Last night, Christen told me that in the barrio tragedies like this always happen in threes. Like the way surfers talk about big waves. They always come in sets. One after the other. And they sweep past, letting nothing stand in the way. Last night as we returned from the funeral we drove past, or through, another funeral gathering just a few doors down from our apartment. This morning, Cristian told me that another lady on the same block had died of grief.
The third death affecting this neighborhood. January 3rd. The third day of the new year. My third day in Peru. Three.
Today is the burial, and Christen and Cristian and our other Young Life friends are now gathering around Alberto, supporting him in this hard time. Earlier there were six busses on our street to take people, probably from all three families, out to the cemetery that is about an hour and half outside of town. Meanwhile, I am back at the apartment, trying to get some reading done, resting, working on posting pictures, and trying to feel better. I don't know if it is the intensity of our schedule the last few days or some of the food I have eaten, or a lack of sleep, but I am beginning to feel weak, and a little nauseous. Hopefully it will pass.
Meanwhile, I am reflecting on the number three. Jesus rose on the third day. He kept three close friends, Peter, James, and John. Daniel prayed in his room three times a day. And in his letter to the Corinthians, Paul wrote, "Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love."