Mike and I had breakfast with Father Leonard Mary, from EWTN, this past Saturday. As we were sitting in the quaint Mexican restaurant in East LA, there was a gathering of MECHA members right outside the door.  The brown berets, the vest with special patches, the greeting with a fist pound brought me back to the feelings of my lost youth when I was president of MECHA.  I wanted to go out there and witness to them that God was the only answer. But I doubted that the fist-popping group would listen to anything I had to say. I wanted to yell, “Run! Don’t do it!” But they will have to figure this out for themselves.

Father Leonard quickly reminded me of the Blog I wrote about wanting my kids to marry Mexicans.

Just in case you missed it:

Having completed all relevant  courses at the Orange Diocese, I am now authorized to  minister under the covering of the Catholic Church. My last class, Pastoral Formation, helps develop attitudes and skills that pertain to effective ministry. The class is intended to train the student on how to handle matters that involve different races, cultures and ethnicities, and the differences on how people deal with situations. We all believe in the same God within the Catholic church, but people from Italy do not think the same as people from Mexico. We covered many subjects, but when it came to culture and heritage, my mind was flooded with the memories of raising two Mexican-American kids in Orange County.

When Mikos and Sonja (our children) were growing up, I did my very best to see that they stayed true to their Mexican culture. When after-school Spanish classes were offered in elementary school, I signed them up. They both complained about the instructor, and the only thing that they remembered about the experience was the title of the book “Churros y Chocolate.” I tried speaking to them in Spanish at home, but that too was ignored. Mikos recently asked me why I didn’t teach him Spanish!

When Sonja wanted tap and ballet classes with her little non-Hispanic friends, I signed her up for Ballet Folklorico. I had to drive clear across town to Santa Ana for her lessons, which didn’t matter because she was going to  be grafted into her “Mexican culture.” Sonja complained about the shoes, the extra-wide skirt, and the fact that none of her friends were taking the same dance lessons. Sonja’s experience was more traumatic than enjoyable, and after the only recital, Sonja hung up her dancing shoes for a while.

Mikos did not escape the culture wrath either. That boy was going to marry a Mexican if it was the last thing that he was going to do.

When we moved to Orange, our neighborhood was mostly white, and we had two personalized license plates on our vehicles. “FAMILIA” was  on my Volvo station wagon and “CIRIZA” was on Mike’s Porsche. When we lived in the San Fernando Valley, this personalized license plate thing was no big deal, but in Orange County it was considered uncool.

The demographics of a mostly white school changed the direction of my plans for my children. I still had a little of that “Chicano Power” residue from my MECHA  days. MECHA was to Mexicans what the  Black Panthers were to the Blacks. I felt that in some way, I was melting into the Orange County stew. The more I tried to mold my kids, the more rebellion set in. “You are going to marry a Mexican!” were my words of love and direction…I so foolishly believed.

At that time in my life, I had left the Catholic church and was vacillating from Calvary Chapel, to Calvary Church, to The Vineyard and a host of other Christian churches. God must have gotten a good laugh at all the mindless efforts to keep culture alive in the “Familia Ciriza.”

Both Mikos and Sonja married out of our race. It was not to spite me, but rather because they fell in love. It was never my responsibility to choose their mates; this was just another ridiculous episode of a mother meddling into the path the God had already planned.

Mikos and Sonja both married Minnesotans, and every other Christmas, they return to their families and every summer they are in Minnesota.

I leave you with this thought. As mothers, all we can do is pray that God will bring the right helpmate for our children. We cannot control the hand of God, and if we intervene, we are messing with God’s perfect plan. Believe me, I understand how challenging it is not meddle,  trust God and He will see you through this. Remember St. Monica prayed over 30 years for her son St. Augustine to change. There is nothing stronger than the prayers of a mother.

Genesis 2:18  Then the Lord God said, “It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him.”

For as many times as I’ve traveled to Arizona (about 5 times a year, for the past 12 years) you’d think my sister Norma would know the airport routine.  Sky Harbor Airport is user-friendly, you either get picked up on the South side or the North side. The closer she gets to the airport Norma gets her nerves all in a wad. When I arrived I called her to ask her where she would be picking me up; normally if I go to the South side, she will definitely be on the North side.

This is how Norma answered the phone: “I can’t talk because I’m listening for directions to the airport;” then she abruptly hung up. So I go to the South side and wait for the next panic call. Norma called and asked ,”I don’t know what to do! Are you at Air Canada or Southwest?” I’m so confused by the question that I answered, “I’m at door 4 on the South side.” Norma replied , “Oh My Sweet Jesus, where are you, Air Canada or Southwest?”

This is just the begining, because we still need to get on the freeway to get to her home. Norma panics and never knows how to transition to the 202 freeway. She always asks for my help;  as far as I’m concerned, it’s the blind leading the blind. After a few wrong turns and one missed accident, we finally arrive in one piece.

Norma is an entrepreneur; she is forever selling things on “Offer Up.” Norma had acquired a fancy trash dispense, and after one day’s posting, Norma had a prospective buyer. She needed to clean the dispenser to get it ready for the new owner. Norma came back from sanitizing the dispenser and sat next to me. All of a sudden I get a strong whiff of bleach. “Why does it smell like bleach?” I asked. Norma answered that she just cleaned the dispenser with clorox.

I needed a ride to church because it was a Holy Day Obligation, The Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Norma dropped me off and told me she would return once the buyer picked up the dispenser. As I was exiting the car, she mentioned that she was making chop suey for dinner. I told Norma that I would be sitting toward the back of the church.

By the time Norma arrived, the Mass was well under way. She sats next to me and I noticed a huge red stain on her black pants. I was thinking that maybe she had made enchilada sauce instead of the chop suey. Norma looked at me with sad disappointment in her eyes and whispered,  “I ruined my favorite pants with bleach.” I had to postpone my laugh until after Mass. My sister abuses bleach and has accumulated a small wardrobe of bleach-stained clothes.

Norma was not sure if she had completed the Sacrament of First Holy Communion. This sacrament is the passage to receive the Body and Blood of Christ. While working on my Blog I came across a picture of my sister celebrating her First Holy Communion, and  after the discovery of the picture, she mentioned to me that she was attending Mass again. I must have misunderstood her because she was going to Adoration, not  Mass. Norma was sitting at the end of pew so I nudged her to go forward for communion, thinking that she had already been partaking. It had been years, and I mean years since she had received Holy Communion, and had not been to confession.

Proverbs 28:13: He who conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy.

Norma had forgotten how to receive the Body and Blood of Christ. She had her phone and keys in her hands when she extended her hands out to receive communion. The poor Eucharistic Minister (EM) did not know what to do, So Norma quickly put out one empty hand and ingested the Host. She walked over for the wine and just stood in front of the EM; they just stared at each other. Norma was under the impression that the wine was to be poured into her mouth! Finally after holding up the line, the man gently poured the wine into her mouth. I felt so bad because truly it was my fault – because I made Norma go up there .

1 John 1:9:  If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just, and will forgive our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness

The following day Norma had to drop  me off at the airport again. As soon as she saw the sign to the airport the panic set in: “Which way do I go? Please tell me what to do!” I pointed to the sign with the airplane descending. Honestly, it would have be safer for me if I had been dropped off at the freeway exit.

In all fairness to my sister Norma, I have the same reaction whenever I need to drop-off or pick  someone up at LAX. I need to be in the lane 5 miles ahead of time to be sure that I don’t miss the offramp.  No one can talk in the car when I’m making a lane change on the freeway, and I cannot make a left-hand turn without a loud, “Jesus, please help me!” I am never allowed to drive with any of my immediate family members, and I still don’t understand why.

If you ever need prayer, Norma is faithful and one of the strongest intercessors that I know.

It was the third day of our missionary trip, and  we were to visit The Church of the Annunciation, in Nazareth, followed by The Franciscan Wedding Church where Jesus turned the water into wine. After the visiting the Wedding Church, we were to go on to the Mount of Transfiguration. I was feeling sluggish and bloated, as my body had not acclimated to the time change. Carmen, a slender and attractive lady from the team, was an avid tea drinker, and rarely suffered these effects. Carmen attested to the tea helping her stay regular. This was the same year that my sister Norma and her family were traveling with us, Maggie, her youngest daughter, was my roommate.

I sent Maggie to get some tea from Carmen, but Maggie came back with warning instructions. “Carmen said to not to make the tea too dark!” I told Maggie, “I think I know how to make tea; I don’t need anyone to tell me how dark it has to be!” With that I drank the potion and fell fast asleep. The following morning, breakfast was a combination of fruits and vegetables, with coffee to wash it down.

It is 64 miles from Jerusalem to Nazareth, and about half way there my stomach stared rumbling. At first I dismissed it as cramps, but it was not. I felt every hair follicle on my arms rise, and  I needed to use the facilities in the worst way. The roads to Nazareth are not friendly for this purpose, as there are no gas stations along the way. I could not ask for the bus to stop because where would it stop? So I started to pray. It felt like a small volcano was about to erupt in my intestines, so I could not talk because I needed every bit of energy to be still. My eyes began to water when I read the sign to Nazareth, not realizing it was in kilometers and it was still two digits. I kept praying, and asking God for me not to experience an embarrassment.

Prayer was working, until my sister Norma asked me, “What’s wrong with you?” then she burst into an evil loud laugh. I had no fighting words, again, because it would use up too much energy. When we finally arrived at the Church of the Annunciation, I remembered that we not only had to walk a distance but it was uphill. We also had go through the church in order to get to the WC. I grabbed my niece Maggie and ran, as I was in the race of my life. Everything was in my favor until we reached the bathrooms. There sat a man collecting 2 shekels for the use of the facility; he was not there the year before. I knew I did not have any shekels, and I explained that my situation was worse than an emergency. Through the interpretation of angels, he allowed me passage, but sadly it was too late. This day made into my history book as one of the worst days of my life, as this was our first stop.

This missionary trip was one of the longer ones that we would take, lasting over two weeks, with an extension to Italy. We were a group of 18, so that meant that we had a bus driver and guide the entire trip. When we arrived in Rome, we did our normal routine of visiting the four major basilicas and praying for our family and friends.

We had a one day overnight extension to Florence. We stopped to visit a small monastery on the outskirts of Florence. The Tuscan roads leading to the monastery were so narrow that the bus could not pass. The bus was parked, and we had to walk the long distance. It was a beautiful scenery of lush farms and the sweet smell of early spring flowers filled the cool breeze. We wanted to visit the home of Saint Maddalena Di Pazzi, a mystic and powerful intercessor. When we finally arrived, the the tall wooden doors were locked. After a few bangs on the door, the groundskeeper allowed us into the cloistered monastery, where we quietly knelt and prayed. We could see the nuns behind the small barred windows. It is normally not permitted for outsiders to enter into the private quarters of the nuns, so we knew that the Lord granted us this favor. Therefore we were most respectful for this experience. I prayed to have the mantle of Saint Di Pazzi as she experienced many heavenly ecstasies.

Ed, a gentleman not from our team, was traveling with us. Ed was suffering from cancer, and his dying wish was to visit the Holy Land. He was a quiet gentleman who kept to himself. Our Italian bus was equipped with a bathroom, but we were all told that it was not functioning; therefore we could not use it. After the mystical visit to the monastery we were off again. Our driver was a chain smoker and made one smoking stop. Some of the other men on the team got off to stretch their legs. Even though it was a rest area with public restrooms, Ed decided to use the toilet on the bus. I was sitting directly in front of the toilet. It was too late to warn Ed, and what happened next was a disaster.  I could see the the driver and Carlos, my brother-in-law, from the tinted windows. They were standing near the bus when suddenly a huge cow pie dropped to the street. The bus driver hit his head with the palm of his hand, yelling, “Mamma Mia!” The bus toilet had no bottom so Ed’s soft stool hit the street. By this time, the mild-mannered Ed was sitting in the back of the bus. A stench quickly filled the bus, so those of us who stayed on the bus were quietly gasping for air. No one dared to embarrass poor Ed. When Carlos came into the bus, he said, “Lynda, not again!” I was so upset and laughing at the same time that I could not defend my position.

We made it to Florence, awaiting another adventure and another Blog posting.