On Feb. 24 I had a homecoming, of sorts. With the Director of Crispaz, an NGO with which I had worked in El Salvador 1986-90, Margaret and I drove out to the small town I had worked in during those years.

It wasn’t the first time I had returned—I visited several times in the early 90s, but not since then. Others with whom I had worked there had told me of their visits, too, one as recent as five years ago. But I and the old friends I met there were especially tender with each other on this visit, since it was a long time  since we’d seen each other and the first visit since the murder of Father Larry Rosebaugh OMI, in Guatemala last year, with whom we’d worked there.

It was quite an experience, when friends came to the door, what joy as we recognized each other! And the hugs, whew! In one house, I first hugged a friend close to my age, but then was surprised to be able to hug her mother, recently turned 90. We talked of the huge party they’d had in the neighborhood to celebrate her birthday, of friends in exile in Australia and family in the US. And of course of Padre Lorenzo, as Larry was known. Sending greetings to other friends and relatives, we moved on.

Numerous changes in the town were apparent. Many roads which had been rutted dirt tracks were paved, and the market had been made very much more fancy than before, with a tiled façade, shops with glass windows, a small central garden, and cement floors inside and out. The small shrubs outside the parish house had grown into trees. The park in front of the plaza had been paved over, and the bandstand had been torn down, replaced with a stage at the far end.

The building that had been a garrison of soldiers was now city hall, and the former city hall was in process of becoming the Mayor’s house. There was a new public high school and a private school in a house where I had lived the first few months there. There were many more houses, apparently built of cement block, not the daub and wattle (mud walls with an understructure of sticks) that had predominated, and most nicely painted. Local folks said the population was approximately tripled from the 80s. The new houses and the spiffy paint were due to payments sent to family members from relatives in the US, we were told.

The church was open so we went inside. Lots of changes there, too. The church had been damaged and rebuilt after the 2001 earthquake. The brooding mural of Father, Son and Holy Ghost was painted over, new tiles were on the floor and the nave, there was a new side chapel and new pews and kneelers, and the beautiful tile Stations of the Cross that Larry had mounted were gone. The statues of the saints probably had new clothes, too, but the same faces, mostly with expressions of suffering.

Outside, as we were beginning to cross the park, I heard the unmistakable sounds of Antonio, a middle-aged deaf-mute man who had been a fixture of our life in the parish house. Despite his garbled noises, he was well-off, and was proud to have provided us with some pieces of furniture during our time there. Communicating with signs which were somewhat understandable, he mimed Larry’s beard and a gun, showing that he knew of the murder.

At another friend’s, we talked about the memorial Mass for Larry and about some other friends, some still living, others dead of illnesses. With each stop, I asked the friends I saw to send greetings to those I missed seeing, and mindful of my companions’ patience and the growing heat of the day, I didn’t stay very long with anyone. Also we had met with a community organization working in the town, and having promised to consider doing some AVP workshops there, I have hopes of returning, of being able to give something back to people in a place so close to my heart.