I Choose You

"I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life."

My very first favorite movie was "Sleeping Beauty." I watched it for the first time in a Cuban theater, which was a rare treat in 1960s Cuba. I absolutely felt in love with Aurora, the three fairy godmothers and most importantly, the prince that came to rescue the sleeping princess. I have been a romantic at heart since I was a little girl. Even to this day, I'm a sucker for Hallmark movies, and I can spend hours reading romantic novels.

The first time that I thought I was in love, I was just eleven-years-old. I loved him with all the passion of my pre-teen heart. I thought it was very serious, until I met a cuter boy at 12. And then, I kept a very long log of all the boys that I liked, an average of one every three months. When I turned 16, I had my first serious crush which lasted about two years. It ended with a broken heart, but it opened the door for someone much better.

I met my husband when I was 18. At the time, I was still pining for my lost love so I didn't pay much attention to him. We became good friends before Cupid hit us with his arrow. By this time, I had decided that I was wasting my time waiting for my ex-boyfriend to return. And I made the conscious decision that my next love was going to be my choice. I set the bar high: tall and good looking was first on my list; he had to have an education or be in the process of getting one; he had to be Catholic and preferably practicing; a large family was a plus, since mine was so small; he had to be outgoing, a good dancer and smart. He also had to be a gentleman, generous, honest, thoughtful, sensitive and a good friend. And with this list, I set out to find the perfect potential husband, not realizing that he was right in front of my nose.

My eyes were opened during a Valentine's dance we attended in 1981. I was talking to some friends when I heard, "there's Fifo." I turned around and for the first time I saw him on a whole different light. I had gotten used to seeing him with glasses but that night, for the first time, he was wearing contacts. I thought to myself, "he's pretty handsome." I guess he noticed me too beyond the friendship because a few days later he asked me out on a date. In May, I asked him to my prom and the rest is history. We married three years later and this month we are celebrating our 32nd wedding anniversary.


I have been thinking a lot about our wedding lately, probably because we have attended three weddings in the last month. I always feel that weddings are magical. There’s such joy, excitement, and anticipation with weddings. The brides are beautiful, and the grooms are nervous and excited. It’s a gathering of family and friends for a celebration of love and life. I always tear up at weddings; I simply can’t help it. That is why I just can't wear mascara.

When we got married we had a pretty tight budget. One of my biggest regrets is not splurging on a video. Now we have to rely on our memories and the pictures to remember our big day. But it's engraved in my mind like a movie playing over and over again. It was truly a celebration of love, friendship and life. All our friends and family were there, a whooping 300 guests. The invitation was only for the church ceremony. It didn't mention a reception because we simply couldn't afford it. In the end, we decided to offer hors d'oeuvres after the ceremony. So when the mass ended, the guests were invited to proceed to the parish hall. At the time, I was working at a travel agency and the owner gave us some cases of wine as a gift. I'm not sure how the wine multiplied to satisfy all the guests. It was either a repeat of the miracle at Cana or the fact that the wine tasted like mouthwash so after trying it, nobody went for seconds. But in spite of our very tight budget, our pictures are testimony of the joy we felt that day and of how much fun we had celebrating with the people that we loved the most. There was little food but a lot of partying and dancing. And I thank God every day that we are still walking together on this journey called marriage.

I could say that I married my soul mate but I don't believe that there is a soul mate out there for everyone. I believe that finding the right mate is a conscious choice that each person has to make. We can choose to believe in Disney fairy tales all our lives or we can choose to find the person that compliments us the best. Rafael doesn't meet every quality that I wrote on my list but he has the qualities that truly matter: he is honest, sensitive, generous and a gentleman (once in a while). And I definitely married my best friend. He is the first person I call when I have to share good news or bad news. He is the one that holds my hand when I'm sad and hugs me when I cry.

Marriage is not a 50/50 partnership. Marriage is a 100/100 compromise. Each person has to give 100% or it will fail. It took us a while to realize that. Until we did, our marriage was pretty rocky because it was a competition. We always felt that we were giving more than the other one. And it became a struggle in our home. "You are not doing enough..." was a daily litany. When we finally realized that our marriage was an equal partnership and that we each had to give it our all, we began to live in harmony. And even in this harmony, once in a while we are out of tune with each other. We've had our share of issues and plenty of fights. But when we said our vows on June 29, 1984, we meant them for life. We knew that we were entering into a sacrament with God and with each other. So it will take a lot more than a discordant note in our path to break us apart.

So even though I still enjoy watching Disney and Hallmark movies, I know deep inside that love is more than a fairy tale. Every day, I choose to love my husband with all his qualities and flaws. I chose him 32 years ago and if I had to do it all over again, I would choose him again.

"I choose you to love and to hold today and forever." Music & Lyrics by Dante Bantatua

Extended Families: The Frosting on the Cake

This past weekend we attended a wedding. I absolutely love weddings: the gathering of friends and family to celebrate such a joyful occasion. Both the bride and the groom have large families with nine aunts and uncles, and plenty of cousins to fill the entire ballroom. I managed to dance shoulder to shoulder for a while, but after someone almost opened a hole on my foot with a very sharp and skinny heel, I just had to sit down for a while. It was nice to witness the camaraderie between cousins, between grandparents and grandkids, between the parents and their siblings... Everyone was dancing together and just having the best time in the world. It was a big fat Cuban wedding and I loved every minute of it. It was sweeter than the cake itself because after all, extended families are the true frosting on the cake.

As an only child and grandchild, I did not enjoy a house full of siblings or first cousins. But what my parents and I lacked, my grandparents made up with dividends. Each of my four grandparents had plenty of siblings spread out through three different continents. And even though distance and circumstances prevented us from getting together as often as we would have liked, when we got together, it was as if we had seen each other the day before.

One of my abuelo Venancio's brothers lived in Camaguey, a province in Cuba about 300 miles from Havana. It was quite a distance in those days, especially in communist Cuba where moving around was not that simple. I only remember seeing them once in the seven years that I lived there. But this encounter is quite clear in my mind. I was returning from the park with my mom and we heard a lot of noise coming from our house. Our familia from Camaguey had shown up unannounced for a visit. Families do not need an invitation. Even if you have not seen each other in years, you just show up and you are welcome. Three little girls about my age were running from one end of the house to the other. Our home in Havana was long with a set of rooms connected by an outside balcony. The adults were in the living room talking and drinking coffee with my grandparents. I connected with these three little girls as if I had known them all my life. Two of them I only saw that one day. One passed away a few years ago from cancer and the other one still lives in Camaguey. But the third one, my cousin Belkys, won the "lottery" and was able to leave Cuba with her husband and two sons. Over the past fifteen years we have spent many holidays and celebrations together. And since then, Belkys' parents, brother and nephew have made their way to Miami. My extended family in Miami keeps growing by leaps and bounds.

In Spain, my extended family was even larger. I had five great-aunts and uncles on my maternal grandparents side that lived there. I stayed with one of these aunts for eight months after I arrived. It could have been awkward but it wasn't. After all, I had never met them. But she welcomed me into her home and into her heart as if she had always known me. My Tia Maruja reminded me so much of my grandmother that she was a welcome respite in my life. And she spoiled me the same way that my abuela used to spoil me. As sisters, they were cut out from the same fabric. My Tia Maruja and tio Andres had two daughters and a son. They were all in their twenties, just like my mom. And here comes this 7-year-old girl into their house and I became the center of their attention. I realize now how blessed I was. I have friends that do not have happy memories from living with aunts and uncles. Some of them have true horror stories, but that's a topic for another day. It could have turned out bad for me but it didn't. They were truly wonderful to me. My aunt and uncle have since passed away, but my three cousins are still around, all in their 70s with children and grandchildren of their own. I had the opportunity to visit them about 20 years ago with my husband and three children. It was wonderful. I'm long overdue for another visit.

Our extended families are the sweetest frosting on our cake. They provide the finishing touch to our core. Without them, our cake may taste good but something is definitely missing. They bring out the best and the worst in us. Just like frosting, they can be messy but sweet at the same time. Our celebrations would be dull and boring without them. We need the frosting to bring in the color, the flavors and the mess into our lives.

I'm so glad wedding season has just started. I have two more weddings in the next three weeks. I can't wait to witness another sweet and messy frosting of family and friends.

Grandparents: The Bridge to our Past

"Do not cast me off in the time of old age;

do not forsake me when my strength is spent."

Psalm 71:9

Not much is mentioned in the Bible about Jesus' grandparents, but we know that at least on Mary's side, he had a set of grandparents, Joachim and Anne. We have to use our imagination to decide whether they were a big part of Jesus' life or not. I like to think that they were. After all, Mary was their only child (according to the Protoevangelium of James), and Jewish families were very close, so I would think that they probably lived near Joseph and Mary and helped to raise Jesus.

I was very blessed in this department. All four of my grandparents lived well into their 80s. I was already married and a mother myself, when I lost my first grandparent, abuelo Venancio. As far back as I can remember, my grandparents were a huge part of my life. My maternal grandparents lived with us until they passed away, and I also got to spend plenty of time with my paternal grandparents. That is, until I left Cuba and they stayed behind.

Growing up in Cuba, where everything was rationed, must have been difficult, but yet, I didn't notice it. Honestly, I don't remember lacking anything (except maybe cream cheese which I loved and we only got once a year). I remember that "Los Tres Reyes Magos" (the Three Wise Men) that visited my home every January 6th, were quite generous. I recall waking up to lots of toys. Later in life, I found out that my grandparents and parents had to scramble to get me those toys. My abuela Elisa would exchange fabrics for toys. My mother would sleep outside the store overnight so she could get me the doll that would hopefully be for sale the following morning as promised. They would barter and swap services and possessions, just to make sure that I would have the kind of Christmas that they once enjoyed in Cuba.

When I left Cuba, all four of my grandparents remained there. My maternal grandparents joined us two years later. That two year separation was pretty tough for me. My parents were struggling to make ends meet in a new country, so there was no time to spoil me the way my grandparents did back in Cuba. The nuns in the school didn't blend my food into a purée the way my abuela used to do. I had to learn to eat everything. And by everything I mean from "potajes" (stew) to sardines. While all the kids would eat in 30 minutes and play for 90, I would spend the entire two hours staring at my food. I was not allowed to play until I cleaned my plate. It took me a year to train my tastebuds to all these new things that I had never tried before, even though I was already eight years old by this time. However, sardines and I never saw eye to eye. The children that stayed in school to eat, received a "merienda" (snack) in the afternoon. The girls in my classroom would make bets among themselves to see who would get my "merienda" because I never ate it. The "merienda" consisted of either bread and cheese, bread and a bar of chocolate, bread with Nutella, bread with sardines... This last one, nobody wanted it, so I would hide it in the pocket of my coat. One time I took it home on a Friday, my mom forgot to check my pockets, and you can only imagine the smell on Monday morning. Eventually, the nun caught me giving away my "merienda." She punished me by making me stand in the middle of the central patio until I finished the entire "merienda." It didn't matter if it was raining, snowing or freezing cold. Oh, how I missed my abuela Elisa on those days.

Eventually I grew up, learned to eat (even though I still dislike sardines) and my grandparents reunited with us. And they continued to spoil me because that's how they showed how much they loved me. My abuela loved to tell me stories about her family and her life as a young girl in Spain and a young woman in Cuba. I didn't realize it then, but those stories were the bridge to my past. I now recall them with nostalgia. I would give anything to have the opportunity to talk to my grandparents once again. Oh how I wish that I had paid more attention to all those stories. If I had another chance, I would have written everything down. But I know that one day, I will meet them again in heaven and they will recount all those stories from my childhood.

If you have the blessing of still having your grandparents alive, spend time with them, ask them questions and truly listen to their answers. Write down their stories so one day, you can share them with your own children. And thank God every day for the blessing of having this bridge to your past. Love them, hug them and cherish them. That is the best gift you can give them.

St. Joachim and St. Anne, pray for us.

Siblings: The Branches of the Family Tree

"Siblings are like streetlights along the road. They don't make the distance any shorter but they light up the path and make the walk worthwhile." Author Unknown

My friend has a magnet in her refrigerator that says: "Sisters by Chance, Friends by Choice." Every time I read it, I feel happiness and jealousy at the same time. Happiness, because I love the relationship that they have, the friendship, the bond, how they can finish each other's sentences and how they know they have someone that they can count on no matter what. Jealousy because it makes me realize what I'm lacking, what I have been missing and what I have always longed for since I was little.

We don't choose our family nor the size of our family. Some of us are born into very large families and some of us are born into very small families. The siblings we end up with, whether ten, five, one or zero, it's pure chance. Some of us have a mix of brothers and sisters, some end up with just brothers and others end up with just sisters. We don't have a say in the matter, but how we cultivate those relationships is purely our choice. I know siblings that are best friends and I also know siblings that don't even talk to each other.

I landed in a very small family. Neither my father or mother have siblings and I grew up as an "only-child." Yes, I have two half brothers, but I left Cuba when they were just 21 and 4 months respectively, and I did not see them for over 25 years, so in essence, I didn't have any siblings growing up. And how I longed for them. I wanted to have siblings so badly that when I was about 8 years old, I had two imaginary sisters. I called them Ana and Luisa, and they were younger than me. They were the perfect sisters because we never quarreled, and since I was the oldest, I got to boss them around. It's a good thing this took place in the early 70s, otherwise, I would have been dragged to therapy for sure. But in the 60s and 70s, having imaginary siblings, was perfectly acceptable. And I outgrew all my imaginary relationships without any long term consequences. Even though my hubby would probably disagree.

In retrospect, I think it was normal that I longed so much to have a brother or sister because all my close friends came in pairs: Tere & Dulce, Ani & Lily, Lourdes & Leonardo, Ana Mari & M. Luisa, M. Jose & Inmaculada, Jorge & Oqui... No wonder I felt left out. During the day, we all played together, but when it was time to go home, they left in pairs and I had to go home by myself. Oh, how I prayed for a little brother or sister, but my prayers were not answered.

It pains me when I see siblings that don't get along. They don't realize what they are throwing away. A sibling plays a unique role that is irreplaceable. They share something in common, the same parents, which for most is the most precious relationship. And when those parents are gone, the sibling relationship should be the closest relationship, and yet, that is not always the case. In many cases, siblings don't get along because they felt that their parents played favorites. That can cause a lot of resentment among siblings. And it's sad, because at the end of the day, it was the parents' fault and yet, the blame is placed on the favored child, as if he or she had anything to do with it. But many carry this resentment throughout their entire lifetime, thus damaging what should be one of the most sacred relationships.

When siblings truly care about each other, the mutual benefits are tremendous. They can help each other out, they can divide the responsibilities of caring for their aging parents, their children can grow up together and have a special bond as cousins, and it will have a positive impact on their health. I read somewhere that the way a person feels about their siblings has a direct impact on their mood, health, morale, stress, depression, loneliness and satisfaction about life in general. 

I outgrew my need for a sibling, even though once in a while I still feel the longing. But what God didn't give me in siblings, He more than made up in friendships. He also blessed me with a husband that has quite an extended family. And I have witnessed first hand the relationship between siblings through my three children. I've had a front row seat for the past 27 years and I must say that having a sibling is truly a gift and a blessing. 

So if by chance life blessed you with at least one sibling, it is your choice to nurture that bond. If your relationship has fallen apart over the years, put aside your pride and take the first step towards communication. Families are complicated but at the end of the day, they are our greatest gift. Friendships come and go but we are stuck with our families for a lifetime. We are all part of the same family tree. And other than your parent, who else knows you better than your brother or sister?

Bridging a 25-Year Gap

"Daddy's little girl" is a term that we hear often. I never understood its full meaning until I witnessed the relationship between my husband and our daughter. The bond between a father and daughter is very strong and that is why when that bond breaks, the pain leaves profound scars. I have attended a lot of Emmaus retreats and I have seen first hand how many women are carrying the burden of their broken relationships with their fathers. We may have issues with our mothers but because deep inside we always long to be "daddy's little girl," if there is a fissure in the relationship with our fathers, that pain tends to hurt twice as much.

A long time ago, I was also "daddy's little girl." I clearly remember the Sundays that I would spend with my dad. He would pick me up in the morning and we would either go to "El Vedado," where his aunt and uncle owned a school, or we would go to the beach or to the park or to walk along "El Malecon." I cherished those memories, especially after I left Cuba. Little did I know, on that November day, that I would not see my father again for 25 years.

During the first four years that I lived in Spain, I received monthly letters from my dad. I longed for those letters. They filled the hole that I had in my heart. Sometimes the letters would come with pictures of my two little brothers. I loved to see the faces of those two little boys I barely knew but whom I cared for deeply. And then one day, when I was eleven years old, I received a letter that broke my heart. The Cuban government had threatened my father and he could not write to me anymore. He told me that the biggest mistake of his life was allowing me to leave Cuba. Even though I was just a little girl, I felt betrayed. In my mind, he was choosing the government over me. I was angry, I was hurt and I let him know, in no uncertain terms, how I felt. In the last letter that I wrote to him, I told him that allowing me to leave Cuba was the best decision he had made because I lived in freedom, while he lived under the oppression of a government that could dictate to him even something as simple as writing a letter to his only daughter.

I probably would have wiped him from my heart, but my paternal grandmother made sure that I didn't. She took off where he left off. She began to write to me. She kept sending me pictures of my brothers. She kept open the lines of communication between our two distant families. She made sure that the fissure in our relationship would not be broken beyond repair. When her hand became old and frail, and she could no longer write to me, she made sure that my dad continued to write to me in her name. I knew it was my dad because I recognized his handwriting, but he never signed the letters.

I wrote back to my grandmother but I had erected a huge wall around my heart against my father. I wanted to protect my heart. I wanted to make sure I would never feel the pain of betrayal again. And then, 20 years after he stopped writing me, I received a letter from him. By that time, my grandmother had died, and I was a wife and mother with two small children. In the letter, he told me that he wanted to come and visit me. The decision was up to me. By this time, people from Cuba could come to visit their relatives in the United States as long as the US relative extended an invitation, the US relative paid all the expenses, and both the US and the Cuban governments gave their permission. The ball was on my side of the court. I could allow the pain of twenty years to dictate my decision or I could open a small door in the wall of my heart. I chose the latter.

Twenty-five years after I waved good-bye to my dad at the airport in Havana, I embraced him at the airport in Miami. To say that I was nervous is an understatement. When I saw him emerge from the terminal gate, I realized this was not the dad that I remembered. The young, tall, and strong hero from my childhood days had been replaced by an older version who seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He no longer looked tall and invincible. He looked tired and frail. My heart went out to him and I allowed him to hug me. I knew he had suffered more than I had, and yet, I still was not ready to tear down the wall around my heart.

He spent a month with us. I felt that he wanted to pick up where we left off, but I was no longer that 7-year-old girl that kissed the ground he walked on. I was no longer daddy's little girl. Every time he tried to hold my hand, I cringed. Every time he tried to talk to me about the past, I would change the subject. I made sure I was always surrounded with people. I was terrified of being alone with him. As long as I kept my heart guarded, I would be fine. A few days before he returned to Cuba, I took my kids to the park and he came along. I watched as he pushed Rafi and Chabeli on the swings, and I thought to myself, this is good. He is getting to know his grandchildren and they are getting to know their grandfather.

Then, he came and sat by my side on the bench, and he began to talk. He told me how the Cuban government had never forgiven him for signing off the permission slip that allowed my mother to take me out of Cuba. He told me how they threatened him about losing his job if he didn't cut off all ties with me. He told me how difficult it had been for him to write that fateful letter, and how for years, his biggest regret had been to allow me to leave Cuba. I allowed him to talk but I didn't say a word. My heart had been frozen within the walls of bitterness.

And then the day came when we had to say good-bye for the second time. This time was very different from that other good-bye, twenty-five years earlier. This time I was very much aware that this might be the last time that I would see him. I had no intentions of going to Cuba, and after treating him so coldly, I doubted he would want to come to visit us again. I hugged him good-bye, but I didn't shed a tear. I knew he was broken with pain, but I was incapable of saying a word of comfort to him. The airport was packed with family and friends that had come to say good-bye, for which I was grateful. In that ocean of people, I could hide behind the wall I had erected.

We left the airport in silence, well, except for the kids that were two chatterboxes full of questions: "When is abuelo coming to visit us again?" "Can we go to Cuba to visit him?" I had no answers. All I had was a knot in my heart. And that night, the walls that I had been erecting around my heart for over twenty years came tumbling down in a rush of tears. All the pain that I had securely hidden within came pouring out with only my hubby as witness. "What have I done?" I asked to no one in particular. "I sent him back without making amends." I could have extended his visit for at least another month. He had hinted various times that one of my brothers told him not to return. But I chose to close my ears as well as my heart, and now, it was too late. God had given me a great opportunity for reconciliation and I literally threw it out the door. We were on the Easter season and I did not show my father any sign of affection. And now he was gone.

But God had a bigger plan. It actually turned out that sending him back was the best decision I made, as I will share in a future reflection. Two years later my father moved permanently to Miami. God gave me a second chance at a full reconciliation. On this Easter Sunday, I can honestly say that my heart holds no bitterness whatsoever towards my father. He had two small boys that he had to feed, two elderly parents to care for and he had to make a tough choice. A choice that cost him a lot more than it cost me. When I hear daily on the news, everything that is happening now with Cuba, and the opinions from both sides of the gulf, I can honestly say that bridging that 50-year gap will not be easy, but it's not impossible. I made the decision to cross the bridge and remove 25 years of pain and bitterness from my heart. And I can walk a lot lighter because of it.

Every woman, deep inside, longs to be "daddy's little girl." If you still have the blessing of having your father alive, and your relationship is broken because of something that happened in the past, mend fences before it's too late. It's time to repair those broken bonds. And even though you may not hold hands the way you once did, you will feel much better once you remove all those old resentments from your heart. If he is no longer present on this earth, write him a letter or send him a prayer. Resentment weights too much, and it affects the person that carries it around much more than it hurts the other person. Find it deep within your heart to forgive. You will become a better person because of it and you will feel much lighter.

God bless you and have a blessed Easter!!!

The Joseph in my Life

"Listen, children, to a father’s instruction, and be attentive, that you may gain insight." Proverbs 4:1

I would not dare to compare myself to Jesus in any way, shape or form because I would always fall short. But I do have something in common with Him. Jesus had two dads and so do I. And I'm not counting God as one of those dads. No, I'm only counting my earthly dads. Remember that show in the 80s? It was called "My Two Dads" and I always related to it because I have been blessed with two earthly dads.

I know many persons that have a step-father but they never truly consider him a dad. Maybe it was because my step-father entered my life when I was only three years old or most likely because he has always been an amazing father, but I have never considered him my step-dad, he has been my dad as far back as I can remember. I actually recall the day that I started calling him "papi." I was eight years old, living in Spain. At that time, I still called him "Ramon," but none of my friends and neighbors in Madrid knew that he was not my biological father. One day, a neighbor heard me calling him, "Ramon, Ramon!!!" and she assumed that's how children addressed their fathers back in Cuba. She told me, "here in Spain children don't address their fathers by their name, they call them 'papá'." I went to my mom and I asked her, "do you think Ramon will mind if I call him 'papá'?" She told me, "why don't you go ask him yourself." And so I did. And that day I saw tears in his eyes.

My dad was the perfect combination of toughness and kindness. He was very strict with me when I was growing up but I knew that he loved me as if I was his real daughter. He never raised his voice or his hand at me but whenever I did something wrong, he punished me and I knew he meant it. If my punishment was supposed to last one week, he never cut it short. I am the woman that I am today because of that combination of love and strictness. He taught me always to respect, to be kind, to love and to give the best of myself.

Even though I was apart from my biological father for twenty-five years, my dad never allowed me to forget that I had another father. He never tried to replace him. Now that my biological father lives in Miami and I get to spend time with both of them in many celebrations, like Christmas, my dad always makes sure to let me know that he is very happy that I invited my father to be with us.

The past three years have been tough on him as he sees his health fail him. But he is one tough cookie. Rafael, my husband, claims that he has more lives than a cat and must be living now his 12th life at least. And he is right. He has been through more hospitalizations and surgeries than I can recall. Three years ago he almost lost his leg. Last year, he almost lost his life when both lungs collapsed. But thank God, it always stays in "almost." We have been celebrating the last three Christmases as if it may be the last one and thank God, we continue to have him with us. He even got to return to Spain last October, a dream that three years ago we thought it would be impossible. And I wouldn't be the least surprised if he goes back this year. That is my dad, the "energizer bunny," he just keeps going and going.

The relationship that he has with my mom is one to be admired. He simply adores her. I truly believe that he is grabbing on to this life with all his might because he is afraid to leave her alone. During all his hospitalizations, he was more worried about my mom than about himself. I remember one time, after he came out of the anesthesia, a little disoriented, he looked around the room and when he saw my mom, his face just lighted up with the biggest smile. My mom asked him, "what are you so happy about?" And he answered her, "I'm happy because I was afraid that I would never see you again." I thought to myself, "this is better than a romantic movie." When they told us that they may need to cut his leg, his response was, "I'm sorry for your mom." He wasn't worried about losing his leg, he was worried about becoming a burden to my mom. That's what true love is, caring about the one you love more than you care about yourself. And he's had that love for my mom for fifty years.

My relationship with him has always been strong but it has solidified itself in these past years. All those hospitalizations gave us the opportunity to spend quality time together. I learned things about his past that I never knew. It confirmed what I always knew. My dad has a heart of gold and Heaven has a room waiting for him. But he's not ready yet... And in the meantime, we get to enjoy his presence in our lives for a little longer.

God bless you papi and may He continue to give you the strength to carry on.

Into the Light

"The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness—on them light has shined." 

Isaiah 9:2

"If anyone asks me 'Are you OK?' or 'Is there anything I can do for you?' then I won't jump." But nobody asked him and because he felt that no one cared, he jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. He was just nineteen years old at the time, he had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and he had begun to hear voices telling him he had to die. He shared his miracle story of surviving against all odds with an enthralled audience on Sunday, February 21st at the Pullman Hotel in Miami. Kevin Hines, author of "Cracked Not Broken, Surviving and Thriving after a Suicide Attempt," was the guest speaker at the First Inaugural Luncheon of the Key Clubhouse of South Florida, an organization that helps persons that suffer from mental illness. His story touched the hearts of the almost three hundred persons that were present at the event.

The Key Clubhouse opened its doors in Miami six years ago to fill a big gap in our community. Florida rated 50th in the country at the time, when it came to resources and funding for mental illness. In six years we have moved up one space in the ranking which is very sad when statistics show that one in every four adults living in our state suffers from some kind of mental illness. The majority of our homeless population suffers from a mental illness and a large portion of the persons locked up in our jails suffer from a mental illness. Lack of funding should never be an excuse. And that is the main goal of the Key Clubhouse. The Key Clubhouse's mission is to afford people whose lives have been disrupted by mental illness the opportunity to recover meaningful and productive lives through reintegration into the workplace and the community. Their goal is a high quality of life for all members, ongoing improvement, and the ultimate elimination of stigma associated with mental illness. And they don't charge a penny for their services. Any adult, living with mental illness, can join for free and membership is for life. In the past six years, they have helped over three hundred adults.

When a person is diagnosed with a serious mental illness, they go through a period of total darkness. All of a sudden, life as they knew it, is no more. Accepting that they have a mental illness is usually the biggest hurdle. Sometimes they fall into a deep depression. Other times they hear voices in their heads that are telling them to do things that otherwise they would not even consider. Most of the times, these voices command them to hurt themselves or to take their own lives because that is the best solution since they have become a burden to their loved ones. When a person that suffers from a mental illness dies because of suicide, they did not do it willingly. They truly believed that taking their life was what they needed to do. It was their only solution at the time.

The Key Clubhouse stands in our community as a beacon of hope, love, joy and healing. They bring members out of the darkness and into the light. That was the theme of our luncheon, "Into the Light." And almost three hundred persons gathered together to tell Kevin Hines and all the clubhouse members that they do care and that they stand behind them. A person living with a mental illness can have a meaningful and productive life in spite of their mental illness. Kevin Hines is living proof that this is possible. And so are all the members that were present at the event. Many of them have found jobs and are now reintegrated in our community living a quality of life that had not been possible if it had not been for the hope and the help that they found at the Key Clubhouse.

So next time you see a person on the street that looks lost or broken, take the time to ask: "Are you OK? or "Is there anything I can do for you?" You may be saving a life.

To find out more about the Key Clubhouse, to donate or to partner with them for employment, please visit:

http://www.keyclubhouse.org or call 305-374-5115.