptation of the nativity story. RI Future is serializing Sterritt’s 26-page short story throughout the holiday season.  Here’s my post on the Amicable Congregational Church’s nativity story and scene.

• Chapter 2 – Jose’s Union Sympathies
• Chapter 1 – Jose Crosses the Border

Jose stood in front of a large oil drum dropping pieces of wood onto the glowing embers and hoping his supply of wood would last the night. As the flames began to shoot up the light revealed his forehead, wrinkled with concern and his sad, tired eyes.

The large, callused hands and drawn face told of years of hard labor. The ragged clothes, layered against the cold, and stubble beard betrayed his present hard times.

Blowing into his hands and rubbing them together hard to warm them, he thought to himself, “How did it come to this? And where am I going?”

His thoughts drifted back to the warm, carefree days of his childhood. He smiled as he remembered his parents and the small village in Mexico in which he grew up. How beautiful the world appeared to him in those times. From his parents and grandparents he had learned the secrets of when to plant corn and beans, tomatoes and peppers; how to care for the farm animals; how to tend the grapevines.

As he reflected on those days, he understood how much a part of the earth he was. In a way it was as if he and the earth were one, and this awareness made him feel even closer to God, the Creator.

Then his mind touched that fateful winter day and suddenly his face darkened, his eyebrows knit even tighter together, and anger flashed in his eyes. The pain that shot through him had not lessened after all these years. He was only nine at the time, but he knew even then right from wrong, and what happened on that day was certainly wrong.

A man dressed in a fancy suit and accompanied by two large, armed men had driven up to Jose’s grandfather’s house in a government car and handed him a piece of paper. As his grandfather read the letter his eyes grew larger and rounder. Sensing that something was amiss, the family gathered round, fear gripping all. By the time his grandfather had finished reading his face had become dark red from rage. He turned to the man in the suit and told him to get off his property immediately. In a threatening tone, the man told Jose’s grandfather that he would be back and there was nothing that could be done about it.

When the men had gone, Jose learned that their land was being taken to make room for the expansion of the neighboring coffee plantation. The family “would be fairly compensated for their loss” the notice had said. “How does one fairly compensate’ for another’s livelihood?” Jose thought to himself. They, of course, were given practically nothing. And it seemed as if Jose had been rootless and on the move ever since.

Jose’s parents went first to Matamoros looking for work at one of the factories on the northern border, across from Brownsville, Texas. His father found a job in one of the tanneries. It was dirty work and the fumes made even Jose nauseous, when he waited near the factory for his father after work. The wages were so bad his mother went to work cleaning houses.

There was never enough money for food, even with both parents working. Poverty makes even the most preposterous rumors seem true. Everyone had heard how wealthy people could become, if they just went across the border to the United States. So when Jose turned twelve he left home to find work north of the border.

The sound of the police car’s siren broke into Jose’s reflections. He looked quickly around, frantically searching for an avenue of escape. The vacant lot had buildings on either side and a chain link fence at the back. Debris lay strewn about: old tires, empty bottles, a battered stove. The ground was so hard and desolate that even the weeds had struggled to find a place to grow. Jose’s pulse quieted as the siren’s wail faded into the distance.

Twenty-five years ago, crossing the border was not as difficult nor as dangerous; finding work, though, was. Jose eventually landed in Florida in the midst of orange groves. Here began his twenty-five year odyssey, following the growing season north to south, east to west and back again. He was on a tour of the United States that definitely was not listed in any tourist brochure. It was hard, back-breaking work; work that paid enough to stay, but not enough to leave. Over the years Jose began to see the inequities. He felt demeaned and used, but did not know, at first, how to fight back.

(Editor’s note: This post is part of a serialization of Rev. Bill Sterritt’s 26-page short story recasting the birth of Jesus in modern day America. For more about this project click here. Check back tomorrow for the next installment in the Amicable Nativity Story.)