Si Señor

When I was 22 I set off an an impromptu solo pilgrimage. The plan was to fly to McAllen, Texas and walk across the border, then hitch hike to the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City, which was about 700 miles from Reynosa. I did fly to Texas made my way over the border but changed course when I came to the realization that kidnappings of Americans were a real thing in Mexico City.

In Reynosa, I was sitting on the steps of a church praying my rosary, taking a break and figuring out where I was going to spend the night and what the new plan would be. A man came up to me and introduced himself as a Catholic priest. I was a little skeptical because he was not wearing any clerical attire. As I learned more about Mexican history, the reason became apparent. The Mexican Revolution ushered in a new Constitution in 1917, and the Constitutionalist delegates viewed the Church as a political enemy to the establishment of a liberal, secular nation-state...a kind of foreign body that worked against the development of a progressive and independent nation. As a result, many of the articles in the Mexican Constitution are anti-clerical in nature.

Though such laws were on the books, it really wasn't until 1926 under President Plutarch Elias Calles that they were enforced...and brutally so. On July 31st, public worship was suspended for the first time in 400 years...not a single Mass was celebrated. Bishops and priests went into hiding. Those who refused to register were often fined, imprisoned, tortured, or executed. It was out of this anti-religious climate that the Cristeros revolutionaries fought back in the name of religious liberty, were able to put pressure on the government, but were eventually betrayed and mass tortured and executed.

Eventually this priest I was speaking to invited me to stay at his church. The accommodations in

reality ended up being a make-shift deportation shelter for men who had just been dumped over the border by U.S. immigration.

I found an old mattress next to a Honduran who was caught trying to cross the border; he had a smile and we chatted in broken Spanish. The next morning I ate with all the recently deported men--tortillas eggs and chilis--and as I was leaving a man my age came up to me and we started chatting. He had just been released from prison in Ohio and was on his way to Monterrey to go back to live with his family. Would I like to meet them? Sure, I said, let's go. I had kind of just agreed in my mind to just say yes to whatever came my way on this trip. So we caught a bus in town, 12 hours, into the Mexican interior.

When we arrived, his mother and father were there, as well as his sister and her husband and his nephew. His mother hadn't seen him in years...she hugged him tightly and cried and touched his face. Then he introduced me and they welcomed me as a member of their own family.

I spent the next week with them just doing every day things. I would hold the punching bag for big Tony (a sack of grain on a rope) as he practiced his combinations. Tony Jr. and I rode in the back of the pickup truck to inspect the cattle. He taught me how to kill rattlesnakes with a rope. We went cliff diving, and his brother in law showed me how to drive a semi (he was a truck driver) and let me drive his rig.

Tony Jr's parents owned a small convenience store; he mother cooked us breakfast every morning--eggs and little chilis from a can. Though I was careful not to drink the water,

I eventually got sick from her washing the dishes in the well water, and spent five days unable to eat, throwing up and constant diarrhea (having to haul 5 gallons of water from the well at the time to flush the toilet). Eventually I weakly made my way out the side of the road in the middle of this sleepy town to wait for a passing bus to try to get back to the U.S. I rode the 12 hours back overnight, and the Spanish music on the radio next stopped playing. To this day I get a little queezy when I hear Spanish music.

I never did make it to Mexico City and my pilgrimage got a little derailed. But I learned that saying 'yes' to whatever opportunity presented itself on this trip lead to some neat adventures, and some pain and suffering, too. I didn't really know what was around the bend, but God seemed to be looking over me, even though my motives were not always geared towards Him.

I'm finding that my sense of adventure in my twenties has given way towards a cautious domesticity in my thirties. It's easy to settle in to swim lessons, soccer games, church on Sundays, getting obsessed with paint colors, date nights, paying the mortgage, and everything else that comes with having a family.

But God doesn't want us to get too comfortable, or at least so comfortable that we are inclined to say, 'no thanks' when He really wants us to say 'yes' to his call. There is no adventure more worth living out than saying 'yes' to God. It opens doors to people, places, and things you would have never thought possible otherwise. He truly does provide for our needs when we are doing what He asks of us. It might not lead us to other countries or a third world mission field. It may be as benign as taking a different route to work in the car at His request, or starting a conversation with someone we wouldn't normally speak with.

Though it's usually uncomfortable at first, stepping out in faith to God's calling at particular times in our life gets to be more second-nature the more you do it. Sometime we need tangible way to practice, even it if it's not directly responding to a call from God. One little thing I do to practice charity and self-sacrifice (and it is a little thing) is to always give my wife whatever dinner plate I am more inclined to take for myself--the bigger porkchop or whatever. Another little thing I started doing with regard to trying to stay in the habit of not hesitating when the call of God comes is when I am at the beach, no matter how cold the water is, I just dive right in rather than wading in tepidly. It's really hard to do sometimes! When the water is cold its a shock to the system, but in many ways its easier to just go under all at once; surprisingly, your body gets used to it and adapts quickly.

Our comfort zone is like a layer of fat that insulates and protects us. But faith is a muscle, and it needs to be worked. It develops memory through repetition--that is, saying 'yes' often enough that it becomes just what we do--and it gets strengthen by getting pushed beyond the pleasant, not unlike a Crossfit workout. When the muscle is stretched and torn, it rebuilds with layers of virtue. But if it atrophies, it will slink back to a flaccid state of lukewarmness. Faith builds on itself by grace. All it demands to grow is assent and a willingness to suffer for it's sake. It is an adventure for sure.