Of that day and hour...

knoweth no man.

Calchaqui Valley, Argentina

July 14th, 2025

“But of that day and hour, knoweth no man, no, not the angels of Heaven, but My Father only.”

-Matthew 24:36

The cemetery at Angastaco.

“She was a friend of mine from school.”, said our housekeeper, tears forming in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry.”, I said.

We had just learned of the death of a middle aged woman from Angastaco. We’d never met her, but she was sister, aunt, sister in law, friend to many of the folks at La Arcadia.

The mass would be held at 2pm on Saturday, our housekeeper reported, and the next day, Sunday, at 9am, would be the interment.

Since we were having guests on Saturday, it was not feasible to attend the mass. However we promised to be present at the burial the next day.

“A few of people will be wanting rides.”, our foreman told us. “Is it ok for them to wait for you by the church in the morning?”.

Of course it was.

On Sunday morning, we rose early enough for a shower and a cup of coffee. When we pulled up at the church in La Arcadia, a small group awaited us. One of them was the brother of the deceased. His daughter was with him.

They piled in, and off we went.

The woman who’d died was married and had three sons. She was raising a six year old granddaughter since her son had separated from the mother, and the mother was somewhat unstable.

Out of the blue, she had a stroke. She was taken to Salta. But word came that there was no hope. She died the next day.

In Angastaco we were directed to the house where the wake had taken place all night. In the driveway was the hearse, and lots of people stood around. I recognized the wife of one of our employees. I greeted her.

“They’re going to close the coffin soon.”, she said. “You can get in line to bless the body.”.

She pointed to a line of people, old and young, waiting to say goodbye. We took our place in the queue.

On top of an ornate silver pedestal was a small booklet for writing notes of condolences. I jotted down a few lines.

From inside the house came the sound of a woman crying. Tears sprang up in our own eyes.

We waited patiently, and finally entered the room where the woman lay in her coffin. It was raised on saw horses, and a great silver cross stood up behind the head of the coffin. The woman was covered in white satin. Her face was waxen and drawn, but peaceful.

Under the casket sat a bowl of water with a pair of open scissors. The water symbolizes the purity of the deceased’s soul, and the open scissors are to ward off the interference of evil spirits in the transition to the afterlife.

We were handed a jar of water and the sprig of a pepper tree. We dipped the sprig into the water and made the sign of the cross over the body. Then, we handed the jar to Adrien, made the sign of the cross over our own chest, and stepped aside.

The sister of the woman stood nearby, her eyes red and sorrowful. I kissed her cheek, wet with tears, and gave her a hug. Words did not seem necessary.

We headed out to the patio. There were several more folks from the community of La Arcadia milling around. An open fire burned. A grill was placed on top of the coals, and a huge kettle and a couple of cauldrons bubbled and hissed.

We were offered a cup of coffee. It was piping hot and lightly sweetened. Homemade bread was passed around.

There was a general commotion and we were bid to leave our cups behind. The coffin was being sealed. It was time to head to the cemetery.

We took a final swig of the invigorating coffee, and headed down to the front of the house.

Outside, we spotted our housekeeper, standing with two of her daughters. Her hair was neatly pulled back and she looked on with dignity as the coffin was brought out.

Once it was hoisted into the hearse, the undertaker clapped. All joined in.

The grey hearse, adorned with wreathes of bright colored plastic flowers, slowly pulled out into the street. We followed along on foot. People from the neighboring houses joined the procession. One of the women we knew held a rosary and led prayers as we walked.

At the cemetery, we stood to the back.

“Abuela, abuela.”, wept a young woman. Abuela means grandma.

I remembered my own grandmother’s funeral, and how I’d cried and cried for months after her death.

Prayers and songs mingled with tears as the friends and family of the departed woman mourned without restraint. To them, there was no dignity in holding back their pain. They let it all pour out. They held and rocked each other as the tears kept coming.

Once the dirt was shoveled in, we quietly departed. We’d shown up for our people. Our job was done.

“What about the little girl?”, I asked our housekeeper the next morning.

“Poor thing went her mother.”, she replied. “She didn’t want to but there’s no one else to take her.”.

Tomorrow, we return to Gualfín.

More to come.

Abrazos,

Mariah