This past Sunday, I was already grateful to be able to escort my mom to her first in-person church service in well over a year. But to arrive at Community Worship Center Gardena and see this man’s beautiful smile rocketed me into a whole new galaxy of gratitude.
Wilfredo del Pilar pastored here for decades, back when “here” was Fuente de Vida. And for many of those years he and his late wife Lily were exactly that – a fountain of life and hope to my grandmother and countless others. But they were much more than pastors, they were dear supportive friends who cared for grandma like familia.
Seeing Pastor Wilfredo again was a gift, and the hug that he gave me embraced my heart in a way I didn’t even know I needed. He whispered to me “I always remember Carmen Acayturri. I never forget your grandmother.” In response I cried tears of love all over his shoulder.
It has always proven true to me that those with the least are the most giving. The del Pilar family is an example of this. They are able to serve well beyond their means because they know the One who owns it all. Love like this is the most meaningful investment.
They say you can’t go home again, and maybe there’s some truth to that. As you live, learn, and love, as you stumble, fall, and rise again through this life, you can never become the person you were before the lessons, before the breaking and mending. But yesterday I did it, I went home again. Not as a return to who I once was, but standing firm on the foundation that has sustained me and stepping forward into who God has created me to be today.
My Mother’s Day wish was to return to the place where I met Jesus. Back then it was called Fuente de Vida, “Fountain of Life,” a little church in Gardena, California that was the saving grace for my 98 pound Puerto-Rican grandmother – a woman well-aquainted with suffering. She found familia there, family who surrounded her with love in the absence of her natural bloodline thousands of miles away.
These days the place has a new name and a fresh coat of paint, but the faith, the commitment to the Lord and community, shines just as brightly as it did forty years ago. Stepping into the sanctuary of Community Worship Center yesterday, I was immediately family in a room full of strangers. The music and lights were bigger and bolder than the humble keyboard and two tambourines I remember from childhood, but the love was rich and familiar.
There is no doubt that God called me to be in that space on Mother’s Day. Not only to honor the legacy of my grandmother, mi abuelita, a woman who was consistently on her knees uttering the prayers that sustain me today. But also to encourage my heart in being proactive about the legacy I want to leave for my son. I’m not that little girl anymore, sitting on a chair next to the Sunday School teacher who kindly translated the Spanish lesson into English just for me. But that memory is a powerful part of my legacy.
To every woman who mothers her own child, someone else’s children, or a child who has died – to every person who had the opportunity to see or speak to their mother yesterday, and to those who wish for closeness with their own mothers that just isn’t possible – you have a legacy. Your story matters. Your heart matters, to me and to God, on Mother’s Day and every day.
I first heard Amanda Gorman’s voice online as I watched her recite “The Miracle of Morning” from the LA Public Library. That’s when I learned that she was the first Los Angeles youth poet laureate. As a fellow native Angeleno, I was inspired by her words ringing out through the halls of one of my favorite places.
Today, as a fellow American, I am thankful for her hopeful words at the presidential inauguration. These words remind us that what our country looks like and how it moves forward have far more to do with the attitudes and perspectives of each and every one of us than any political office or name on a ballot.
“Build houses and settle down; plant gardens and eat what they produce. Marry and have sons and daughters…seek the prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile. Pray to the Lord for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper.” ~ Jeremiah 29:5-7
A few days ago a plain brown package arrived at our house. I opened it to find what may look to you like an ordinary children’s picture book. I assure you, there is nothing ordinary about this book, it’s author, or the incredible impact both have had on my life.
When I say that, it sounds like I knew David Saltzman, author and illustrator of The Jester Has Lost His Jingle. Unfortunately I never had the pleasure. David died 11 days before his 23rd birthday after having been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease during his senior year at Yale. This book was his senior project.
But THIS book, the copy you see here, is special. This 25th anniversary edition is a gift from David’s parents Joe and Barbara Saltzman, two extraordinary individuals in their own right. Both well respected and established journalists, Joe and Barbara have dedicated their lives to not only fulfilling their promise to David by publishing his book, but seeing to it that thousands of copies are given to ill and special-needs children around the world. And at the beginning of that journey, Joe and Barbara chose to hire Jon and I, two young booksellers who could never have known where David’s book would take us. Nor could we have predicted that the Saltzmans would become our second parents, mentors, and amazingly supportive friends.
I talk a lot about how much words matter, and how important our creative voices are in this world. David’s life and work are a powerful reminder of this. He never got to hold a copy of his beautiful book, listening to the miracle of a child’s laugh as they read about the Jester while laying in a hospital bed. I will be forever grateful to have done both.
As you enter the new year in search of a hopeful lift, I encourage you to pick up a copy of this book for yourself or someone you love. The secret is that it isn’t a book for children, it’s a story for all humans. Even better, proceeds from every copy sold help to provide copies to children in need of a smile.
“Thanksgiving is my second favorite holiday,” my son blurted out. We were in the car on our way to share the annual meal with his grandparents. He quickly followed up his statement with, “The Fourth of July is my favorite.” This was no surprise to me, coming from a young man who has donned some form of an Uncle Sam costume or unique combination of red, white, and blue attire every year while parading around the house for the occasion. There has never been a doubt that Isaiah is a patriot who honors his country.
But as our discussion about holidays continued, his words had something more to teach me regarding honoring life and the Life-Giver.
“I love Thanksgiving too, but I have to say I do love Christmas,” I said.
Isaiah replied that he likes Christmas, but added, “it’s the lead up to Christmas that I love most, not that actual day.” He went on to explain how much he enjoys and looks forward to the weeks before Christmas when we decorate the house, visit the holiday tree festival, and share in Cousin’s Cookie Day with family. The celebration things. The together things. “When we get to Christmas Day all those things are over, and it’s kind of a letdown.”
As we continued talking about Christmas, my motherly voice instinctually chimed in with all the “Jesus is the reason for the season” cliches, which I know Isaiah already knows. But at the same time I understood his heart, and I related to his desire for the Christmas pre-show. I shared with him that I too experience a sort of disappointed sadness every year on Christmas day, and I joy in days before.
In thinking about this conversation over the past weeks, the Lord impressed upon my heart about the importance of those “lead up” days. Not just in relation to Christmas, but to the greater scope of our lives. The truth is that we are living the lead up days to Christ’s return right now, as we have been since the day of our own birth. While we wait expectantly for the day that our Father welcomes us to our forever home, we were not created to simply bide our time. God’s purpose for you and I is so much greater than that.
This year has been a source of challenge and discouragement for many people around the world, and understandably so. But if we are waiting for things to get better, more comfortable, or more like what we’re used to, we’ve already missed the mark. These lead up days were meant for living, loving, encouraging, serving, and most of all rejoicing in the One who holds our every day. These are the days that matter, they are what we were made for. As my aunt used to say, we shouldn’t be so heavenly minded that we’re no earthly good.
As you live these next days in the countdown to Christmas, perhaps missing the people and traditions that you won’t get to share in this year, allow the Lord to move you in new ways to shine His light. Let your disappointment become compassion, and your longing, joy. Honor Christmas by fully living the lead up days that Jesus’s birth has gifted you.
Wealthy in the ways that matter most to me. Lifted by a love that I have yet to understand.
Grateful to know the depths of my own heart, which has been mysterious to me for the better part of those forty-five years.
The girl in this photo couldn’t have known the road ahead of her, and if she had she likely would have run the other direction as fast as her little feet would take her.
But I thank God for all of my days, every broken moment, every unspeakable joy, and all of the in-between.
I told a friend this morning that this has been one of my best years, which I know seems strange and ridiculous. But it’s true. The stillness, the stripping away, and the loss. I wouldn’t choose them, they haven’t felt good. But they have grown me and allowed for a strengthening of my spirit that I’ve never known before.
She told me I’ve always been “a little sideways.” She’s right.
Forty-five is being more than okay with that.
Here’s to today, this moment right now. We are promised nothing more.
About a month before the world shut down and COVID became the primary topic of conversation, I stumbled into a new endeavor making greeting cards from vintage photographs. I soon found myself hunting through random boxes of photos and ephemera at local antique stores and flea markets, searching for the opportunity to bring forgotten memories back to life. At the time I didn’t know how meaningful this mission would be in the months to follow, or how much one particular mid-century photograph would come to represent what we are all facing today.
I was immediately taken with this photograph of a derailed train, and that was before I realized exactly what it captured. What I first saw was the obvious – chaos, debris, and a mountain of wreckage that would seem an overwhelming task to clear. But as I looked closer, what I saw made for an even more powerful image. A single person is adjacent to the tracks and the toppled cars. I don’t know the story of what he is doing there or how he arrived at this spot. All that is evident is that he appears small and still amidst a devastating scene. Most importantly, he is standing.
None of us could have predicted the circumstances we have seen manifested in the world since the beginning of this year. And while those circumstances are different for each of us, the challenges and grief over what has been lost are very real. In my circle I have loved ones who are struggling with unemployment, (both COVID and non-COVID related) health concerns, confusion about how to manage a household with everyone stuck at home, and fear about what’s to come. As I think and pray over these situations, I ask the Lord to return my heart to the truth that underlies it all, and He reminds me that we are still here. By His grace and faithfulness, we are still standing despite the wreckage.
Matthew 28:20 is God’s promise of presence. “…And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” This promise is clear and intentional. It does not say that we won’t suffer or that our lives will remain comfortable. His words do not imply continuous happiness and health. Throughout His Word the message is simply that He will remain with us and we are to draw close to Him. The message is also purposeful. The Lord knows that our need for Him will always be great as we navigate life in a world that is constantly changing and ravaged by our own sin.
As we step forward together in this season, remember that you are standing. Not only are you standing, you are planted firmly on the strongest, most unshakeable promise there has ever been. Turn your eyes away from the uncertainty, confusion, and fear you see around you, and lift them to the One who has never let go of you before and certainly isn’t going to start now. He has hope-filled, abundant plans for your heart this year that reach far beyond what you can see today.
Every year when this day approaches I take stock of how I’m feeling and the places where my thoughts wander. Typically I find myself at the crossroads of curiosity and longing – wondering how long your curls would be, begging my mind’s eye to give me even a hazy glimpse of you.
But today is different.
Today I’m not questioning how tall you would be, what passions you would be pursuing, or what kind of cake would be your favorite. Instead I’m caught up in the miracle of your existence, and what it means to be the mother of one who is leaving her girlhood behind.
Today, for the first time, I am the mother of a woman.
It’s a strange year to turn eighteen. The things we associate with coming-of-age – freedom, opportunity, celebration – they’ve all turned upside down in this world. They’ve become almost unrecognizable. Milestones seem to be overshadowed by the uncertainty of what’s to come. I laughed to myself the other day when I thought about your reaching adulthood during an election year. During THIS election year. I realized the joke is on me.
Today is different because it marks an arrival at womanhood for both of us. I’m not who I was when you were born, and that’s something I thank God for every day. In the past eighteen years my heart has been broken in ways I didn’t know was possible, but I’ve also learned how to walk forward in healing. I’m a better person, a better mother. (Your brother might even agree with me on that.) Of course I like to think that you’re proud of me, but more importantly I can say that I’m proud of me. That in itself is profoundly different.
But today is not defined by its differences. It will not be taken down by present circumstance. At the heart of this day is a powerful, indescribably love that belongs to me alone. Today I celebrate life. Your life, and mine. Today I marvel at the miracle of being and God’s goodness through it all.
There will never be a day that I don’t miss you. Nor will there ever be a day that I don’t feel you with me and in everything that I do.
Today is different. I’m different. But the things that matter, the truth of my love for you, will always be the same.
I remember how small I felt climbing way up high to ride in the passenger seat of the big rig.
Mostly in the summertime, when I was out of school for months with nothing to do, he’d take me along for the ride to one of the construction sites he was delivering to. When we arrived he would park the truck, make sure everything was safely in place, then come around to my side to help me down. I’d stand there on the ground watching in wonder as he flipped the switch that started the trailer going up, up, higher and higher while gravel came pouring out the back, forming a mountain behind the truck.
Sometimes when he was all done with work he’d drive me out to this open space near the airport where I would sit up on the wheel well as we watched the huge commercial jets land on the runway.
Looking back, I realize that what I remember is less about how small I felt and more about how big he was to me. I’m thankful that he still is such a big presence in my life, not as much in size or stature, but in humor and heart.
Happy Father’s Day to the man who has always put me first and who makes me feel safe in my own skin.
When I was born, we lived in the house behind that of my Puerto Rican grandmother and Peruvian grandfather. What I remember is grandma’s quiet grace, Pop’s bitter grumblings, wine jug in hand, and my Mom’s childhood stories of the alcoholic rages and the bruises he left on my grandmother. I had yet to hear about the house fire that took the lives of his young siblings in Peru, or the physical and emotional toil of his life as a dark-skinned immigrant merchant marine. I just knew Pop was angry ‘til his last breath.
When I was a young child, I attended a Spanish speaking church with my grandma. What I remember is the kindness of the teacher, who sat me in a chair next to her so she could translate the lessons to English for me – and my wishing she didn’t have to. I had yet to learn that the word “illegal” could be applied to any human being, let alone some of the other children in that classroom. I just knew that as the only non-Spanish speaker I felt different, like I was the one who didn’t belong.
Growing up, I spent countless summers and holidays with my paternal grandparents, the only white family in a predominantly black neighborhood. What I remember is my uncles and their friends playing football in the street, my grandmother and aunt sitting on the short cinder block wall sharing laughs with their friends who lived down the block. I had yet to hear terms like “ghetto” or “the ‘hood,” so I had no connotation for what they meant, and certainly didn’t apply them to the people there. I never thought about why neighborhoods like this existed, where most of the houses were filled with families of the same race or culture. I just knew it felt like another home to me.
When I was a senior in high school, my first boyfriend was a dark-skinned young black man. What I remember is feeling special and wanted, until he stopped acknowledging me in the halls between classes and made it clear that we could only spend time together when his friends were not around. I had yet to know my country’s history of targeted violence against black men in relationship with white women, or the ridicule that he probably faced from within the black community. I just knew that it hurt, and for some reason my whiteness and his blackness mattered.
When I started working, I was introduced to what life looked like on the other side of the tracks. I found myself in gated communities or on beachfront properties, in unfamiliar areas with pleasant sounding names – sitting at tables in large, luxurious homes where I felt exceedingly small. I remember being spoken to in broken Spanish by people who assumed I was there to clean the toilets and empty the trash, and wondering why the tone changed so drastically when it was discovered that I was there to manage the money. I became familiar with assumptions about who I was and started making the choice not to correct them. I had yet to understand the damage that my silence could do or the part that it played in the larger narrative. I just knew that it was easier, and potentially better for my career and my future if I played along.
When I was newly married, my dark-skinned Filipino/Mexican husband was stopped by local police on his way to work in a predominantly white residential neighborhood, for what the officer described as “overwhelmingly loud music” coming from his car. What I remember is the disbelief I felt, knowing that my husband’s car stereo had been stolen three days prior. I was indignant that he was accused of a literal impossibility, when in fact he had been the victim of a crime, and I was even more angry that he didn’t point this out to the cop. I had yet to come to terms with how frequently this type of thing happened to him, and how exhausted he was at having to deal with the assumptions he faced daily, which were clear every time he was told that he “looks like a gangster.” I just knew it was wrong and felt helpless to do anything about it.
I’m forty-four years old now and I am embarrassed that it’s taken me this long to come to the table, especially because this isn’t my first encounter with the boiling point. I watched my city burn almost thirty years ago; the flames stoked by the same injustices that provoke us today. I am ashamed of how often I have made the active choice to avoid difficult conversations. But the manifestation of pain and abuse that I see around me in every direction is pleading for truth – your truth and mine. There is too much at stake to continue burying our stories under a blanket of fear and shame.
Change hurts, which is why we don’t like it. Confronting ourselves can be excruciating, but it’s where taking charge of personal responsibility begins, and that is powerfully worth it. None of this comes quickly or easily, and it’s a mistake to expect that it will. But it starts with the willingness to be vulnerable. To speak our stories out loud. To invite others into our brokenness. To hear, not just listen, and to accept the truth of what we are hearing. To shatter the expectation of “fixing” anything, replacing it instead with the reality of coming alongside each other – of showing up.
Today I am exposed, liberated, and humbled by the hearts around me who are sharing their truths, exposing, liberating, and humbling themselves in the process. And it is a process – one that I am committed to working through, alongside those who choose to join me.
Carrie Joy(ful) 