Immigrant - inmigrado

I am the great-grandson, on my father’s side, of a Northern Irish immigrant from Country Tyrone, who arrived in the US in 1851.

Great grandfather James Donaghy on the left.

Now, according to the Office of Migration of Honduras, I have “residencia en la calidad de inmigrado.” That means that I am registered as “under the qualification of an immigrant”. 

What this means in practical terms is that I will no longer be required to renew residency every five years! I’ll have to get a new ID card but I won’t have to go through bureaucratic hassles in Tegucigalpa or San Pedro Sula.

It doesn’t mean that I’m a Honduran citizen; I’d have to give up US citizenship to get that – and, despite my severe critiques of US policies at home and abroad, I’m not yet ready to do that.

Of course, this is another reflection of the privilege and wealth I have as a US citizen, especially in comparison with my neighbors. It also feels strange since I know many people who have tried to go to the US and have been deported, others who have made it across the border and are either undetected or waiting judgment. I also recall the time our parish here, with our sister parish in Iowa, tried to get a visitors’ visa for three parishioners here to visit Iowa but were denied – almost assuredly because they were poor!

But not being listed as an immigrant makes it clearer to me that I am setting down my roots here.

When I left the US many asked me how long I would be in Honduras. I answered, “Until God calls me somewhere else.” I left it very open, with an implication that this might be where God calls me home.

Here people also ask me how long I’ll be here. They are used to people coming for periods of time. So when I say “hasta que Dios quiera” – until God wants it, I think they are surprised – and many are pleased.

Now I can say that I am an immigrant here.

May God make me worthy to be with my Hondurans brothers and sisters.

I'm just a travelling man

Today, Friday, I spent all day at home – mostly doing wash. I needed the day off.

I’ve been travelling a lot in the last few weeks – and, indeed, this year. A few months ago I took a look at my travel this year; I averaged about 1000 kilometers each month. I do go to Santa Rosa about once a week which accounts for about 50 kilometers a week. I occasionally have a diocesan meeting or go to San Pedro Sula. But most of my travel is within the limits of the parish of Dulce Nombre.

There has been a lot of international travel this year. In January I went with my pastor, Padre German Navarro, on a pilgrimage to Santiago Atitlán where Padre Aplas’ – Blessed Stanley Rother – was martyred. In July I went to New Orleans for the Diaconate Congress, celebrating fifty years of the diaconate in the US. In October I went with Padre German to the canonization of Monseñor Oscar Romero and others in Rome and we spent a day and a half in Assisi. I then went for a very short visit to Ames and the parish of St. Thomas Aquinas. When I returned, I met our bishop and Padre German in Guatemala for the beatification of Padre Tulio Marruzzo and the lay catechist Luis Obdulio Arroyo. In November, I was in Bogotá, Colombia, for

 a seminar sponsored by CLAR (Latin American Confederation of Religious) on the care and protection of minors and vulnerable adults. Just this past weekend I went to a meeting of the Central American associates of the Dubuque Franciscan Sisters in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala.

I’m tired of travelling.

I’m especially tired since two weeks ago I went to Tegucigalpa to finish up the paper work for permanent residency. I went to Siguatepeque and stayed there the night before. But I was planning to return home. However, I had an accident in Gracias, Lempira, at about 6:30 pm that night. A car braked in front of me and I couldn’t stop in time. Not much damage to the other person’s car, but my car had to be towed and didn’t bet finished until last Tuesday, two weeks after the accident.

When the accident happened I called the insurance company while we waited for the police to come. I think I made more than twenty phone calls between that night and the following two days. The insurance company wanted me to go with the car which was to be towed to San Pedro Sula that night at a cost of $240. I told them that I had to appear before the transit police the next day and so they had the car towed to Santa Rosa. When I got to Santa Rosa, the insurance company arranged for it to be repaired in Santa Rosa! What a relief. But it was an introduction to the bureaucracy of insurance here in Honduras.

I was fortunate that I had insurance. I ended up paying the other person for his repairs (about $350) and my deductible came to about $230.

But it was a pain to be without a vehicle. I cut back on commitments and relied on public transportation to get to two important meetings the weekend of December 1 and 2 - a meeting with the communion ministers on Saturday and the Rite of Entry into the catechumenate on Sunday, where we welcomed forty-four into the catechumenate, mostly young people between 16 and 20.

Fortunately, I was able to accompany the people working on the parish coffee field, which just happens to be in Plan Grande where I live. I couldn't give them rides but I was there picking coffee at their side.

I also had four and a half days away for the Dubuque Franciscan Associates meeting. I went to Gracias where one group of the sisters live in order to leave at 3 am on Friday, December 7. We ended up leaving at 4 am because the driver encountered fog getting to Gracias from Esperanza. We didn’t arrive in Quetzaltenango until 9:30 that night, missing a dance presentation from a group of Achí. We got in so late because we were in the worst traffic jam I have ever experienced – almost three hours, mostly stopped in traffic in Chimaltenango. The trip back was not as long; though we left at 2 am, we didn’t arrive in Santa Rosa until about 4:30 pm. I got a bus and a lift from a friend to get home.

But I still had to get back to Tegucigalpa to get my identity card. So I left Wednesday, after Mass for the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe in the village of San Isidro La Cueva. I had planned to stay the night in Siguatepeque. Things were going well until I began the final ascent into Siguatepepque from Jesús de Otoro. FOG.

I have encountered fog here in Honduras any number of times, but this was my worst experience. I found myself in the wrong lane at least twice – once nearly going into the water run off ditch, once nearly going down a dirt road. But I made it safely there.

I got through the procedures at the Migration Office with little difficulty. At first, I thought it was all in vain, since the clerk told me that my card wasn’t avaialable and I’d have to come back next week. I gently pleaded my case and he did what he could. I was out of the office in 90 minutes with my new ID.

I had thought of stopping the night in either Siguatepeque or Gracias, but I made good time, I was awake, and it was still not late. This was in spite of stopping at the Mennonite store in Siguatepeque for ice cream and buying strawberries and cherry tomatoes at a stand outside of Esperanza (where I almost always stop).

Tomorrow I head out for the clergy Christmas get-together. But I’ll be staying within the limits of the parish for most of the coming week (except for a trip to the mechanic in Santa Rosa for a check up on the car.)

These past weeks have taught me a lot. First of all, I need to slow down and also be more careful in my driving. Secondly, I rely a lot on my pickup and I need to make sure that I keep up the maintenance. Thirdly, having a vehicle may be a luxury but it is very important in terms of my ministry, especially in terms of trying to accompany the people in the rural communities. I really missed the opportunity to visit them while my car was being repaired.

In all this, I give thanks to God and continue to invoke the intercession of the archangel Raphael, patron of travellers, that I may continue to serve the people here.

It's not looking like Advent

Advent has begun. For many years I’ve loved to celebrate this season, a season of hope and waiting.

For many years, I’ve read portions of the Prison Meditations of Father Alfred Delp, a Jesuit killed by the Nazis in 1945. His Advent and Christmas meditations have sustained me for many years. (It's now available as Alfred Delp: Prison Writings.)

I’ve often tried to have an Advent wreath. This year I have the candles, but no greens.

I’ve often had to bundle up for Advent since it was cold in the places where I lived in the US, especially Ames, Iowa. But I also usually had to bundle up here in Honduras since it’s usually rainy and in the 50s – which is cold when you have no heat. My first year here I wondered if I would ever feel warm. Hot showers and a space heater helped a bit. But this year it’s been dry and hot, more like March and April than December. Don’t tell me climate change is not happening.

In the last few years we’ve had the rite of welcome of the candidates for the catechumenate on the first Sunday of Advent.

This year we welcomed 43 into the catechumenate, mostly young people between 14 and 20.

I don’t have any pictures of the first Sunday of Advent because I was busy. I had to arrange all the details for the rite and then, when the church secretary couldn’t come, I had to arrange for someone to help with the signing-in of the candidates.

The pastor asked me to bless the Advent wreath and then, as we sat down to listen to the readings, he asked me if I had a homily prepared. Yes, I told him and so I preached.

Then I led the catechumens out for a short reflection on the rite after the prayer of the faithful.

After all this, since I wanted to attend a complete Mass, I accompanied the pastor to Mass in San Agustín, where I also blessed the Advent wreath and preached.

After Mass, he went to visit the sick. The communion minister in San Agustin, a young man from the parish, and I accompanied him.

In the first house we visited a woman whom I had visited several times. In fact, she remembered me and had wondered why I hadn’t come recently. She is much worse than when I last saw here in the beginning of October.

Then we went to the house of a 93 year-old, former delegate of the word, who was being cared for by his wife of 67 years, who was in her eighties. Though he was confined to bed, he was very alert and proceeded to joke with father. When we prayed, he prayed aloud, and when we sang, he sang. He received the anointing of the sick and both he and his wife received communion.

What a great way to begin Advent – even though it’s not feeling a lot like Christmas.