POSADA

A year ago my street filled with pilgrims carrying candles and flowers. The pilgrims stopped at every house, singing the traditional songs of the Posada ritual.  There were instruments, and children, and babies, and a real live donkey.  Our block was filled with light and song and the spirit of the Christmas season.  It was beautiful and heartbreaking.

Our neighbor is a priest at the Catholic Church and he organized the celebration for his parishioners.  A week before the event he came to our home and asked if we would like to participate.  His group would stop at our house he explained and they would sing outside, asking if Joseph and Mary could find shelter here.  We would then respond “no” and they would move on to the next home.  This would continue, house to house until they would finally be granted respite at the last house.

We politely declined the offer to participate.

Our neighbors took part and on the night of the Posada, I watched from the window in what was to be my daughter’s room.  It was beautiful and heartbreaking.

I was seven months pregnant with my first child, my daughter, who was recently given the prognosis that she would not live.  The doctors told me that at any moment she could pass away, and if she was born alive, she would not live long.

Those days were dark. 

As I watched the Posada I felt a deep connection to the story of Joseph and Mary.  My daughter kicking my belly, growing, seemingly unaware of her illness, of her short time on this earth.  She was a baby growing and squirming and as real as any baby ever.

I would smile at her little jabs, and then sob because of the tremendous loss of her.  She was there, so real, so big, but unreachable, unattainable for me.  I had to love her, just to lose her.  Care for her, just to have her taken away.  I begged for someone to shelter me from the loss.  I begged for someone to take me in, wrap me up, and shelter me from what lay ahead.