Tea Cups And A Coffee Carafe

The cup my great-grandma used to serve cafe con leche to mom

One of the memories that has stayed with me throughout life is my mom yelling at a guy unloading things from a bus rack in the border between Honduras and Guatemala. It's January of 1987; I am six. It's late afternoon, getting dark, and we have traveled a long way from Guatemala City. The trip had been postponed for days, because our car was broken, but it had finally been fixed. We were ready to move to Tegucigalpa, since my dad had been appointed pastor at a church in the city. As we were leaving, I remember carrying one of my most valuable possessions with me - a little book with a Mary Poppins story and the accompanying 45 rpm disc. I carefully set the record in the back of the car, so I wouldn't accidentally break it. We said our goodbyes. My grandparents, aunts and uncles were waving, and crying, as we were getting ready to drive away for the next ten hours to the new country that was to become our own.



And the car didn't start. All the emotional upheaval, and the sadness of goodbyes, and the stress of the unknown, and nothing. We were going nowhere - at least on that car. But we had to get on the road because my dad needed to be at the church that weekend. So, my parents managed to purchase  tickets to leave that day on a bus and at least get as close as we could that day to our new home. We would be catching buses and transferring along the road. We unloaded our bags, took a couple suitcases enough for a week (the idea being my dad returning to pick up the car later), and whatever other things we could carry. I ran back to the car to get my book and my record, only to find that the record had been safely out of danger of getting broken in the heating sun. I fought back tears, as I saw my now bent-wavy record, and grabbed the book. My mom and grandma repacked a bag with snacks. In that bag was a coffee carafe that grandpa had just given mom.

It was dad and mom, me and my one-year-old brother in that bus. And the coffee carafe. Ever single time that we would have to transfer buses, my mom would warn, hustle, and command strict care of that carafe. I felt embarrassed and was confused as to why a simple thermos with coffee (and not even fresh anymore!) would make her be so exigent on how it was being handled.

From doña Maruca, mom's maternal grandma

Fast forward twenty-four years. It is January of 2011. I am in line at the Guatemala City airport with my new husband. Carefully packed in my carry on bag is the tea cup collection I've inherited from my mother. And for the first time in my traveling history, my carry-on bag gets weighed. The flight airline staff say my carry-on is too heavy. I must either check it or get rid of ten pounds. So I carefully open it and pull out everything I can carry on my backpack. I am not checking that bag and risking any of the cups to get broken. And I get it. I get the frantic worry about that carafe.

It is not the thing itself. It's the story behind it. I am going to a new country, as a new wife. My mother hasn't been buried a year, and I want to carry with me the stories of the women behind me. I want to remember them. Remember their tales. Because in remembering them, I not only keep them alive, but I also find out who I am - who I am becoming. Authors Kurtz and Ketcham tell us in their book The Spirituality of Imperfection: Storytellying and the Search for Meaning, how important it is to remember. They tell the story of rabbi Baal Shem Tov who was famous for answering questions with a story. So, his students asked the reason behind this, expecting a story as a reply. To their surprise, the rabbi simply said, "salvation lies in remembrance." Kurtz and Ketcham say, "For spirituality itself is conveyed by stories, which use words in ways that go beyond words to speak the language of the heart." These women - these stories - they are grand and beautiful, and I am part of them as they are part of me, and those teacups that have now made it through more than twenty moves and three different countries, they are the tokens of lives well-lived and stories worth remembering and retelling.

From me to mom, for mother's day

From dad's maternal grandmother

From my great-aunt to mom, on her wedding day