Tell Mother I´ll Be There

I went to an Ash Wednesday service last night in a grand old decaying Asuncion church. The magnificent ceilings had once been painted sky-blue, but more recently had begun to chip off into a yellow oblivion. A couple pigeons flew around in the peaks of the cross-shaped edifice, as if to remind the church-goers that the service would be held partly outdoors for the bad shape of the crumbling architecture. In fact, it seemed like the ancient cement pillars were the only things that kept the entire ceiling from falling down. Yes, the roof was definitely rotten; but I felt safe because the mighty columns were firmly planted and in spectacular shape.

Although the church building appeared as if its term had nearly expired, the congregation inside was full of life, warmth, and the always-renewed vigor of ancient tradition. I had visited the place another time before, so I recognized a few of the congregants from the earlier trip. Among these stood out to me a group of older mothers, grandmothers, and aunts who sat at the front of the church. This mixture of women, some looking like they came from high Paraguayan society and others appearing as if they came from simpler ways of life, met together ahead of the church service to pray. Some were bent over and nearly-crippled with advanced osteoporosis, while others were able to hold their heads high and dignified when not bowing in prayer. Some wore incompatible outfits of gray and green paisley skirts with red and orange flower-patterned shirts, while others matched perfectly with their nice peach makeup and form-fitting cream dresses. Nearly all wore sleeveless shirts for the heat and had sagging arms because of their age, although on some arms the loose skin was much heavier than others.

What impressed me about these women was not their appearance, though, but rather their devotion to intercession and prayer. Most of these women come every day to the church to pray for their loved ones, and I have to believe that their daily practice is an extension of their motherly instincts to watch out and always be concerned for the physical, emotional, and especially spiritual well-being of their families. Their daily prayer vigil testifies to fact that they care, that they love, and they are seeking true happiness through eternal salvation for their husbands, children, and relatives. During a special part of the service, personal prayer requests were read before the congregation. Among these petitions were mentioned the names of many unsaved family members, undoubtedly wayward sons and daughters who weighed so heavily on the hearts of their devoted mothers.

In the congregation that meets in Lamabare, too, there is a group of women that prays every day of the month for specific needs in the church. As one of the missionaries, I’m privileged to be counted among a prayer request in the monthly cycle. It’s a comfort—a real comfort—to know that there are nearly a dozen women from the congregation praying for me. I really believe that the prayers of all these women are efficacious and important, both for the salvation of their families and the well-being of the church. I know for certain that I’m where I’m at today because so many women—from my own dear mom to my aunts to my spiritual mothers from the church—have taken the time to intercede on my behalf. I know, too, that these women are just like the pillars supporting the crumbling church I visited: as long as they’re standing spiritually tall and praying firmly, the rest of the church, however badly it looks, will keep on standing, too. As long as there are a few good women praying, I trust and believe that families will continue to come to know the Lord and the Church will continue to advance as the Kingdom of God is grown.