In a big country
Oh lord, give me one more golden harvest
Til I reach the judgment day
Oh lord, give me one more golden harvest
Before I fade away
Hesitating in the back of the candle-lit adobe church like a bride, I smooth and re-smooth the skirt of my new black velvet dress with clammy hands. $250 on my credit card at one of those fancy western stores in Santa Fe, it has red and green flocked horses galloping around the hem, cavorting up the sleeves. My good luck charms. I check the silver concho buttons to make sure everything’s done up right. Scowl at the red dust on my just-polished cowboy boots.
I search for him among the crowded pews. I’ve never seen him in person, just photos. But here I am today. Six months of emails later. We’ve never even spoken on the telephone.
With all its mythology and the tierra bandita blessed earth, El Santuario de Chimayo is my healing place, which is why I tell him I’ll meet him here today. Just a week ago I’m sitting alone in the golden autumn leaves of the bosque behind the Santuario, searching my reflection in the sparkling Santa Cruz river, trying to divine the future, wondering if what is happening can possibly be real.
When I speak with my sister about my closely guarded secret over the telephone later that evening she blurts, “Well, if this guy’s all that you think he is, what in the hell are you doing waiting? You idiot.” I ignore this last part, although it is kind of true. “Go meet this guy before someone else snatches him up.”
I send an email proposing that it’s about time we meet in three dimensions.
He replies, “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”
Oh Lord I can’t breathe. I’m thinking that maybe this new outfit is too tight, but the fact of the matter is that I’m painfully thin. Second-hand. Used. This is way too soon. I’m gasping, trying to calm myself down like I’d talk to one of my horses. Easy girl. Eeeeaaaassssy.
“Things like this don’t always happen on your schedule,” my sister lectures pointedly.
Despite the mistakes I’ve made in the past, I am no fool. Called Tsimayo-pokwi by the Native Americans, this whole Chimayo valley is believed to be a holy place. And having managed to escape from a terrifying 10-year marriage with my hide still in tact, I haven’t completely given up on the idea of miracles yet. I spy a blonde head. Bowed down reverently among all the shining ebony hair and cowboy hats in this place. The nape of a neck. Broad shoulders in a white-pressed cotton shirt.
Nuestra Senor de Esquipulas watches from the front of the chapel to see what I will do. He asks me to trust in all those discarded crutches and braces and other artifacts of healing in the adjoining prayer room with its magic dirt, when right beside me, a man in Levis and pointy-toed ostrich cowboy boots drops to his knees, makes the sign of the cross, and crawls up the flagstone aisle. A penitente.
I watch him, fascinated, as he completes his pilgrimage. It hurts to see him, and I wonder what he thinks he's done that requires bruises and flayed skin. I will never believe again that I have to undergo suffering and pain to be on favorable terms with God. Especially when he’s offering me something really good here. I make my way up the aisle. Slip into the ornately carved pew on the left, and look at him.
His eyes are still closed, and his head is bowed down. He clasps a straw Stetson cowboy hat in two well-shaped hands that look like they’ve done some work. I think he knows it’s me sitting next to him. Is he praying for a miracle too?
“Dennis?” I whisper his name for the first time.
He raises his head. Opens his eyes and smiles. They are as dazzling a blue-green as I thought they’d be, and they are as clear as the waters of the Santa Cruz. Two doorways to the big country.
He takes my hand in his.
Check out these beautiful photos on Flickr: marthariley, marcgutierrez, reddirtrose, reddirtrose, appaloosa
