I am 72 years old. I remember as a boy Christmas being a very mystical time, although at the time I did not have the words to describe it. Yes, even as a Mexican American born to first generation Mexican Americans, I grew up rooted in indigenous tradition because of my grandmother, my abuelita. While I was influenced by the U.S. commercialization of Christmas, as was most of the world, my abuela didn’t let the family escape a much deeper and meaningful story.

Rucking along a country road in the forests of Fort Sill, Oklahoma during Basic Military Training wasn’t my first encounter with the Divine. It also wasn’t the cloud-parting, angelic-choir type of revelation. In fact, demonstrating His subtlety, the experience didn’t really strike me as profound; it seemed rather mundane and simple at the time.  

What I have discovered is that once space is created, I then become a witness to the movement of the Spirit in people’s lives. It is an honor and very humbling to be given such a glimpse of the love of God. So, in a way, I merely am being asked to be the table setter so that the work of the Master can play.

This past Mother’s Day weekend in 2025, I walked away from my Monthly Men’s Circle with a deep sense of hope—for myself, for my brothers, for my country, and for our shared humanity.