Recently I watched a friend's little boy perform traditional dances from the Mexican state they are from; Chihuahua. As I watched the kids enthusiastically perform and yip joyful cheers, "Chihuahua!" my heart was touched at the memory that these parents are instilling in their children. They don't want to forget where they came from.Last week, as some of the teen girls told me about the hours of church services they had to go to each night I found myself sympathizing with them. Then as I took Sabbath rest on Friday, and began to pray into what that 3 days of separation from the Father must've been like, a new reverence began to form in me. My heart was aching. I wished I would've had a symbolic dinner, in remembrance of the Last Supper, and Jesus' presence with his loved disciples.
I felt sorrowful on Friday, thinking about how he anticipated all that darkness, "And being in anguish, he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops off blood falling to the ground." Luke 22:44. I felt sorrowful as I imagined how He must've felt. I longed do something special, something symbolic to tell him "My heart remembers."
Then as Sunday came, the day passed by so quickly, filled with family and food. And this week, as I talked with one of the teenagers, we discussed traditions. I told her about David and I's longing to figure out how we can remember, really remember in our hearts, what the Lord has done for us. I asked her what she would to do on Easter, if she was in charge of her family. She delightfully replied, "I'd go roller-skating!" I had to rejoice in her freedom. As we continued on, she gasped as I said the word Lent, and said she didn't want to 'give anything up.' I realized in her reaction, that I often react the same way; as if I am being forced to do something, or give something up. Just a few days earlier I had reacted this way about the hours of church services. I explained this new desire of mine to this girl and my heart was clarified. I want to acknowledge Him in a way that is just my heart. I don't want to resentfully attend or sacrifice. I want to remember. That is; to not forget where I came from.
Then I talked with another teen girl this week, about her coming Quinceanera (Mexican coming of age celebration), and she told me about the traditions of the state in Mexico that her family is from. "I love your traditions." I told her. "You do?" She replied. Her response made me realize how all of my questions and confusion must appear when my Latino friends describe traditions to me. "Yes I do! I wish that I had traditions like that." And as she continued, I could see the sense of belonging, of knowing where she came from, because she was doing something that acted upon her history.
This Easter, I find myself aching for my Heavenly belonging, inspired by traditions of Mexico and of often misunderstood liturgy. I pray that the Lord helps my husband and I form traditions that are rooted in the gratitude planted in the depths of our hearts; that demonstrate our history.
Here's a bit of where I came from:
"He brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me." Psalm 18:19
