Sheli Cryderman reflects on one of her favorite memories of Christmas and a cultural tradition.
I have many memories of Christmas. Born in the East Bay, I enjoyed an abundance of presents. What has greater permanence though were the feelings. I remember the high school caroling quartet and being rewarded with cookies. I see the beauty of the candlelit hospice tree, an outreach of my dad’s last employment, working as a nursing assistant. I still feel the frosty air on my face when we joined in choral festivities beneath Danville’s Oak Tree.
In my late twenties, the mariachi band I was playing in received a call to perform a December mass. My boss told me to be ready to play at the church by 4 a.m. My question: “Who is going to be there at that hour, the priest?” The picture of playing secular tunes inside the church with beer being passed around probably went through my boss’ head. Fortunately, he gave me the pass of naivety (I was not born into the culture) to respond laughing, “You will be surprised.”
The yearly mass, named La Virgen De Guadalupe, tells the story of a poor Aztec farmer Juan Diego begging the bishop for land to build a church for his native community. It is said the Virgin Mary was with him in spirit, because the rose petals carried in his cloak fell to the floor, forming an image in her likeness. The villagers received permission to build their church on the hill of Tepeyac. La Virgen de Guadalupe was christened the patron saint of Mexico and the site was declared sacred.
This is what 500 parishioners celebrated at 4 a.m. bundled in coats, sitting in wooden pews. The truths I saw were resilience, community, and a high reverence of the Virgin Mary — played out in the cultural respect of mothers.