I leave San Lucas Tolimán in two days, on April 30, 1998. My life right now is filled with two pains: packing and saying adios.

     The first of those is bringing me memories associated with all the things I need to sort through. Pine needles I saved remind me of pine carpets created in churches for weddings and special Masses. A pin with a ribbon and a flower reminds me of one of the first fifteenth birthday celebrations I attended. A songbook reminds me of La Voz de Cristo. A few remaining pieces of chocolate remind me of the support of my friends back home. Several small toys remind me of a boy in Cobán who wanted me to bring them to the United States, where his dad is working to make money for the family. An empty bottle reminds me of "La India Quiché" soda, made in the Quiché region – the finest bottle of cream soda I have ever tasted. A little bag of purple sawdust reminds me of the carpets created in the streets throughout Holy Week. The guitar I need to give back to the parish reminds me of the many Masses I have played at with music group La Rondalla; it also reminds me of the hundreds of children singing with full voice at school Masses, at which I played with La Rondalla’s leader, Juan Coz. Spanish dictionaries remind me of my growth in being able to communicate with the people around me.

     Packing, I am reliving many of my experiences from these past nine months. Saying adios, hasta pronto, I am encountering two feelings: gratitude and incompleteness.

     Gratitude is my strongest emotion right now. It is the only way I can respond to the generosity, grace, acceptance, and love the people of the parish and the community continually shared with me. They have been so patient, so giving, so receiving, so affirming. It is very difficult to walk away from some of these people. It is very hard to let go of some of the children. I love them so much. I hope I have given them even a morsel of the affection and joy they have given me.

     Filled with this gratitude, incompleteness is not far behind. There are still people I had wanted to know but did not have the chance to spend time with. There is more I feel I could have done with the people of Santa Teresita. There are parish projects I never explored.

     There are chapters I did not write and photographs I did not take, and I never learned to play the marimba.

     The incompleteness I feel for myself is small, however, compared to that which I feel for these people. There is so far yet to go in the full realization of their freedom. A sad and disgusting reminder of this is yesterday’s murder of Bishop Juan Gerardi, who worked faithfully and strongly for Guatemalan human rights. He was killed by hand, beaten to death with a chunk of concrete. The government has been given seventy-two hours to fully investigate; if the murderer is not named in that time, the blame will fall to the government. This is a time of national insecurity; it should be a time of global insecurity as well as support for the people of Guatemala and for the causes which Juan Gerardi struggled for with his very life.

     Having to leave during the beginnings of the aftermath of this assassination encapsulates my sense of incompleteness. The beauty of these people who have loved me and whom I have grown to love is incongruent with the ugliness of this situation. The beauty of the land on which they live is out of step with the conditions which keep them from being able to own it and work it with freedom.

     Many things are sure to remind me of this time I have spent in Guatemala. As my mind and heart turn to these people and their land, their culture, their joy, and their pain, I will know that love only needs time and patience, not the proper words. I will try to live a simpler life. I will grow in knowing that this simplicity brings greater joy. I will reflect on and teach that our world needs greater, concentrated efforts to assist people in pulling down the process of poverty. I will remember that pain, suffering, and oppression can hide and mask beauty, but they cannot destroy it.

     I will remember the antics and support of my fellow volunteers, and I will both laugh and cry.

     I will think about the lessons I learned from Father Greg, Father John, Father John Francis, and Father David. I will sing the songs I learned from La Voz de Cristo and La Rondalla. I will hear with a smile the music that the youth of Casa Feliz always had playing at the house. I will eat tortillas.

     I will remember with love the deep, beautiful eyes of the children, youth, adults, and ancianos of San Lucas Tolimán.

     And I will be simply grateful.