Image of Jesus of Nazareth at Santa Maria Chapel, Cadiz, Spain

No, I thought, God would not look like him—or would He? If anything, I thought that I might find His face under the disguise of my late aunt Mercedes. She had always been busy, cleaning houses, mopping floors in government buildings, cooking, washing. Her face had a bluish discoloration caused by her heart disease, which would eventually end her life. She always wore a broad smile and I never heard her raise her voice. I spent Holy Thursday nights at her home on Botica Street, where I slept with my cousins while waiting for the procession of Jesus of Nazareth to parade by. It was not until five in the morning that we heard the drums and bugles of the music band escorting the venerated image. Dressed in a purple tunic with gold embroideries, the figure of Christ bore a heavy cross on His left shoulder as His eyes brimmed with resignation, and His long black human hair waved in the wind. It rested upon a large gilded wooden float with baroque adornments. About forty cargadores—volunteer loaders—shouldered the heavy altar to atone for their sins or beseech for a desperate cause. My cousins and I woke up, got dressed, and stood on the balcony to watch the procession file through Barrio Santa Maria, one of the poorest neighborhoods. I watched my aunt implore Jesus and thank Him for all her blessings. Engrossed, she gazed at the image with an expression full of piety. Was her face His face?

“An Errand from God,” a short story in “The Silver Teacup,” by Louis Villalba

This post is dedicated to the Holy Week in Cadiz, Spain. Happy Easter!