518 - A Time to Mourn and a Time to Plant

A Time to Mourn and a Time to Plant
By Marie Vianney Bilgrien, SSND

What we're planting here, only God knows how to make grow.
-Grave digger's remark to Bishop Casaldáliga of Brazil
as they buried yet another tortured, murdered compesino

For we know that to this day the entire creation has been groaning and suffering agony together as if in childbirth.... We also groan within ourselves as we await the redemption of our bodies.
-Romans 8:22-23

The pain of the country
begins its cry
in first morning's light
when the whine
of corn- grinding machines
split the night.

The women wake
and trudge delicately
over rocky roads
baskets of corn balanced
carefully on their heads.

They are the first to encounter
the bodies of the night
tortured, murdered, dying.
How many do the ditches
hold this breaking day?

Their cries mingle
with mourning doves
and chanting roosters
while the machines wail on.
The country cries
with blood soaking ground.
The bodies are washed
and blessed
laid to rest
planted.
How will they grow?
Only God knows.

Marie Vianney Bilgrien is Director of Hispanic Ministry, Diocese of Baker, Oregon. She has worked in Guatemala and Bolivia. In 1994, she earned an STD degree from the Angelicum in Rome.

519 - A Time to Mourn and a Time to Plant

The army travels
with morning's freshness
swiftly
here and there
searching for the enemy-
their brothers.
A few bombs here
a few dead there.

They are cleaning the country
making it safe.
For whom?
Who will find the mass graves?
When?
How many brothers
pushed over cliffs?
The buzzards cry,
"here is food."
The bodies are not planted
but they will grow.
God knows.

Early afternoon brings rest
siesta time.
The killing stops
at least for a few hours.
The soldiers are asleep.
Hot sun bakes bones
scattered here and there.
The dead of the land.
All are asleep,
resting.
What is growing in the cemeteries?
In the hearts of the people?
The seeds are there.
God knows.

520 - A Time to Mourn and a Time to Plant

Late afternoon,
waning day:
Light slips into darkness
spreading fear across the land.
The killing time begins:
the defense patrols
the army
the death squads
the paramilitaries
even the police.
Search for and destroy;
guerrillas
communists
campesinos
husbands
countrymen
young men
boys
babies.
There is no escape.
The bodies of the dead rest.
Peace at last.

Their roots spread
with the night.

What is growing in the ditches?
down the cliffs?
in the cemeteries?
on city streets?

The seeds are planted.
God knows.
The pain of the country
is rising, rising.
What will it grow?
God knows!