Have you ever experienced a time in your life where you are just like, this has to be God? Like, you are just in complete awe and amazement at what has occurred. That’s me right now.

Of course His hands carry me in every aspect of my life, but there are those certain moments when I step back and truly see the hand of God placing things together so beautifully and perfectly. In His image, in His time, and on His terms J

I just recently began a courtship with one very special guy named Philip, and the Lord has had His hand on it every step of the way. It is especially due to many prayers being lifted up, like the prayer of mi Welito (my grandpa).

Mi Welito passed away in April and I miss him terribly. Around January/February, mi Welito began to pray for me—that the Lord would bring someone into my life. I still don’t know what to say to that other than He did know and the Holy Spirit told him what to pray for. Now, I am just like him in so many ways—inherited his stubbornness, hard working ethic, and independence. So with all of this said, I wanted to write down a few stories, or more like encounters I had with him. I was so blessed by him, by his example, and at this particular moment, I am especially blessed by his prayers he lifted up for me before he passed.

This first story I chose to write about him is actually the only time I ever got upset with him. It has a comical tone, but it definitely sets the tone for who mi Welito was and the toughness he had begun to instill in me, which I am forever grateful for.

Is This Tradition?

I was an 11 year old, frizzy haired, didn’t know how to dress herself tom-boy-of-a-girl at the time. I was hanging out with mis primos, Jacob and Irene, and mi hermano, Ray at our Welito’s house like we had done so many times before. The usual consisted of running around the dry dusty fields, catching horny toads, and sneaking Welito’s Tums out of his room because we thought they were candy. But this time was different. We were all sitting right outside the garage by his outdoor shack, lined up against the wall as if we were fixing to have our mug shots taken. And then, I heard the faint sound of a baby goat come from the shack. I thought I had imagined it until mi Welito reached for the door and walked out a little grey goat. I jerked back just a little as I had never encountered a goat before, but then the phrase “Awww…” muttered from my mouth. Thoughts like, mi Welito bought us a goat to play with or mi Welito is starting a little farm ran through my mind. That is, until he reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife. In a flash, the goat’s throat was slit, its cries pierced through my skull, and blood spilled onto the ground and began to stream through all of the brown dirt crevasses. I couldn’t breathe; I couldn’t move. Finally, I began howling at the top of my lungs. Mi Welita’s hand grabbed mine and she led me inside. I sat in their tiny kitchen and just cried and cried. At first, she was comforting me and then, though I don’t speak much Spanish, I could manage to make out her mutterings of “baby” and “calm down”. Was this a coming of age tradition in my family? I thought.

“I hate Lito!”, I exclaimed. I thought he was a murderer. Poor little baby goat; it had no idea what was coming. After a few minutes, mi Welita began to walk in and out with bowls full of blood, so I jetted. Now even though I was angry and upset, I was still curious, so I stepped back outside hesitantly but just in time to witness mi Welito taking the last bit of skin off of the goat. Puke began to climb up from my stomach, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of what was happening. Jacob and Ray had little smirks on their faces and Irene looked almost as terrified as I did. He then began to clean the insides of the goat out and that’s when I actually let out a little giggle. He loosened and pulled out the gastrointestinal track which was still full of poop. I glanced up at the goat’s face and noticed its eyeballs had been plucked out, so I decided to try the kitchen again. As soon as I opened the screen door, I heard the faint sizzle of mi Welita’s skillet. Usually delicious foods come from that skillet, but this time she forked down something small and beady—the goat’s eyes. She held one up to my face and said, “Eat, eat!”. I flung backwards so quickly replying, “No, no!”. She laughed at me. Who knew that from this moment on I would never look at meat in the same way? Since then, I have had a very hard time in that area.

This is just a short flash non-fiction piece, but any feedback would be great!

Be Patient and See What He has in Store for You,

Erica