Home at last, gone too soon

Written on December 13, 2024. Dedicated to María Villanueva.

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I’m writing from an airplane, thousands of feet above the ocean, somewhere between
Bogotá and Miami. Very soon I will be home! But I’m going sooner than I planned, and I’m not going to Nebraska quite yet. Me siento muy amañada en Colombia, but the tears escaping from my eyes have nothing to do with the country I am leaving and everything to do with where I am going. A plane is taking me to Austin, and a funeral is taking me to Waco.

Tomorrow I will say goodbye, for now, to María Villanueva—the dearest person I have ever called hermana. The LORD calls us to “mourn with those who mourn” (Romans 12:15), and I am only one of many, many people grieving this loss. As believers in the risen Christ, we do not mourn as those without hope, but oh, how we mourn nonetheless.

I fear I won’t actually be able to write much more about María, at least not on this
airplane surrounded by so many people, but it feels right to try anyways. May these words honor her life, keep her memory alive, and bless all who read them.

Que las palabras de mi boca y la meditación de mi corazón sean agradables a tus ojos, oh SEÑOR, mi roca y mi redentor (Salmos 19:14).

María is present with her LORD and Savior Jesus Christ, and tomorrow I will be present with the people who loved and knew her best in this world. I can’t wait to give them all a hug. More than ever in the past four years with my Waco community, I feel the need to be with them.

“Yo extraño todo de ti, pero también extraño esa parte de mí que se fue contigo”, Camilo sings through my headphones. I miss María, dearly. I also miss the people that we were when we spent time with her. “I just can’t believe she’s gone,” one of her children cries. “Our hearts are broken,” another tells me. Yes and amen. LORD, have mercy. I have no idea how we got here.

Our hearts are indeed broken, but miraculously María’s heart is finally healed. Me parece un poco irónico que falleció ella por una enfermedad que le afectaba el corazón, because the
heart beating inside her chest until late into the evening of Monday, December 9
was one of the kindest, most compassionate, dedicated, faithful and caring que he
conocido en toda mi vida.

I first had the privilege of really spending time with María in August of 2021. Having
officially joined Primera Iglesia Bautista of Waco, I was assigned to a Spanish-speaking small group that met for six weeks on Wednesday evenings, and someone asked me if I would pick up la hermana Villanueva from her home.

Considering how little time I had known her, María told me many stories of her life
during those long Wednesday night drives between Waco and Lorena. Growing up in a large Mexican family in Zacatecas. Coming to the United States as a young adult and
meeting her querido esposo. Deciding to get married, and holding the ceremony at our church some 30+ years prior. Buying and fixing up the family home. Having her first son, a second one soon after, and several years later a daughter.

After the last meeting of the small group, I remember pulling up to her home to drop
her off and María inviting me inside to meet the family dog. She’d just been
telling me all about him, of course, and had shown me a photograph of the large boxer sitting rather sheepishly on a kitchen chair at the dining table. Too shy to accept the invitation inside (and admittedly a little nervous about interacting with a dog whose protective reputation preceded him), I politely declined while thanking her for the offer and also the purple hair clips and colorful chicles she gifted me that same night, regalitos following a trip to care for her elderly mother still in Mexico.

At the time I didn’t want to impose or intrude on her personal life. Not to worry, however, the LORD most definitely chuckled at my hesitance. He knew all the days prepared for us and arranged many, many plans for our lives to overlap. I’m fully convinced He must have shared these plans directly with his faithful servant María! Once she and I were introduced, inviting me into her family’s life seemed to become one of María’s many personal missions. I had no idea back then to what extent I would be invited to “intrude on” the Villanueva family, pero ahora me queda verdaderamente imposible describir los cuatro años que he pasado en Waco sin mencionarlos a ellos cinco.

Over the past few weeks since she first entered the hospital, I have struggled a bit to describe to non-Waco people the person that María was to me. The mother of three of my closest friends? The likely mother-in-law of my best friend? An adopted tía? A beloved friend from church? She was all of that, and then she was also una madre mexicana who noticed me living far away from my own family and intentionally carved out space for me at her table, time after time. And I mean she literally invited me to sit at her table and eat more plates than I can count of the delicious food she prepared. Tacos, tostadas, pozole, arroz, frijoles. The flavor of the buttery sweet corn she roasted on the stovetop will live on in my memory forever. Just a few months ago, I tried to replicate the dish, only somewhat successfully, in my own kitchen in Colombia. I don’t have any real regrets about my friendship with María, but in retrospect, I would’ve liked to have called her or at least sent her a picture of the corn and red peppers I prepared. At her table, I always ate until I was full; then in classic Mexican mother fashion, she served me more.

I treasure the photographs I have of María and also the ones her family has been collecting and sending me this past week. Admittedly the few I have do not do justice to the many hours we spent together. I cried to my dad over the phone about this fact a few nights ago, and he reminded me that I was simply too busy when I was with her to take pictures. Too busy drying the dishes after she washed them in the church kitchen. Too busy heating tortillas or slicing up tomatoes and avocadoes in her kitchen on Sunday afternoons. Too busy laughing together when she showed me the hidden confetti-filled Easter cascarones she’d hidden in her blouse, “para Juve cuando lleguemos a la casa.” Too busy giggling when she couldn’t find something in the kitchen and muttered “¿Dónde chingados está?” to herself, then “¡Ay, lo siento!” when she realized we’d overheard. Too busy partaking in the festivities and dancing at a family quinceañera. Too busy sitting in or right behind her family’s row at church, week after week. Too busy platicando con ella, donde sea, whether at her sons’ apartment over dinner, next to her hospital bed in July, or on the couch in her living room while watching the Olympics before I said farewell and took a plane to Colombia, never to see her again.

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I take a break from writing, and now I’m on another plane, this time from Miami to Austin. The sky is dark now as I look out the window, and I’m reminded of another night. A holy one, that’s the only way I can describe it. Last Saturday in Colombia was Día de las Velitas, and everyone in the country lit rows of candles at the edge of the street in front of their homes. Some offered prayers to saints, others hoped for a better 2025, and I just tried to keep from melting into a puddle of tears in a restaurant while my friend ordered fried chicken and potatoes. We were headed to a candlelit celebration when I got the call. My friend’s voice on the other line waivered. “There’s more news, and it’s not good. Call me when you get home.”

Three small candles kept me company for hours on the patio in front of my house, on the evening I learned that María’s physical life was starting to flicker. This time I didn’t have to hold back the tears, as I called first my sister, then my friend in Texas, and finally my parents.

“Oh, holy night, the stars are brightly shining” plays over and over in my mind. No decisions would be made until Monday, so Sunday was a day for prayer, and waiting, and hoping, and more prayer. It was a holy night, indeed, as we pleaded with God for our sister’s life. I found myself on the patio again that night, this time with half a bottle of sweet red wine, and a friend who poured glasses as I poured out everything on my heart. “Tell me about how you met María.” “What makes her laugh?” “What are your favorite memories with her?”

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The plane touches down in Austin. As fast as I can, I collect my bags and load them carefully into a rental car. Her son’s text message reads, “If you have time, come visit,” so I open the Maps app and have to smile just a little as I type in “María Villanueva,” just as I used to do back when the family home address wasn’t yet familiar. 12:03 am is the ‘time to beat’ on the screen. Despite the rain, I soon find myself nearing Waco and taking the same exit I always did, every Wednesday night, but tonight no one rides in my passenger seat. The Franklin exit, left onto Waco Drive, then 36th Street. A few more streets, another turn, and I pull up in front of the Villanueva home. Every window in the house is lit up, and it hits me again that tonight María won’t be waiting inside. I walk slowly up the driveway. Two of her children stand on the front step, silhouettes outlined against the porch light. “What will I say?” I wonder, but no words are needed. I am pulled into a tight embrace, and we cry until tears nearly run out. Home at last, gone too soon.

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If you knew María, you loved her. If you have read this far and didn’t have the privilege of knowing her personally, by now I hope you have a glimpse of the wonderful woman she was. Finally, if truly “the Lord is near to the broken-hearted,” then He is certainly closer to us than the very air we breathe. Our hermana María knew this to be true, and today she is in the very presence of Jesus. Until we meet again.