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| Fr. Luigi Faccenda, OFM Conv |
The story that I am about to tell began in January 1973. It happened in the marvelous land of Argentina, specifically in Chubut - in the South (Patagonia) - in the foothills of the stupendous Andes mountain range. The main characters: Mrs. and Mrs. Salamin, myself..... and the Madonna.
Every summer the Missionaries of the Immaculata from Olavarria make the thirty-six hour journey that separates them from Chabut. They enter into a region that is beautiful, but almost entirely isolated, in order to break the bread of faith, hope and love - that year I was also there.
I find myself in the area called "Hoyo de Epuyen," up and down through the mountains, carrying only the Word of God. It immediately strikes me that the people are already meeting me and asking, "Hermana, will you go also to the Salamin's?" How could I not go?
...The outside (of the house) was so uninviting that I am tempted to go back where the others wait. Then, something - or Someone - pushes me to enter. And the inside! Men completely drunk, women in hardly any clothes, smoke that makes it difficult to breath.... I go forward!
I'm about to leave when my gaze crosses the longing eyes of a woman, from the other part of the room. She signals to me to enter. I tightly grasp my rosary, and between one drunk and the other, I walk toward the woman. She is Mrs. Salamin. Immediately, she indicates with sorrow and embarrassment that her husband is among the men. Then, she begs me to follow her to another small room where, finally, there is a little light and air to breathe.
Between her tears and gasps for breath, she recounts the impossible life that she is forced to live. Her husband no longer has any moral compass, is always drunk, openly prefers prostitution, puts their young children in jeopardy, and she has no options.
Mrs. Salamin continues and I think to myself of the great cost of living thrity years without a priest, without listening to the Word of life and truth, without receiving the sacraments that give us strength. Right now I find myself giving almost a first proclamation of the Gospel, and I speak of the word of God, the Merciful Father of all - even the most desperate and sinful; I speak of Mary as the Mother who is vigilant in seeking the salvation of all her children. I leave a Miraculous medal for her husband. Then, I leave.
That night I can't sleep. It isn't the hard pavement in the old school that was my bed. It isn't the company of all sorts of animals. It is the hard life that those people led, the shocking misery, the total lack of human dignity.
The next day, early in the morning, I pass by the Salamin's, thinking that at that hour I would find the husband sober. Instead, I can believe my eyes, he begins to insult me with unrepeatable impropriety. I entrust him to the Holy Virgin, and was on my way.
Throughout our month long stay I try many times to visit Mr. Salamin, but the result is always the same.
One year passes, and in January 1974 I find myself again in Chabut.
My first thought is to go to the Salamin's; my first visit is to them. The welcome? Exactly like the year before: the husband chases me away. As I leave, I meet the wife, who is always more discouraged: she was not able to give him the Medal and he became more unreasonable every day.
I suggest that she sow it into his pillow, with the absolute faith that Mary knows how to speak to the heart of this man.
I begin the family meetings in that area, well aware of their material and spiritual needs. We celebrate baptisms, First Communions, marriages, and with the help of Mary we rekindle the thread of faith and hope that still lives in the depth of their souls.
It's the last day of the mission.
I am crossing a wooden, suspened bridge, the like of which Chabut is full of and the successful crossing of which is a grace of God - when I hear a young boys voice: "Hermanita, hermanita, Mr. Salamin is sick!"
Salamin is sick!
"OK", I think to myself, "but I'm not crossing this bridge again. I'll stop by and see him on my return."
But, I'm not serene. I understand very well that if I don't go back now its not because of the bridge - its because of my pride. I don't want to expose myself to more verbal abuse. So.... I once again cross that "wonderful" bridge and with great peace, entrusting everyone and everything to the Immaculata.
The wife is very happy to see me and brings me immediately to her little room where her husband lies. It is clear that he is very sick and doesn't have long to live. There's no time to call a priest. So, without hesitation I tell him that he is dying and will soon face God. In this moment, the infinite goodness of God gave him the possibility to confess his grave sins and to ask pardon. I begin the examination of conscience, inviting him to follow along in his mind, because I realize that he can not speak, but he does understand. But, is he listening?
Then, noting that his eyes are fixed on the crucifix that hangs around my neck, I take it off and place it between his hands. He squeezes it, slowly brings it to his lips, kissing the image of the all merciful God.
Not even a quarter of an hour later, Salamin commends his soul to the Father.
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