Along the Way

The San Xavier del Bac mission near Tucson lived up to its sobriquet: "The White Dove of the Desert." It glistened brightly in the blistering sun, isolated in a surround of desert.

The smells of wildflowers and desert brush were overpowering, smells I had dreamed about constantly in my homesickness, having been away from the desert for 40 years except for short visits to see my mother.

I thought, "There never will be another time like this again," for my mother, at age 94, was a mere wisp of a person. She had gone downhill quickly since my last visit a year ago.

Her wrinkled, sun-dried leathery skin hung flaccidly over her bones, her too-large dress engulfing the tiny body, making it seem even more fragile.

I looked at her tenderly, remembering the impressive woman she had once been. A tall, hauntingly beautiful woman, she had carried herself ramrod straight with a regal, proud bearing.

She looked every inch like a Spanish countess with her glossy black hair woven into a bun at the nape of her neck, or braided around her head and held with silver and turquoise combs. She was a woman who caused men to turn their heads and stare, and women to glance askance at her with envy.

Her alert, green eyes flashed with a wonderful sense of humor and held the joy of living. They showed the wisdom of years of hard times, the pain and suffering that often came with raising a family of nine, without any help, yet none of the defeat or bitterness that sometimes comes from that kind of life.

I helped her gingerly out of the car and held her arm, as my husband and I guided her slowly toward the mission.

Entering the small chapel where masses are held for the Indians, I found that the rooms were dim and moldy smelling. The thick walls made of mud 200 years ago by Indians under the guidance of Franciscan missionaries seemed to hold the odor of the mud, as though they had just been built.

Finally, with our eyes adjusting to the dimness, we became aware of the pews filled with local Indians, all dressed in bright garb. We walked slowly to the front of the chapel where there was some seating available.

But as we paused to genuflect and slide into a pew, the Indians who had been sitting there began silently moving out, never taking their eyes off my mother. I put up my hand in

INDIAN ENCOUNTER CREATES A SUBLIME MOMENT AT SAN XAVIER

protest to stop them, indicating we did not wish to displace them, only to sit next to them. But they ignored me and continued moving away.

Feeling very uncomfortable, I bowed my head in prayer, glancing sideways at my mother, who seemed serene and unperturbed by the scene we had just created.

After saying her rosary, she expressed a desire to go to a small alcove and light candles in prayer for my brothers and a sister who had passed away several years earlier.

I looked over at a line of people waiting to light candles and suggested that we wait until they were done because the dirt floor was uneven and there were a few steps. I was afraid she might trip, and the space was so small and crowded with people waiting in line, I would be unable to assist her.

She simply shook her head and got up a little unsteadily to make her way to the alcove. I stepped forward quickly to grab her elbow, but, to my amazement, strange arms and hands were reaching eagerly for her, so I held back.

I watched, as all the Indians moved aside to allow her to go ahead of them.

One by one, as she approached, they dropped to their knees, bowing before her, asking for her blessing. My tiny mother stood regally over them, like a queen with her subjects, making the sign of the cross over each bowed head, and tenderly touching each forehead.

As one person moved away, another came forward, some kissing her on the cheek, others grasping her hand tightly, seem-ingly reluctant to let it go. Some whispered, "Vaya con Dios" as she blessed them. I watched in amazement, and, I don't mind saying, my mouth probably was hanging open.

Finally, with the line exhausted, the candles lighted for my brothers and sister, we made our way once more into the blazing sunshine under incredibly blue skies.

As we walked slowly back to the car, I was bursting with curiosity, but when I saw the serene look on my mother's face, so totally at one with her God, I knew not to intrude on her thoughts. Later, in the coolness of her home with a sandwich and a glass of iced tea, I broached the subject.

"Mom," I said, "why did all those Indians bow and kneel in front of you?"

She looked at me with the same look a mother generally reserves for a not-too-bright, but loved, child asking foolish questions, and replied: "Why, the Indians are a people who revere and respect their elders, and they believe that all the wisdom and knowledge an old person has acquired through the years can be passed on to them through a blessing or a loving touch.

"That is all they were asking of me, and I was more than glad to be able to do this for them."

I turned my head quickly, as I felt the tears burn my eyes. I suddenly realized I had been taught something by total strangers, for I had never thought to ask my mother for her blessing of wisdom and love.