"Humbled, On Hands and Knees"
Today I step foot into a Cuban home for the first time. I have just arrived in Habana, and am stepping out of a taxi with two Australians whom I met at the airport less than an hour ago. Neither of them speaks a word of Spanish, so I have offered to help them get through their first day in Cuba. They will be staying in a Cuban woman Maria’s home for the next four days, in a rental agreement called a “Casa Particular.” This means that the government has given Maria a license to rent two rooms in her home to visiting tourists. It is illegal for Cubans to host any foreigners in their homes (even friends of family) without a license from the government. This makes couch surfing in Cuba impossible. Unless you have a host who is willing to risk jail time for putting you up for a few nights, be prepared to pay for hostels and casa particulares during your entire time in Cuba.
Maria opens the door and invites us in. The Australians smile awkwardly as I translate between them and their Cuban host. She shows them to their rooms as I stand in the front parlor, washed over with no small amount of curiosity. On the wall directly in front of me hangs a huge picture of Jesus. Just below him sit several statues of a laughing Buddha, flanked by a sculpture garden scene of various gnomes and elves. In the left-hand corner of the room sits a majestic wooden carving of an African Orisha, and on the wall beside her hangs a shrine to a catholic saint. On the floor between the parlor seats rests a carving of a Native American chief, adorned with beads and feathers. As I leave the front room to follow Maria’s voice calling me to the kitchen, I see the giant head of an Orisha deity resting in the hallway next to a statue of St Lazarus surrounded by fresh cut flowers. For a resident of a country whose government had outlawed religion until 30 years ago, there sure is a lot of idolatry going on in this house. I can’t wait to ask Maria to give me a taste from the melting pot of religions in her front room.
Ten days later I am walking with Maria in the dark down a long stretch of road. We were dropped off by a collectivo taxi and have 4 km left to walk until we arrive at the Iglesia del Rincon, a church just a few miles outside of Habana, famous for its yearly celebration of the Saint Lazarus. Every December 17th, thousands of people make a pilgrimage to this church to pay homage to this saint known for his great miracles and power to heal the sick. People come from all over Cuba to make “promises” to the saint. The way they do this is by walking on their hands and knees, crawling, even sometimes dragging heavy rocks behind them for the 4 kilometers from the main road to the church. Even at eight o’clock pm, we still see a few of the straggling pilgrims crawling along the pavement, dedicated to their decision to make it all the way to the church before the final blessing is given by the Bishop at 9pm. Most of the pilgrims have already finished their journey and are resting against the pillars of the church, surrounded by flowers, candles, and donations from strangers who wish to support them in their pilgrimage of faith. Dan and I sit down against a pillar inside the church and Maria prays to the St Lazarus and the Holy Family as the Bishop gives his sermon to the remaining pilgrims who have come to his church to pray.
Two candles burn on the floor before us, lit by a lighter that has traveled in a pocket from the central coast of California. As we have been instructed, we pray for those we know who are sick, as well as those who we don’t know who are suffering around the world. A Cuban man leans down and places a peso dollar bill beside us, thinking that we too are some of the pilgrims who have traveled here today by crawling or dragging ourselves on the rough pavement. We look at each other, surprised. Although admittedly we do look like a pair of young dirty hippies, I didn’t expect to be confused for a pilgrim on this particular occasion. I feel humbled and a bit abashed. This whole journey is a pilgrimage for us. It is the reason we wake up every morning: to seek, to serve, to pay homage to the miracle of life. Once a pilgrim, always a pilgrim. But how to compare with the devotion of a human being willing to drag themselves across miles of hot pavement in order to pray for what they believe in? You can never compare. You can only do your best with what you are given.
We take the peso dollar bill that we were gifted and offer it to a man sitting beside us. His bloody knees are wrapped in the bandages from the scraps of cloth he has been given to cover his aching joints. A small child approaches him timidly, nudged on by his mother. He places a burning candle on the ground, joining the 30 or 40 other stumps of flickering waxy prayers that surround this tired man.
You would never know how long four kilometers can feel
until you walk it on your own knees.
You can never know how much pain there is in the world,
or how much hope,
until you feel it with your own heart.
