The old abuelo lifted the iron knocker on the oak church door and let it fall back onto its tarnished plate.
He did this again and again until a nun cracked the door open to the night.
The nun had worked in the inner-city for many years and had seen many things, but she had never seen the beauty and suffering she saw in the faces and bodies of Maria and Gustavo at the church door that night.
Their eyes were alight with beauty.
Their bodies were heavy with suffering.
They were covered with the dirt and sweat and blood of thousands upon thousands of miles along the migratory road.
Their shoulders sagged under the weight of months of homelessness.
The only homes they’d discovered during their journey were the small spaces and simple kindnesses people had shown them along the way.
They were still and very quiet.
They didn’t make a move or a sound.
The old nun wrapped her arms around them.
“I’m here,” she whispered.
“Estoy aquí.”
They wept as Jesus wept in the gospel, tears from the deepest parts of their hearts, tears for friendship.
Tears for kindness.
Tears for love.
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