Amado, in Paradisum

‘No eye has seen, no ear has heard, nor has the human heart conceived, what God has prepared for those who love him.’ (1 Corinthians 2:9)

 

I had no words. Kneeling at the casket of my friend, Amado, words failed me.

Words usually come easily. Most often, I don’t have to fight to find them. Sometimes, they come and transport my earth-bound heart to a wondrous space where all that exists is the Love God is, and I am there, inside, enveloped by Love, and everything else melts into insignificance.

But not here, not on my knees, not as my hands rested on the dead-cold stiffness of ‘Mado’s thick hands, product of the mortician’s art and the inevitable inevitability that we all know is coming and are never ready to face.

I tried, but tripped over myself every time I tried to say the old words—words I know well, words that flowed like a fountain of life in other moments, no matter how extreme. I wanted to walk my friend to heaven’s door and let him go, knowing all is well even though nothing is right. But each time I tried, the syllables tumbled and stumbled over each other and fell to the floor, cold as death.

‘Rest eternal, grant him, O Lord’ 

‘May light perpetual shine upon him.’

‘Receive him into the fullness of your love with all the beloved who have gone before.’

Any of the old words would have been enough to quiet my soul. I have spoken them hundreds of times, and hundreds of times peace flooded my heart and soothed the souls of those being left behind. The words took me … and so many others … to a place where Love was undeniably real and filled with the promise beyond every other promise, the hope beyond every other hope, the life for which our souls long but barely taste on this side of the veil.

But there was no flow. No peace. No consolation. The old phrases tangled and twisted around each other in an amorphous mass, my heart cold as ‘Mado’s dead hands, once strong, both of us there, he in his casket and me on my knees, both of us clothed in our incapacity, arrayed in the nakedness of our undeniable humanity.

Amado 42 and me 71, our roles might well have been reversed, or so I whispered to him as I knelt, aching for the one thing I cannot live without—light, the light of eternity warming my soul with the assurance of the Love who is, and was, and always will be, the Love who is the living and the dead and the risen again, the Love who smiles on the death of the saints and draws them into the eternal embrace we know only in our most graced moments.

Wanting this, but feeling none of it, I let go of the words that have long consoled my heart, the words that failed me, or I them, as I knelt before the form of my friend who was no longer there.

The old words gone, I conjured the image that closes my morning prayer every day, without exception. “Keep calling to me,” I pray. ‘Keep calling until I stand with all the saints and angels and holy ones around your throne, chanting ‘yes’ to all you are and all you have done.’

At this, the image returns. A great crowd. Dad is there, so is Eilert and Magdalena, Fred and Max, who used to bring me vegetables and Bob who lived down the street when I was a boy. Grandma is there, Dixie’s grandma, too. And Rod, dear Rod, like ‘Mado leaving us so soon; 41 years, 42? What’s that? The blink of an eye. But they are there and others too many to name, and so many others whom I cannot name, all of them gathered before a great throne of love, consumed with joy and light wrapping them into the One who is Light.

And now, ‘Mado, I see you there, brother. Go on. Go ahead. Don’t look back. Walk into the Light for which we long. And greet my friends, won’t you? There are a few who may admit to knowing me. And tell them, thanks. And thank you, too, my friend. Just … thank you. Sorry words failed me the other day. I know it doesn’t much matter now, except to me because I didn’t get to say, didn’t know how to say what my heart needed to say.  But later, I thought of this. They are not my words, far more beautiful than any I can produce. Still, I give them to you now, and offer them to the Great Love who loved us from the beginning and always will.

May the angels lead you into paradise; may the martyrs greet you at your arrival and lead you into the holy city, Jerusalem. May the choir of angels greet you and, like Lazarus, who once was a poor man, may you have eternal rest.

 

David L. Miller

 

Saint ‘Mado, my brother

Then one of the elders addressed me, saying, ‘Who are these, robed in white, and where have they come from?’ I said to him, ‘Sir, you are the one that knows.’ Then he said to me, ‘These are they who have come out of the great ordeal; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. (Revelation 7:13-14)

 

My friend, Amado Martinez, died last Friday night. He was 42, and I loved him. He called me his brother.

We worked together at the same church. I was a pastor. He was the custodian there, like his dad, Manny, before him.

As I know the story, Manny, immigrated from Mexico with his family and worked as a custodian at an elementary school across the street before also taking on the church job.

He brought ‘Mado to work with him to keep him out of trouble with Latin gangs and the police as had happened with a couple of Amado’s much older brothers. It worked.

Amado learned the place, the people and the job, all of which loved him like they loved his father. Manny never retired, never got the chance. He worked until he died, as I understand it, on a day after working at the church, cleaning, polishing, fixing, overseeing the heating and cooling systems, keeping the place going.

That’s when ‘Mado took over, doing the same job, and … like his father … working until the day he died. Last Friday, he left work, returning home to Silvia, his two sons and daughter, not feeling well. Silvia convinced him to go to the hospital where he soon coded and died … in the same emergency room that had saved his life a few years before when he had been shot on his porch in a drive-by.

‘Mado nearly bled to death that night and spent about a month in the hospital recovering and doing therapy on his arm and vocal cords. He was told he might never speak again. But he did, a little weaker, a bit softer, but his voice and his spirit were still there through his recovery and as he returned to work.

He never needed a strong voice, at least not at church. He spoke softly and moved quietly as he coursed through the weekly routines of keeping the building in shape. A big-boned man, let’s say he had just one speed and could move through the weekday darkness of the narthex silent as night. Most days, he worked for hours, and you barely knew he was there.

He never liked to dust things, which is the worst thing we could say about his work as a custodian. He could always find other things that needed to be done, which was never a problem because he had a mechanic’s mind. I often said he could have been an engineer or at least a skilled tradesman, if circumstances had offered him a chance to study. But finances and family responsibilities never allowed what many of us take for granted.

Instead, he developed a wide set of handyman skills and knew where everything was in a complicated set of buildings. He loved to tinker and fix what was worn and broken, saving the church thousands of dollars by keeping old equipment running long after it might have been replaced. It came to him naturally. His family was constantly short of money, and he’d long before learned to make do and keep things going. It was the church’s privilege to help him out on any number of occasions. Now, I hope they remember Silvia and his kids.

There are stories I cannot tell about ‘Mado’s struggles, things that only he and a few others know about. But I can say he carried and immense weight of responsibilities for several generations of his family, including his aging mother in dialysis. And I can say that local police harassed him and his family for years, and once tried to pin a charge on him for a crime he had nothing to do with.

It was my privilege to be with him as that played out. When it finally got to court, ‘Mado sat at the defendant’s table with his lawyer, while I sat in the gallery with his family, listening to a police evidence technician grossly misrepresent facts in an effort to convict him. Sitting there, I prayed with all my might. The judge did better; he threw it out, recognizing nonsense when he heard it.

At every recess in the case, ‘Mado thanked me for being there, always quiet, always gracious, never bitter or seeming to be angry with what was being done to him. I may have been angry enough for both of us.

After the case was dismissed, ‘Mado and members of his family hugged and talked in the corridor outside the courtroom while the prosecutor and a couple of police huddled in another corner wondering aloud what had happened to their case. I almost stepped over and told them what I thought of their pernicious prosecution, but ‘Mado was calm, at least on the outside, and I wasn’t about to dishonor him by giving way to the rage I felt at the months of harassment, lies and hellish stress they’d inflicted on a profoundly good and decent man and his family.

Now, he’s dead, and I wonder how many years the immensity of stress and struggle stole from him, even as death steals him from a family that sorely needs him.

For 13 years, I watched him care for the congregation’s home like his own home. I saw him bear the burdens of his life with strength, grace and dignity, even when circumstances aligned against him. I watched how he loved his boys, whom he sometimes brought to work with him even as his father had brought him. And I saw the sparkle in his eyes when Silvia gave birth to their daughter, a couple of years after he had nearly died from that gunshot. She’s four now, if I count correctly, and she needs the father he was and would always have been for her.

But for all the sadness of his passing, there is one thing above all for which I will remember him and give thanks for his life. ‘Mado texted me shortly after I left my position at the church. After expressing concern for my family and my future, he wrote:

 ‘Just wanted to let you know you will always be a dear friend of mine and if you ever need anything feel free to call me. I also wanted to thank you again for everything you've done for me. You supported me in my darkest hours. You have the gift of showing people it's going to be okay when they can’t see past their trauma. … I hope God keeps on blessing you in any journey you take from here. I love you brother, take care.’

Two years later, I still have that text on my phone. I see no reason to delete it.

David L. Miller