Faith
What is faith? Faith is the unseen presence that carries us through every season of life. It is like the wind — invisible, yet unmistakable in its movement; quiet, yet powerful enough to stir the soul. We cannot measure it with our eyes, nor grasp it with our hands, but deep within our hearts we know it is real. Faith is the whisper that says “keep walking” when the road seems too long. It is the courage that rises when fear tries to take hold. It is the certainty that even when we are surrounded by confusion and sorrow, God sees clearly, and His plan is unfolding with perfect love.
We begin to experience faith before we can even name it. As infants, our very first act of trust is in our mother. Her arms are our shelter, her heartbeat our reassurance, her love our food and comfort. We believe, without knowing we are believing, that she will come when we cry, that she will hold us when we are weak. As children, that trust expands: we lean on our fathers, our siblings, our friends. We learn to count on neighbors, teachers, and even the loyal animals that God places in our lives to show us companionship and care.
And if, by God’s grace, our parents are people of prayer, then they guide us to the threshold of the greatest discovery of all: faith in God Himself. They take us by the hand into the church, they kneel beside us in pews worn smooth by generations, they lift our tiny voices in prayer. And in those moments, we begin to sense that faith is not just trust in people, but a living relationship with the Creator of the universe — a Father who never abandons His children.
Childhood and Family Roots
I entered this world in the year 1940, in the shadow of the Second World War. The world around me was gripped by violence and fear, nations tearing each other apart, yet God placed me in the safety of a home where love and faith reigned.
My mother was a woman of extraordinary grace, a teacher not by profession but by vocation. Her classroom was our home, her lessons written not in books but in kindness, patience, and prayer. Through her example, I learned that true education is not only about knowledge, but about character, about compassion, about trust in God’s goodness.
My father was both healer and artist. As an obstetrician and gynecologist, he welcomed countless lives into the world, serving mothers with skill and dedication. Yet beyond his white coat and medical instruments, he carried the soul of a musician. When he sat at the piano, or let his fingers dance across the accordion or the guitar, our home filled with melodies that reminded us of beauty, harmony, and joy. In their union — her wisdom and tenderness, his healing and creativity — I saw a portrait of how God weaves together different gifts for one purpose: the flourishing of family.
But their path was not without trials. Newly married in Madrid, they found themselves in the turmoil of the Spanish Civil War. Franco and the Left were tearing the country apart, and danger was everywhere. With faith as their compass, they boarded the last train from Madrid to Barcelona, and then the last ship from Barcelona to Callao, Peru. They carried little but courage, hope, and the belief that God was guiding them toward a new beginning.
My mother, preparing for this uncertain voyage, packed her trunks with prayer. At the border inspection, when officials peered into her belongings, one paused at the neatly folded linens. “What is in here?” he asked. Calmly, with God’s peace upon her, she replied, “Sheets, can’t you see?” He waved her through. Hidden among those sheets was a crucifix from my grandparents’ home — a sacred treasure that surely would have been destroyed had it been discovered. But God’s hand shielded it, and that crucifix made the journey with us, becoming a silent witness of His protection and a sign of His faithfulness to generations.
In Peru, my parents built not only a home but a legacy. They raised three children: Federico, Eduardo, and me, María Cristina. They worked with sacrifice and devotion, not only to provide food and shelter but to anchor us in the faith that had carried them across oceans. Their trust in God poured into us. Federico became a veterinarian, Eduardo a physician, and I was called to the vocation of teaching. We each walked our own path, but all of us walked with faith as our companion.
Growing in Faith
My own faith deepened through the places where God planted me, each one a stepping stone in His design. I spent my earliest days in Pacasmayo, the town of my birth, a place small in size but immense in memory. Then came Chiclayo, a city cherished by Pope Leo XIII, where I first sensed the rhythm of community life and the beauty of belonging. Later, I found myself in Miraflores, a suburb of Lima, where the ocean winds seemed to carry whispers of God’s vastness. And finally, Madrid, where family and tradition awaited me after the war had ended.
My parents, steadfast in their desire to root me deeply in our Catholic heritage, longed for me to make my First Communion in Spain, surrounded by loved ones and the faith of our ancestors. So my mother and I returned to Madrid, where I was welcomed by the Sisters, Daughters of Christ the King. Under their guidance, I learned not only the catechism but also the joy of devotion, the beauty of daily prayer, and the strength that comes from belonging to a community of faith. My First Communion there was more than a ceremony; it was a covenant, a deepening of that unseen presence I had already begun to carry within me.
When we returned to Peru, my journey of learning continued. The Sisters of St. Joseph of Cluny guided me through middle school, and later the Reparatrix Sisters of the Sacred Heart shaped my high school years. Each new chapter of education was more than the gaining of knowledge; it was an invitation to live out faith in greater ways. Through retreats, service, and quiet hours of prayer, my trust in God grew roots that no storm could uproot.
Faith soon became more than something poured into me; it became something I longed to pour out for others. I began helping children prepare for their First Communion, guiding their small hands to the rosary and their tender hearts toward Christ. I joined parish groups, offering my time wherever help was needed. Service ceased to feel like a duty and instead became joy — the natural expression of a heart touched by God.
A Call to Love
After completing my studies, God, in His providence, wove into my path an encounter that would forever shape my life. Some dear friends invited me to a dinner at their home. They were eager for me to meet a visitor from the United States, though I did not realize then that they already believed — they had faith — that he and I would discover something special in one another.
When we met, it was as though two streams converged. We shared not only similar values and upbringing but also a profound respect for faith. Conversations flowed easily, laughter came naturally, and soon, affection blossomed into something deeper. He was in Peru only for a short vacation, yet the days we shared left an imprint that time could not erase.
Before he returned to the United States, he looked at me with a hope that was both tender and resolute. He asked me to wait. And though the future was uncertain, my heart sensed God’s hand in it. He went to the U.S. Embassy to prepare the way, following each step carefully so that he might return. True to his word, he came back in April, and with joy and gratitude, we were married in La Virgen Milagrosa, my beloved parish. Together we embarked on a new chapter of life, traveling to Kentucky, where he served as a psychiatrist.
Trial by Fire
But scarcely a week into our marriage, our faith was tested with a trial as fierce as fire. On a Saturday, while on call, my husband was summoned to admit a patient to the psychiatric hospital across the street. I remained at home, still learning the language and culture of this new country. Minutes later, the telephone rang. I answered hesitantly, with only a little English to guide me.
“This is the hospital operator,” the voice said. “You must come. The doctor has had an accident.”My heart froze. The word accident — so close to the Spanish accidente — needed no translation. Then, in the chaos behind the voice, I heard the cry that shattered me: “The doctor has been shot!”
I ran. Up the hill, across the hospital steps, breathless and praying with every stride. At the entrance, I found him lying on the floor, surrounded by commotion. His words pierced my soul: “A patient shot me. Smile at me.” Somehow, though grief surged within me, I found the strength to smile. In that fragile moment, my smile was not my own — it was faith shining through me.
The days that followed were heavy with fear and prayer. At first, the care he received was inadequate, and his condition worsened. Yet his colleagues, seeing the injustice, pressed for him to be transferred to Vanderbilt, one of the finest hospitals. And there, by God’s mercy, the care he received restored him. My faith had been stretched to its breaking point, yet it had held firm — and God had shown Himself faithful.
A Journey of Crosses and Blessings
When we finally returned home, a letter awaited me. It was from my mother, congratulating me on my birthday, but it carried sorrow as well: my father had undergone brain surgery for cancer. Once more, we rushed to Peru.
During that time, I discovered I was expecting our first child. Joy and anticipation filled us, but God, in His mysterious wisdom, allowed that little one to return to Him before ever seeing the light of this world. Another cross, another test of faith. And yet, even through tears, we trusted His promise: that He gives and He sustains.
In time, blessings overflowed. God entrusted us with five sons, each one a miracle, each one a joy. Our home resounded with laughter, energy, and the constant motion of growing boys. We raised them in the faith, guiding them through the parish, through St. Mary’s School and Cascia Hall. Scouting, sports, studies — every challenge became an opportunity to encourage perseverance, integrity, and devotion. Each one earned the rank of Eagle Scout, a testament not only to their discipline but to the values rooted in our family.
Meanwhile, I poured my heart into teaching my language, sharing culture and words as gifts, while supporting my husband in his vocation of healing. Our days were full, our lives rich, not because they were without struggle but because they were covered by grace.
A Faith That Endures
Four years ago, God called my husband home. The grief of losing him has been immense, a silence that echoes through the rooms of memory. Yet even in the valley of sorrow, faith has not abandoned me. The same unseen presence that carried me through childhood, through war, through migration, through illness and loss — that same presence continues to walk beside me.
For more than fifty-seven years, this parish has been my anchor, my refuge, my family. Here, I have prayed, served, rejoiced, and wept. Here, I have seen children grow into adults, and generations pass through its doors. Here, faith has been lived not only in words but in deeds.
I remain rooted in the traditions of my heritage, treasures of faith and culture that I guard with joy. Yet I have also embraced the blessings of this country, like Thanksgiving, a day set aside to pause and give thanks — a practice that mirrors perfectly the posture of gratitude that faith inspires.
Faith has carried me from the cradle to this present hour. It has carried me through war and migration, through danger and healing, through the cross of loss and the joy of new life. It has been the thread weaving my story together, the song that underlies every chapter.
And so I testify: faith, though unseen, is the most powerful presence in our lives. It is the hand of God guiding, the voice of God whispering, the heart of God sustaining. It is the gift that has sustained me still — and the gift I entrust to you.
