Aguanta Callado
My dad has had herniated discs in his back since I can remember. He was very active, playing volleyball and baseball with his students and fellow teachers. He would spend most of the day standing while teaching. When we would go hiking, he never looked winded or tired. Then, around the time my younger sister came along, the back issues started showing up. I remember waiting in the car during his chiropractor appointments. Until recently, I didn’t know how bad his back is.
He’s currently dealing with neuropathy. From what I understand, his nerve endings lack the myelin sheath that usually protects them. It is as if he had wires without the plastic that encases them. He had debilitating pain for a while until he was diagnosed and started medical treatment. He’s better now, due to lifestyle changes and pain management treatments. Every time I call him, he seems in a good mood and very positive about his progress. “I’m okay. I don’t want you to worry about me,” he tells me every time.
A couple of men I consider my mentors are also going through health issues. Together with my dad, they are teaching me, by their example, how to suffer well.
I think men of that generation are good about accepting what life brings their way. Almost in a “it is what it is” kind of way. They don’t want people to worry about them. They don’t want to be a burden. One of the things my dad says when I confide in him about a struggle I have is “aguanta callado,” which translates to stay quiet and bear it. I don’t know if my dad has ever connected that phrase to the suffering of our Lord on the way to Calvary, but it did remind me of that.
The notion that we can join our suffering to Jesus’ suffering consoles me. We can profit even from our suffering, provided we unite it to the Cross. Take up your cross and follow Him. Some crosses are heavier than others, and I have whined and complained about mine sometimes. I haven’t always stayed quiet and borne it.
Lent is a good season to lean into the discomfort and offer up our crosses. I took my two oldest sons to pray Stations of the Cross with me, and my eight-year-old, around the seventh station, said to me: This is sad. Yes, I replied. And although I don’t expect my son to become a St. Paul of the Cross overnight, I think it’s still good to meditate on our Lord’s suffering so we can make sense of ours.
I look back at the sufferings the Lord has allowed me to go through, and I can only think of a couple of high-risk pregnancies and the time I lost my job, and I say it nonchalantly now, a few years removed from it. When I was going through it, though, it was hard, yet He was there every step of the way, leading me.
Let us pick up our crosses every day, in imitation of Christ, and may He give us the grace to learn how to suffer well.
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Big Boys
It was a big week over here. My baby boy is officially potty-trained and now uses a booster seat. I’ve also registered my two older sons for Summer Camp with the Norbertine Fathers in Silverado, California; this would be their first time away from us—a lot of big developments.
I’m excited for my boys to experience being their own person away from us, just like I did when I was their age. My parents trusted other adults to care for me while I went on several camping trips with the Boy Scouts; those years, I believe, were key to building up confidence and a sense of independence.
I’m excited for this new stage and sad that our baby is no longer a baby. He’s a funny, almost five-year-old who will chew your ear off if you let him. I know I will always have a soft spot for him, because he’s the youngest, but at the rate he’s growing, it looks like he might be taller than his siblings.
It doesn’t help that there are so many babies and pregnant women in our group of friends. Although I wouldn’t say I have baby fever, I did ask a friend of mine if I could hold her baby. Yesterday, after Mass, the son of a different friend of ours asked me to pick him up and carry him out, which made my day.
Mrs. Cantú and I have been talking about how the decision to have four kids was made for us in a way. After she gave birth to our second son, Mrs. Cantú hemorrhaged and needed a blood transfusion. Unbeknownst to us, the blood she received contained the Kell antigen, not native to Mrs. Cantú’s system, which prompted her immune system to produce antibodies against it. With a 50/50 chance of our third and fourth babies having the Kell antigen and Mrs. Cantú’s body recognizing this as a threat, the risk of fetal anemia increased.
Because God is merciful, both our daughter and baby boy were born without any health complications. However, Mrs. Cantú’s doctor suggested we shouldn’t have any more children because the risks and complications would only go up. I’m very risk-averse, especially when it comes to potentially losing a child or my wife. And so, we started to NFP harder, and have continued to do so for the last five years.
Would we have liked a bigger family? Yes. Still, I think God knows what he’s doing. Our family feels complete to me, even though Mrs. Cantú is really rooting for us to get a dog. I don’t know if we’re ready for that; we’ll see.
Growing Up
Growing Up is Russell Baker’s Pulitzer Prize-winning memoir that manages to be both a touching tribute to his mother and a sharp-witted look at the American experience during the Great Depression. This book is one of the memoirs that William Zinsser recommends in How to Write a Memoir.
Throughout the book, Russell Baker writes about three women who helped one man make something of himself. His paternal grandmother, Ida Rebecca, his mother Lucy Elizabeth, and his future wife, Miriam Nash. The story begins in the present, well, in the 1980s, when Russell is trying to show his children how soft they are and how things were during the Great Depression. We also learn that his mom, Lucy, has dementia and lives in an assisted living facility. Every day, his mom is in a different part of her timeline except here and now. It was interesting how he would try to correct his mom until he just accepted whatever adventure in time she was going on when he visited her.
Russell’s dad died when he was five years old. His mother made the difficult decision to leave her ten-month-old daughter with her brother-in-law, who eventually adopted her. Lucy Elizabeth, with Russell and her daughter Doris, moved to New Jersey with one of her brothers. They moved around different apartments, one of them in the home of the owner of a funeral parlor, which had an “overflow” room where he sometimes kept a customer.
The tale of Olaf is particularly heartbreaking. A Danish baker who had met Lucy Elizabeth and courted her for a short while travels along the East Coast in search of a job that would allow him to support a family. Through a series of letters, Olaf grows increasingly hopeless about ever making ends meet and finally asks Lucy to stop writing and forget about him.
Eventually, Lucy Elizabeth gets a chance at love again, which teenager Russell won’t have. However, he gets accepted into John’s Hopkins while World War II is underway. Eventually, Russell drops out of college to join the Navy and become a pilot. Most of his time in the Navy, he spent preparing to become a pilot, but the war ended, and he never saw action.
The last act of the book centers on his relationship with Mimi, which shows how his lack of commitment drives them apart, only for Russell to realize he can’t do better than her and finally commit.
If you had told me this way a historical fiction book, I would’ve believed it. Yet, the fact that all the characters portrayed existed made it even more special. Seeing how Russell Baker made something of himself gives me hope. He wasn’t necessarily talented at many things, but he was willing to put in the effort and show up. And then he went on to win a Pulitzer Prize for this book; I guess you could say his mom’s efforts paid off.
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