I lived in a distant suburb of the capital, San José, called Curridabat. At the time, it was about as far to the west of San José as one could go without leaving the continguous urban sprall. And yet it was also fairly convenient vis a vis the ubiquitious and amazing public bus system.
At some point in my stay, and I honestly don't recall how, I made the acquaintance of a really wonderful young man, Mr. S. Mr. S. was, I guess, about my age (23), and he was well spoken in his English. We would spend time together just enjoying each other's company. It was a purely platonic friendship, and one that have come to realize is all too rare in this life.
Mr. S.'s father headed up an NGO that distributed funds to organizations that offered care to children with special needs. And it was through this that Mr. S. introduced me to the work of a little Carmelite mission, Hogar Luz. Further up the mountain, and further west of even Curridabat, the mission was tucked away off of the main road in a little compound that consisted of living quarters for about half a dozen sisters, and, at the time, ten children. Ranging from age 12 down to infants, these children were among the most severely handicapped, and I can not put too fine a point on this, most fortunate in the country.
We often hear stories about the abysmal state of special education in this nation, but friends, you have no idea how this segment of our human family is treated in nations where resources are scant and understanding scarce. The children of Hogar Luz were living in a virtual Eden.
After my initial visit with my friend, Mr. S., I began making regular treks to Hogar Luz on my own. My Spanish absolutely sucked, but because I was a guest of Mr. S. the sisters permitted me access to their charges. And what ever was going on when I arrived, I just joined right in. Sometimes this meant assisting with feeding the children, sometimes it meant changing diapers. It really didn't matter to me; and frankly, I think that fascinated the nuns. The picture is of me holding one of the most able of all of the children, and it was taken by Mr. S. on a day when we visited together. I recall that we had just spent time with the 2 or 3 older children who were ambulatory playing tag in the little yard. Most of the children were confined to wheel chairs or beds. Of this little boy, I recall that he was often aggressive with the sisters, but really responded well to Mr. S. and me. After spending time in some physical activity, he would become docile and patient. Many of the children bore the physical scars of having been abused by parents and previous care-givers who simply could not accept their disabilities. And given their unique mental abilities, there was just no way to know what psychological scars they carried. It is difficult to remember this...it still makes me cry.
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