A Reverse Manger Scene

It has been a painful Christmas week here in San Nicolas. 

This past Monday, a man who lives down the street from us, Tonito, was thrown from his horse and died a few hours later, leaving his wife and seven children to mourn his death just two days before Christmas. Then yesterday, on Christmas day, we heard our friend and neighbor Henry sobbing uncontrollably in his back yard. He called Davie's name through his tears and told Davie from across the fence that his uncle had just died across the street.

We had created a joyful space within the walls of our house on Christmas day, cooking some hearty American comfort foods and skyping with our families. And when we opened our front door to go to the vigil for Henry's uncle, it certainly wasn't joy that greeted us in the streets of San Nicolas, but it also wasn't the outright hopelessness that we had expected.

A huge crowd of people lingered in the street outside our house. We followed them into the house across the street from us and into its living room, where Aurelio, Henry's uncle, lay motionless on a bed in the empty room,. He had died less than an hour before. Family and friends filed into the house, crowding around the bed to lay hands on him and pray. Little kids zoomed in between people's legs to get a look at Aurelio and then went back out into the street to play games.

It seemed that most of the community of San Nicolas was gathered around Aurelio, next to his bed, in the living room, and in the street outside the house, in the moments after his death. It occurred to me that on this Christmas night, we were witnessing something akin to a reverse manger scene, with the shepherds and wise men gathered instead around a very human death.

We were also struck by the fact that this death was such a public, community event; we saw almost everyone we know in San Nicolas there. I had never really thought about how private our death traditions are in the US before – they occur within hospital walls, surrounded only by close family. In contrast, it was fascinating and beautiful to see the entire community surrounding Aurelio, talking and even laughing about his life, at the scene of his death.

This afternoon, the community of San Nicolas walked down the main street, bearing Aurelio's casket. We joined the long procession of people, and even though we didn't really know Aurelio, somehow marching down the streets of San Nicolas with everyone in town, even at this sad moment, made us feel so much a part of this community.

We walked along next to the mariachi band, who blended their violin and trumpet tunes with the wails of Aurelio's family. And there at the cemetery, with the entire population of San Nicolas looking on, Aurelio was put to rest in the ground, as the sun set over the mountains around San Nicolas.

As we're surrounded by the Christmas joy of birth and love, it is uncannily beautiful to see how the sorrow of death here in San Nicolas is inextricable from the love within this close-knit community – how, in essence, joy and sorrow can be such close companions.