By any other Name
"A
rose by any other name would smell as sweet"; William Shakespeare:
Romeo and Juliet
“Would you come up to the front of the
class and tell everyone your name? It
really is quite peculiar.” First day of
school introductions, I think, have made most every child uncomfortable since
there have been schools and first day introductions. My mother had already been fidgeting in her
desk chair that first day of school in Kaukauna; but now it was even worse than
imagined, as she had been directed to come up in front of everybody. She crept up to the front of the class, eyes
down, turned toward the others and blurted out, “Mercedes LaBorde”. The teacher made her repeat the name and
sound it out phonetically “Mer-sa-deez”.
Finally, she was allowed to go back to her seat and try to disappear
into it.
My mother told me that she never liked
her name. Incidents, like this one from
her youth, certainly didn’t help. I
found out about it when my brother Tom told my mother that he and his wife Patti
intended to name their newborn daughter after her. “Don’t you dare!” she snapped back. And then she shared the story above. My mother passed away on Christmas Eve, 1979;
she never reconciled with her own name.
The year before I was ordained as a permanent deacon
in the Diocese of Green Bay, I was assigned a deacon mentor – someone who was
already ordained who would provide some additional real-life guidance as to
what life as a deacon would be like. My
assigned mentor was Deacon Paul Umentum, who also the point person in the Diocese
for organizing an annual work group to go down to the Diocesan mission in Elias
Pina in the Dominican Republic. The
group visited each year to build a concrete-block chapel somewhere in Father
Mike Seis’ assigned mission territory, so he had an actual church building to
celebrate Mass and sacraments in when he was able to get to that area on his
monthly rounds.
Deacon Paul started wearing me down to accompany him
on one of these mission trips immediately at our first visit. He made strong
points about the deacon’s call to service of the poor. I countered with practical arguments like the
financial cost and the reality that it would take more than half of my allotted
vacation time from work. It took him five
years, but finally I ran out of excuses.
And so, I found myself with nine other people – half lay and half
deacons, on a plane bound for Santa Domingo.
From there we rode a cramped bus about four hours to Elias Pena which is
literally right on the Haiti/Dominican Republic border.
We were headquartered in Elias Pena, but each morning
after breakfast and prayers we hopped into an open-bed truck full of building
supplies and tools, and drove another 90 minutes to the worksite. While the area of the building site had the
name of La Carerra, there was nothing that would have identified it as a
village as people in the States think of a village. It was simply a loose collection of several very
modest homes that typically consisted of an open middle section where meals
were prepared and a bedroom to each end separated by a curtain.
A local contractor had prepared the site by pouring a
cement slab. Our task was to construct
the four walls from cement blocks and also to build and place the roof
trusses. The work was dirty, heavy and
difficult. The mornings were relatively
cooler, but the temperature rose as quickly as the sun so that it was well into
the 90’s by midday. It was wise to drink
as much water as possible.
The locals were excited and a bit curious about the
project; there was usually a small group that gathered throughout the day to
check our progress. They supported our
efforts by providing very nourishing noon meals that consisted mainly of rice
and beans but there was always enough seasoned broth to make it flavorful. Sometimes they changed things up and served
us beans and rice. Daisy, the unofficial
village matron, kept us well-fed, often piling more on your plate if she
thought you weren’t eating enough.
The dirt road was busiest in the early morning as
local children rode their burros, laden with plastic water bottles, the half
mile down to the bottom of the hill to an aqueduct that brought water from the
mountains. There was a small concrete
block school in the village, but the children only attended two of the 17 days
we worked there because, like Father Mike, the teacher also traveled a
circuit.
Every evening after dinner we went out into the barrio
where Father Mike had spread the word that there would be a Mass that
evening. A couple of times we celebrated
Mass in a chapel that one of the previous work crews had built. I noticed that each chapel had its name
modestly painted on the side of the building.
On other evenings we were simply in an opening of a plantain or banana grove,
once we were even in someone’s front yard.
No one could afford musical instruments, so when everything was ready
for Mass, there was the spontaneous outbreak of song accompanied by rhythmic
clapping. Our group of ten gringos, none
of which spoke Spanish, did our best to blend in by keeping the correct beat
with our clapping. I know that I didn’t
do well at blending in, or with keeping the correct rhythm, but they were some
of the most spiritually uplifting and joy-filled Masses that I have ever
attended.
The spiritual highlight of the trip came on the
afternoon that we finished the chapel.
Padre Miguel had enough confidence in us to schedule a Mass in our new
chapel ahead of time and arrange for four baptisms to be celebrated. We’re not sure where everyone came from
because many more people showed up for the Mass than we had seen during our time
there. They came by foot, by truck, by
motorcycle and even on horseback. Everyone
was dressed in their best clothes except our work crew. We were still sweeping the floor and a work
crew from Haiti was still finishing the sheet metal roof, when Padre Miguel
arrived. It was a joyous scene, and I am
convinced that even the Holy Spirit was clapping along.
The next morning, as we gathered one last time for
breakfast and prayer I asked Father Mike what the name of the chapel that we
had built would be? “Nuestra Madre de Mercedes (Our Mother of
Mercy),” he replied. Beautiful. I knew that it was no coincidence that I was
there.
His Peace,
Deacon Dan
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