Photography and Writing by Angela Bracero
The Voice
The first time I hear the voice, I am about four years old. I have just taken off my life jacket, jumped into a hot tub, and grossly miscalculated its depth. The bubbly blue water rises above my head as my body sinks down to the bottom. I push my feet off the surface and kick my legs in an attempt to rise up and break the water’s surface, but I discover that I’m too short to reach the top. Again, I sink, again, I try my hardest to reach the top but fall short. I am suddenly very aware of my own heartbeat pounding inside my head and the hot, chlorinated water burning my eyes. Panic rises in my chest, as I try again and again to reach the surface. It is then that I hear the voice. It is calm and soothing. “Angela, relax. Your mother is coming,” the voice tells me. I listen to this voice. I stop struggling and kicking, and my small body relaxes. I instinctively know that I can trust and all I need to do is wait. “Stay calm,” it says again. Seconds later, my mother’s hand reaches down and pulls me out of the water.
I hear the voice again many years later. I am in college and driving by the university on a sunny spring day. A friend and I sit in the car chatting and laughing. The voice suddenly interrupts my mind mid-thought. It is like someone has suddenly switched a radio station to a different channel inside my head. The voice sounds urgent this time. “Angela, slow down!” it commands. My eyes immediately flick to the odometer on my car. I’m driving the speed limit, but I don’t question, I listen. My foot taps the brake lightly as I continue on. Seconds later, a ball bounces into the street followed by a little boy. Had I not listened to voice, I don’t think I would have been able to stop in time.
The third time I hear the voice, it’s July 2018. I have the day off from my job teaching at a non-profit in the city. My little daughter Maya and I are shopping in Target. I am in the middle of the produce section trying to decide what kind of salad to buy for dinner when the voice says, “Angela, your mother needs you.” When I hear the voice this time, the hair on the back of my neck stands up and deep in my gut I know something is very wrong. I ditch the shopping cart and quickly make my way out to the car with Maya. I drive the ten minutes to my mother’s house while dialing her number over and over. Not long after, I find her laying on the floor of her bedroom. She is conscious but not making sense. I call for an ambulance and later find out that my mom has suffered a massive stroke.
If you had asked me when I was a young child who the voice belonged to, I might have said it was an angel. If you had asked me the same question in college during my atheist years, I might have shrugged and said, “I don’t know, just a lucky coincidence.” If you ask me now who I think the voice belongs to, after thinking about all the times it has come to me during my times of need, I’ll tell you that I believe the voice belongs to god.
The Saint of Lost Things
"If you lose something you can always count on St. Anthony to help you,” my mother tells me one day when I am about seven years old. I am sitting on the foot of her bed, rummaging through an old jewelry box filled with costume jewelry, photos, and a small plastic statue of St. Anthony.
“How does he help?” I ask running my fingers over the worn out plastic.
“You have to ask him for help,” says my mother. “You sit quietly and pray to him. You ask him to help you find what you’ve lost. My aunt Maria used to say that if you bury him upside down in the garden, he will help you faster.” I laugh at this idea.
Now, I am sitting in the ICU at St. Anthony’s Hospital praying to St. Anthony himself to help bring my mother back to us. Two blood clots have lodged themselves in my mother’s brain; another one made its way up to her lungs and has caused her to be put on life support. A neurologist shows me scans of her battered brain. “You see this dark spot right here? That’s the blood clot,” the neurologist tells me. When I ask the doctor about her chances of survival, she tell me that it doesn’t look good and that we should get our affairs in order. I go every day after work, sit by her side, and listen to the humming and whirring of all the machines she is hooked up to.
Days later, the doctor decides that it’s time for them to try taking my mom off life support to see if she can breathe on her own. It is just me and a family friend in the hospital room. I am nervous, if she can’t breath on her own, they’ll have to intubate her again. If she goes into cardiac arrest, I have legally decided to let my mother go with god with a DNR. The doctor comes in and pulls a long tube out of my mother’s mouth, she coughs and gags but she breathes. Later in the afternoon, a nurse comes in to check her vitals. The nurse asks her questions, “Do you know where you are? Your name? Your age? Do you know what year it is? Do you know who the current president is? My mom can only answer half the questions correctly. We discover later that she cannot properly swallow and the decision about whether or not to introduce a feeding tube is suddenly put on my shoulders.
"Do you think your mom would want a feeding tube?” a palliative care doctor asks me. I don’t know what to say at first. Part of me thinks that my mom would never have wanted to live with a feeding tube, but then I think back to that day in Target. If my mom was meant to go with god that day, then I believe she would have gone, but she didn’t. The voice spoke to me and told me she needed me. It wasn’t her time yet, and god made sure of it that day.
“We’re going to go with the tube,” I tell the doctor firmly. “I haven’t’ lost her yet.”
The Jesus, the Buddha, the Koran, the Hindus, and the Chakras
Almost seven years ago, I accepted a teaching position at a non-profit organization that provides outreach and resources to single parent homeless families. The work I do is difficult but also very rewarding. Since I was a young child, I have felt a calling to work with the homeless. About two years into my job, a very dark and heavy depression crept into my life. I was able to go to work, perform well, and function. However, it soon became like I had two people living inside me. One person was a teacher who had it together, someone who was able to advocate for students and families and stand up to adversity head on. After work however, I was a mess. My evenings were riddled with anxiety and unwanted dark thoughts. It was like there was a demon living in my head, playing with my brain. When it got to the point where I was waking up every morning with suicidal thoughts, I knew I had to do something or I was going to drown again, and this time no one would be there to pull me out. I knew I had to help myself. I first considered going to the doctor and getting antidepressants but instead, I had a strange desire to go to church. I decided that maybe I needed to reconnect with god. I wasn’t raised in a particularly religious home, but for some reason I felt like my lack of connection with the divine was causing me to feel so lost.
My mother-in-law was pleased with my desire to attend church. She promptly bought me a bible and invited me to her own church for Sunday services. It was large and crowded and the building looked new. I sat in the shiny pews and listened to the pastor preach for a couple Sundays in a row. However, his words did not resonate with me. Many of his sermons were centered around fear. Fear of making god angry. Fear of the devil. Fear of those who love differently. Fear of not being allowed to enter heaven and instead roasting in the fiery pits of hell for all eternity. I decided I had enough fear in my life and went in search of something else.
At my brother-in-law’s suggestion, I started to attend services at a different church near the city. They held Tuesday night services in an old concert venue in Denver called The Gothic. The crowd at this church seemed different, almost hippyish. We sat in this dark theatre that looked ready for a Modest Mouse Concert, and talked about Jesus and his kind heart. There was no preaching about fear but instead the pastor had sermons that centered around topics like: love and forgiveness, justice and prudence. He spoke of serving the poor and the sick. He talked about opening our arms to refugees and those in need of shelter and unconditional love. He didn’t scorn those who love differently, but instead invited them with open arms.
I liked this church but I had to stop going. Every time the pastor preached about helping the poor, and every time the band sang about Jesus and his tender soul, I would cry. For some reason, all the hurt and sadness I take off other people’s shoulders and put on my own would come pouring right out without my wanting it to. I prefer to do my mourning for humanity in private. I became too embarrassed to go, and I was too embarrassed to explain. I however did feel a little closer to god, and the depression eased up a bit.
Next, I decided to look for God in other places and religions. I went to the library and checked out books. I read about Buddha and Buddhism. I read quotes that resonated with me like: “In the end, only three things matter: how gently you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.” I checked out a book called “Feeding your Demons” written by a Tibetan Buddhist nun. The book helps guide people in the process of facing and healing inner conflict using ancient Tibetan wisdom and mediation practices. It is after I start meditating, that my depression begins to fade, still though; I searched for more pieces of god.
I find god and words that resonate with me as I read the Koran. “Humanity is but a single brotherhood: So make peace with your brethren,” I read one day. The Hindus, I learn, believe in karma and reincarnation and this resonates with me because I know I have been a teacher before, many times before. One day while visiting a metaphysical bookstore, I learn about the chakras. The chakras are believed to be seven energy points found in specific places in the body. Each chakra has a corresponding sound, color, and vibration. After my mother’s stroke, and once I realized that she would never be the same again, I felt a deep pain for days within my stomach and chest, the chakra points where the esoteric religions believe we store our most painful hurts and grief.
Little by little, my brain begins to heal. Little by little, my mother’s brain begins to heal. Slowly, we both begin to look at the world differently. We look at god differently, and we both begin to question our lives and our purpose for being here.
The Changeling
Hundreds of years ago, people believed in “changelings.” Various cultures spoke of malevolent creatures that had the power to snatch away a loved one and leave a changeling in its place. The changeling looked like the kidnapped adult or child but loved ones could tell the difference. This was a time before humans had the capabilities to explain something like an incurred stroke or a child born with a disability. I’m sure this folklore was used to explain ailments like late on-set mental illnesses or possibly autism. All I know, is that I can understand where people are coming from.
It's October 2018. Three months have passed since my mother’s brain injury and she is residing full time in a care facility about thirty minutes away from my apartment. Every other day, Maya and I drive to the facility to spend time with her. Most evenings we arrive in time for dinner. We sit amongst the other residents and staff; my mother is 65 years old and looks to be the youngest occupant. She also seems to be the only person who receives regular visitors.
We are seated in the dining hall waiting for dinner to be served. My mother and I are sharing a plate of shrimp cocktail and Maya wanders around the dining hall visiting with the residents.
“I can’t believe the kids are almost out on summer break,” my mom comments.
“Ma, it’s October the kids have about seven months to go.” She furrows her brow in confusion.
“No, it’s summer,” she insists. I jut my chin towards a paper pumpkin tapped up on the window.
“Look there’s a pumpkin, it’s autumn now, not summer.” My mother’s expression changes from confusion to anger. “No, it’s summer Angela!”
“Okay Ma, it’s summer,” I say with a sigh. By now, I’m somewhat used to conversations like this. In a nutshell, the stroke has fried her poor brain. My mother the day before the stroke and my mother the day after are two very different people. The day before the stroke, my mom was a retired schoolteacher who was living independently and alone in the house of my childhood. Now though, she requires lots of care to help her meet even her most basic needs. She has a hard time with recognizing and understanding seasons and even the time of day. When I visit her after work, she insists it’s breakfast time, even though I explain the school day has ended and we are going to eat dinner. Walking and moving has become difficult so she spends most of her day in a wheel chair. The vision in her left eye is shot, and she often auditory hallucinates. The nurses tell me that she wanders the halls and sometimes goes into other resident’s bedrooms in search of me and Maya, insisting that she can hear our voices. One day she tells me Maya comes to visit her at night in her bedroom and she uses a special little door in the wall, and I just nod and tell her how nice.
For me, it’s like a changeling has snatched my mother away and left a strange doppelganger in her place. She looks like my mom, but she doesn’t feel like my mom. It’s a strange concept to wrap my head around. For a few minutes, we sit and people watch. Most of the residents are sitting contently at their tables. There is an elderly gentleman whose wandering around the dining hall crying. He wanders over to my table and whispers, “just tell me what to do, please just tell me what to do,” tears well up in his watery blue eyes and spill down his cheeks. I spend a few minutes holding his hand, and I can tell that like my mother, he’s just “not quite there anymore”. One of the caregivers comes over and gently leads him back to his table. There’s a woman sitting a few feet away and my mom and I listen to her complain about her soup. “It’s too cold!” she snaps at one of the caregivers. “I ordered chicken noodle not tomato, why can’t any of you do your damn jobs right!” she shouts. My mother and I lock eyes. “Cantankerous,” she says with a sly smile and we both giggle. Just like old times.
After dinner, I wheel my mother into the recreation room. I asked permission earlier in the week to host and facilitate a monster movie night. I Amazon Primed a black and white version of Frankenstein, along with some pumpkin balloons, black streamers, popcorn balls, and other party favors. The residents gather in the rec room while I decorate. My daughter wanders over and hands my mom a ring in the shape of a skeleton. “I don’t want that,” she tells her. “Too scary.” I start the movie and everyone settles in with treats in hand. A few minutes into the film, I notice my mom has wandered away. I find her down the hall sitting in front of a closed door that belongs to a bedroom of one of the residents.
“Mom, what are you doing?” I ask gently.
“Sitting here, what does it look like,” she replies.
“Touché, but don’t you want to come watch the movie with us?” She shakes her head.
“No, it’s too scary.”
“You used to love this movie and Halloween.” She turns to me with a confused expression.
“I did?” I nod my head. “No, I want to sit here. Leave me alone.”
“Mom, you can’t sit in front of someone’s door like this. It’s creepy.”
“I said, leave me alone!” she shouts.
“Okay, okay,” I tell her. I kiss the top of her head and say goodbye.
I grab Maya and head out into the crisp, autumn night. I leave my mom sitting in front of the closed door, and drive home wondering if it’s possible to have a piece of your soul detach from your body and fly away. If this can happen, where does the missing part go? Back to god? Does it float around in the cosmos waiting for the rest of you to join? Most of the ride home though, I spend time trying to forget that I too have experienced the changeling.
The Tithing of the Sacred Heart
So it’s winter, and I’m sitting in a financial seminar and we’re talking about earning and saving, spending and flowing. Some people talk about visualizations and vision boards and others speak of receiving “gifts from god” for helping other. This is the first time I ever hear the word “tithing.”
“Have you ever heard of this term before?” I ask the woman sitting next to me.
“Of course!” she says to me with a smile. “It’s the holy practice of giving and receiving.”
“Hmmm,” I reply while Googling the definition on my phone. Tithing comes from the word Tithe. Old English. In a nutshell, it is 1/10 of money that is paid to a religious organization or it can be treated like a mandatory governmental tax. I scroll through a few more pages and read that this practice does in fact have some religious and ritualistic elements to it.
“I have no problem giving my money to those who need it, my problem is generating enough money in the first place,” I say casually.
“Well, let me ask you this, have you received Jesus yet?” Her question catches me off guard.
“Um, err, no,” is all I can say. She smiles again at me, there’s sympathy in her eyes. She digs in her purse for a second and then hands me a business card. “Give me a call; I’d like to invite you to our church. Until you receive Christ, you’ll never be able to successfully tithe. You need god to be happy.” Her words produce an uncomfortable feeling deep within me. Then the seminar ends, and we all go our separate ways and I drive home not quite sure what it is I’m feeling. Jesus has a special place in my heart and all, but is one person and one religion the answer to financial well-being? What is god exactly anyways?
“What do you think the answer is?” asks the voice suddenly. Yes, the voice is still around, and sometimes it likes to whisper thoughts and ideas in my head when I feel lost at sea in my own emotions.
“The answer to what?” I ask, as if I don’t know.
“What do you think god is?” the voice says patiently. I have to think deeply for a few minutes.
“I don’t think god is necessarily a deity you’re supposed to devote yourself to. I think god is seeing the holy in yourself and in your fellow man, and devoting yourself to serving others.” The voice is quiet for several minutes.
“Where have you seen god?”
“A couple weeks ago my mom had an appointment and I think a week prior to that she’d had another mini stroke. I was noticing some of the post-injury symptoms. We arrived at the hospital and she was having a very difficult time standing and pivoting her body into her wheel chair. I was starting to feel a little stressed out that I wasn’t strong enough to lift her into her chair. I asked god to please help me. I went inside the office and asked if someone could assist me in helping my mother get into her wheel chair. Medical assistants, like nurses, really are angels. The woman who came to my rescue was very tall and strong. She bent down and instructed my mom to wrap her arms around her. Then, like my mom weighed nothing, she picked her up and hoisted her into the air. For a split second, these two complete strangers were standing there pressed heart chakra to heart chakra in an embrace, and for that split second, I can see a piece of god. This woman has no idea how much she’s helped me.”
“Where else do you see god?” the voice presses on.
“When you give a homeless stranger your spare change and the breakfast burrito you bought for yourself, because you have a job waiting for you and something about seeing someone walking around with their whole life in a shopping cart just hurts your heart.”
“Indeed.”
For a few minutes the voice and I sit in silence as I drive home, the sun begins to slip under the Rocky Mountains leaving a pale pink glow. Back in my home I have a bible I keep tucked in my bookshelf, and inside is a laminated picture of Jesus. The card belonged to my grandmother who was Catholic, there’s a Spanish version of The Lord’s Prayer printed in the back. I can visualize the picture very clearly; Jesus in a red and blue robe, in the center of his chest sits his exposed heart, wrapped in a crown of sharp thorns and a spout of flames shooting out the top. His left hand points to his flaming center. There’s schools and charities, parishes and feasts named after the sacred heart. When we meet someone who is greedy and cruel we might describe their heart as cold. You can’t love a stranger, your friends, your family, or yourself fully if you don’t have an open heart. Yet, here is Jesus walking around with his heart outside his body, and I think to get to the point when you can show love to a homeless stranger, the "bad kids" at the school you teach at, you have to have an open heart, even if it means you make yourself vulnerable to heartache. It's dark when I pull up to my house, and I might not be rich, or fully understand tithing, or fully understand what god is. I may not be happy all the time, but I have something cosmic that watches over me, and people who I love most in this world waiting for me inside, and I can see pieces of god in that too.
Fin
