The Art of Living, Pt. 2

The Art of Living, Pt. 2 Well, hello there. Tell me you didn’t want to do something without telling me you didn’t want to do something. I’ll go first. I usually write and edit on Tuesday/Wednesdays each week. It’s Thursday. It’s late. I’ve been pushing this column off until I’ve made an anxiety moment for myself. I even created jobs so that it would be impossible for me to finish telling you this story. I agreed to not one, not two, but three custom cookie orders this week. That’s a lot of cookies for someone who doesn’t make cookies for other people. I’ve got refrigerator chicken at a make or break point today. It either must be cooked, frozen, or tossed. I’ve got grandkids running hither and yon. It’s raining buckets and the dogs are not happy. I have two mouth ulcers, a clear sign of stress for me. Still, here we are. It is time to face the music.

When last we spoke, I was telling you about my first ever traveling April 12th, the day my sixteen-yearold daughter passed away, seventeen years ago. We were in San Antone, as Bob Wills and my father would say, for a visit with the youngest, our 25-yearold law school student. He had arranged a full day for us, touring the five historic missions along the San Antonio River. I got up that morning and crept down to the “kitchen” of our hotel. My husband scarfed down a waffle shaped like Texas that he proudly engineered in the hotel self-serve dining area. I opted for coffee. We never made eye contact. He knows me so well. He kissed me on the head and went back to our room. I watched a mother and daughter at the table next to me lament about the busy day ahead at some competition. I assumed it was a cheerleading thing. I remembered, fondly, the time I drove my daughter to this same city to perform at Sea World with her competition dance troupe. I bit the inside of my lip to prevent tears from falling. It failed, so I fled to the gym, instead, and turned up the music in my headphones as I half-heartedly executed an arm workout. Showered, dressed, and wearing mascara that wouldn’t last through the next hour, we were ready to face what is, historically, the worst day ever.

We started our tour off with a bang. San Josè y San Miguel de Aguayo, aka Mission San Josè, is the largest mission of the five. The old living quarters of the native people are still intact. We read all the signs. We toured the granary. We looked at the artifacts housed in glass. We walked into the massive church from 1720. Though I am no longer a practicing Catholic, the smell of incense and an acapella Ave Maria will forever rank as my favorite religious experience. We genuflected, knelt in the last pew, and prayed. No one said, “Hey, Didi, we’re praying for you to have a good day.” There was no need. Some things don’t have to be said.

Slowly, we worked our way through the missions. Some are better preserved than others. All are peaceful, hallowed grounds to behold. We chased lizards at Mission San Juan Capistrano, hopeful we could take selfies to impress the grandchildren back home. San Juan is the smallest mission. The limestone church was meant to be temporary, a grander version to be built. It never happened. The Franciscan Friars found themselves under attack, often. The original sanctuary, small though it is, was beautiful. Posted signs alerted us to notice the statues near the altar. Instead of stone carvings, they were puppets – eerie, crude, puppets with slitted mouths too wide for their faces. We visited both the restrooms and the visitor center there before driving to our final stop, Mission Concepción, the crowned jewel of San Antone. We ended with Concepción, mainly, because it is the closest to Mi Tierra Café y Panaderia, a must for lunch in the city. To us in that moment, it was merely the last mission in our day. We walked through, reading the signs and soaking in the ambiance, just as we had at all points of the day. We entered the sanctuary from a side door. Awkward. Catholics usu-ally never cross in front of an altar. Out of habit, I did a cursory bow toward the area where mass is prepared before walking toward the pews. Another church. Another prayer. We knelt. We sat. We noticed, simultaneously, a man with keys on his belt, walking through the altar area. He approached us as we sat. Would we be interested in some church history?

An hour later, we exited Mission Concepción, feeling haughtily smarter than when we’d entered. Later, we would marvel that none of us caught this elderly man’s name. He told us that he was one of only 56 remaining members of one of the original tribes found living along the San Antonio River in the 1500s when the Conquistadors dispatched by Queen Isabella first arrived. He can still speak 98% of his native language but fears it will die with him. He explained that the explorers were likely looking for the riches of the Aztec Empire in Mexico City. They were 600 miles off course. What they found was 300 tribes of 10,000 souls and a limestone quarry that rivaled anything they’d ever seen. Mission Concepción is the only mission that has not been retouched. The portrait of St. Francis is from 1590. The pew we were sitting in was built on site in 1730. He told us of the miracle of the double solar illumination that happens there every August 15th. I won’t bore you with a lay person’s description. Let YouTube guide you.

Over margaritas and a late lunch, we marveled at what had just happened. We all shared one thought. That little native man bore an uncanny resemblance to my later father. Carter gave me a card with such beautiful words penned inside. I let the tears roll freely. With a whisper of a voice, I told him, “Thank you for the best April 12th I’ve ever had.” I meant it. Deeply.