“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.”
~ Emily Dickinson
It’s another hot, humid, sunny day on the shores of the Napo River. The heat becomes unimaginably more oppressive as we ascend to the uppermost level of Santa Clotilde, the town known to locals as the “Pueblo de Tres Pisos” or the “Town of Three Floors.” I recall the incessant, melodic chirping of the birds to which I awoke in the cool morning and the current absence of their song- they, too, seem to have been afflicted by the day’s warmth, retreating into their shaded arboreal shelters. We begin our climb, leaving behind the lowest level which boasts the town’s riverside outdoor market and various housefront shops. The second tier is home to Hospital Santa Clotilde, the boarding school, and the obligatory municipal soccer field, all exceptionally quiet on this Sunday afternoon. We reach the apex of our journey passing the central plaza studded with “sand” volleyball courts, the town’s largest school, and Santa Clotilde’s fanciest pollería or “chicken restaurant." Some grueling steps and many winded breaths later, we arrive at our destination- a stilted, wooden abode thatched with dried banana leaves. I have been invited by one of the Franciscan friars from our parish to visit an elderly woman in her home- he asks me to evaluate her as she is no longer able to walk.
As we enter the doorway I take in the sights and smells of a typical Napuruna (of, or pertaining to, the Napo River region) home. To my left lies a small canoe containing masato, a staple food of the people living in the Peruvian Amazon. This fermenting yuca has a distinct smell, and its sharp odor dances alongside the less obtrusive smell of the smoldering wood-burning stove where her daughter stands preparing her mother’s lunch. Two cats scurry about the array of wooden planks and maneuver in and out of the maze of holes and crevices carved out by nature’s untamed jungle elements. The house’s thoughtfully-designed stilts keep out many of the earth-trodding creatures, the lurking cats take care of the unwelcome mice, and the scrambling lizards feast on pestilent flies and mosquitos. A bench lines one of the walls, a table sits undisturbed in a remote corner, and a donated air mattress adorns the rafters up above. I am instantly confronted with the uncomfortable juxtaposition: the woman’s undeserved material poverty and physical isolation and my own undeserved material plenitude and personal freedom.
My eyes are then drawn to the elderly woman lying on the floor under a mosquito net. Her bed consists of a one-inch-thick piece of plywood topped with two sheets and a pillow. We later learn that the well-intentioned, donated air mattress hanging above our heads resulted in multiple falls off its unprotected raised edges- a hard slab of wood being the lesser of two evils. Upon hearing our voices she struggles into a cross-legged position, an all-too-familiar posture which she has maintained for two years after falling and never regaining the ability to stand and walk. Her stiff joints and non-pliable muscles corroborate her story. Behind her stoic gaze lie years of unaddressed and untreated pain- only when prompted does she disclose the discomfort in her knees, hips, and shoulders. And in her terse speech dwells the long-unaccompanied solitude and abandonment. Unsettled by her physical state and her current living situation, we lament the perceived “absence" of her eleven adult children. I doubt the neglect is intentional- they too are working to survive.
Over the course of our conversation the storm she has weathered falls into our radar with each passing cloud of memories and reflections. For two years she has sat on a harsh and unrelenting surface. For two years she has slid along the floor on her now-calloused bottom to use the restroom. For two years she has waited patiently for hours each day for her children to come and provide momentary companionship and bodily nourishment. For two years she has only recalled fleeting images of the glistening Napo river and the diverse, expansive Amazon rainforest that surround her. For two years she has born the physical pain of natural aging compounded by exceptional trauma. And for two years the burden of her hope has grown taller as the comfort in her stark surroundings has slowly dwindled. When she finishes sharing her story with us I am tasked with easing her physical discomfort, and the friar commits to find a more suitable mattress and meet with her children to develop a care plan for their mother.
***
We visit her again one week later. This time I am prepared with a handful of anti-inflammatory medicinal remedies- a few blisters of acetaminophen and naproxen and a handful of vials of local anesthetic and injectable steroid for her knees. She finishes her lunch of fish, rice, and chapo (an Amazonian beverage made with softened sweet plantains, cinnamon, cloves, and anis). Meanwhile the friar recruits one of the neighborhood boys running around outside to help lift her onto the table so I can inject her knees in a relaxed position. I sit down on a stool and position myself at eye level with her knee joints. As I examine her knees for the ideal “window” to administer the medication and playfully instruct her not to kick me, one of the cats proceeds to weave in and out of my legs. We all burst out in laughter- an unintended but sufficient anesthetic prior to the impending poke of a sharp, unpleasant needle. This is the first time I’ve seen her smile, and I think to myself- “even this silly, obnoxious cat has a purpose.”
In the instant our two unparalleled worlds collide, the mutual blessing becomes apparent- a song is sung without the words. The song of Hope. I have heard this hymn many times before- its voice resounding and clear at a time when it is least expected. To have hope is not to live or witness a life free of pain and suffering but to know that the weight of the world’s iniquity and sorrow does not fall on our backs alone. To receive Hope and to be Hope to others is to help one another carry our unique and often incomprehensibly disparate burdens which were never meant to be carried alone.
And as I leave her home for the second time I am overwhelmed with my subliminal encounter with Hope, the Hope to which Dickinson so intimately alludes: “And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird…Yet - never - in Extremity, [She] asked a crumb - of me.” Though the way back home is downhill and not even a crumb rests on my back, I feel the weight of my hope grow heavier. I am reminded that true Hope “is the thing with feathers,” whose “yolk is easy, and…burden light.” And when the load becomes too heavy to bear, I am reminded that only He can fully bear the burden of our hope.
“I’ve come to trust the value of simply showing up and singing the song without the words. And yet, each time I find myself sitting with the pain that folks carry, I’m overwhelmed with my own inability to do much more than stand in awe, dumbstruck by the sheer size of the burden, more than I’ve ever been asked to carry.”
~ Fr. Gregory Boyle, S.J.
