The bells started clanging at 5:30 AM

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The church bells started clanging at 5:30 AM. It was Sunday morning in Leon, Nicaragua home of at least 17 churches including the largest cathedral, actually a basilica, in Central America. Construction was started in 1747. It is so large that the story told is that a bogus set of design plans were submitteed to the Spanish imperial authorities because they feared the real plans would be turned down. And, like the Santa Croce church in Florence where so many notables are buried, hereto are the tombs of the some of the most famous figures in Nicaraguan literature amongh them the poets Ruben Dario, Alfonso Cortes and Salomon de la Selva.
But I was not there to just sight see. On this day I was there to grieve for an aunt who had passed away last week after several months of pain and suffering. Since I couldn't return to Massachusetts, I thought I could attend a service and honor her memory.

I had no idea what time the masses were but I know that in Mexico, So. or Central America if you just sit and wait, sooner or later something will happen. Even without a service the church was a busy place. There was a vendor going from pew to pew selling what looked like the' program of the day' and a calendar that featured a muddled looking version of the madonna that stood on top of the altar. There was a father and his 6 or 7 year old daughter walking around. He brought his bicycle right inside the church and wheeled it around as they visited the statues of all the saints ( perhaps an updated versions of 'bikers for Jesus'?. There was a sexy chica in a hot pink micro- mini skirt, tight t- shirt, and impossibly high heels posing, it seemed, in front of every statue for her boyfriend who was taking boht snapsshots and a video. There were three postulants ( soon to be nuns) who spread themselves out amongst the pews. There were a few medicants, and the usual collection of old ladies on their knees whispering their prayers out loud.
The bells starting clanging louder and louder. Lights were flashed on. Candles were lit. Oh no, ALL the candles. This was to be a HIGH mass. For those of you who aren't Catholic, the difference between a HIGH mass and a LOW mass is about 45 minutes. I groaned sitting on the hard wooden pews. Now was my time to escape but no, I had come here for a reason and stay I must.
The altar boys came out. 4 of them dressed in black cassocks with white surplices. They were followed by 6 more dressed in red cassocks and white suplices. They were followed by 5 lay people who all had on green apron like 'pinnies' (those things from gym classes to denote teams). They were followed by not one, not two but THREE priest. GROAN. GROAN. GROAN.
The mass began and lecturer after lecturer got up to the podium. The highlight of the mass for me was when the youngest and handsomest priest got up to give the sermon ( the one we used to refer to as Fr. What - a- Waste!). Just as he was really getting into his sermon, a little street boy, maybe 5 or 6 years old, bounced into the church singing as loudly as he could and going from pew to pew with his hand out. The priest never blinked or missed a syllable. The attendees never shushed him. He just went around singing LOUDLY and then left. It was delightful.
I said my prayers for Jennie and offered up my thoughts that she is now happy reunited with her dear husband Frank.
The ' sign of peace' came and unconsciously I turned to the woman next to me and said " Peace be with you". She immediately started talking English to me. She had lived in Washington, DC for 22 years and has 3 kids and 8 grandchildren still there. How small the world really is.

I have witnessed so many scenes of tolerance and patience on this journey. Surely there are lessons to be learned from these people who are so poor, who have suffered so much over the years of foreign domination and war, yet are full of kindness.
Heading for El Salvador on Wednesday.
Carolyn

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