Dia De Muertos & The Kindness Of A Mexican Family

Earlier this week, Evanger shared some interesting history about El Dia De Muertos, the traditional Mexican two-day celebration where spirits of deceased loved ones temporarily return to their family to enjoy favorite foods offered on an altar.

In Mexico’s cultural tradition, Day Of The Dead celebrates the return of the children’s spirits on the 1st of November, and the spirits of the adults on November 2nd—which is also the day my mother died.

Just one week before that devastating day, my family had gathered for our own annual tradition of celebrating fall birthdays. No one imagined we’d spend the next week in the ICU. Everyone was happy and healthy, especially my mother who’d received a clean bill of health from her doctor days before. But things happen when you least expect them. A food borne illness, a car accident, a war.

During that mind-bending week leading up to November 2, there was another family in the ICU holding high hopes. Their beloved father was also hooked up to a ventilator in the room next to my mother. Throughout the day and evening, they’d arrive in large groups to pray and cry and hope and sometimes laugh while sitting tight on the edge of their seats.

During our shared time in the waiting room, I learned the family was from Mexico and they loved their father to the ends of the earth—as far as they were concerned, he was a bonafide saint. On one of those days, I could hear their sobs at their father’s bedside. I remember feeling grateful that I wasn’t in their shoes because I understood what those sobs could mean. Losing my mother was unfathomable—doctors had already predicted she’d recover. But things got dicey quickly.

The next day, the Mexican family grew larger with more showing up to say farewell to the man who was sure to pass at any time. One came into the waiting room where I was sitting. She smiled and asked how my mother was. When she noticed I fought back tears, she left the room. Then, two minutes later, she popped her head back in and asked if her family could pray for my mother. When I said yes, the family quietly piled in behind her, one by one, forming a very large circle in a very small space. Instinctively, we all reached for each other’s hands as the woman led us into prayer, praying in Spanish, every word beautiful, moving, and straight from the heart.

Although I lost my mother the next day, and they their father, I was left with a beautiful memory of selfless kindness I can never forget. To this day, I remind myself that I didn’t ask if I could pray for their father. No, I was lost in self-centered grief, gripped by the disbelief that my mother might die. But that graceful woman, so selfless and kind, had courage enough to break away from her father’s bedside to pray for someone else.

So, today, I pray that the spirit of her saintly father returns to her and her family to enjoy all his favorite foods. And I pray my mother returns to enjoy a strong cup of coffee alongside a delicious glazed donut.