San Diego Union-Tribune (Sunday)
WE’LL REMEMBER OUR PARENTS’ PERSEVERANCE AND TRIUMPH
My brothers and I lost our parents, Taurino and Silvia Rivera, weeks apart to COVID-19. One of my brothers had to watch as everything unfolded from the border in Tijuana, Mexico, because he signed his voluntary departure in 2011. Losing our parents was the most painful thing, and we are still coping with it, but it has brought us closer as a family.
Our parents’ story begins in a small town in Oaxaca, Mexico. Dad was born Aug. 28, 1963, and Mom on May 28, 1964. They got married on her birthday in 1983. Their childhood was full of wonders in the open fields of rural Oaxaca but also accompanied by lots of labor in order to survive.
In 1992, as God would have it, my father arranged for our mother and brothers to migrate north to San Diego to reunite with him. Our parents were the real dreamers filled with the courage to migrate and start a fresh chapter in a strange land.
Mom and Dad were inseparable since they were children. They were childhood playmates, then pen pals. They married very young but endured to the very end. He was 57, she was 56. They were married for 37 years and were co-workers every single day for 20. They spent 20 years in church ministry, 10 of those as pastors. Mom was Dad’s co-pilot, literally signaling other drivers with her hands when Dad was getting ready to move lanes or make turns. They did laundry together, visited the sick in hospitals, drove around delivering food to homes. They stayed married until death did they part in February. Mom followed Dad two weeks after his passing. We believe they are together in heaven.
Despite our poverty, Dad and Mom provided everything we needed as kids. This was most apparent on our birthdays. After eight hours of work, how did they have the energy to decorate the ceiling with colorful paper? How did Mom squeeze time to make food and bake a cake, candles lit, with Dad singing us “Happy Birthday” with his guitar and all
Rivera is an artist and lives in Cortez Hills.
the neighborhood kids following along, all cramped into our small little kitchen?
My parents were hardworking people. It showed inside and outside of church. Their daily routine for years consisted of waking at 4 a.m., working from 5 a.m. to 1 p.m., having dinner, then getting ready for church or house worship. When we were kids, our house was a safe haven for people. At times, it hosted family and friends recently crossed from Mexico looking for a better life. At other times, our friends who needed help would stay over. At one point, our fridge was a food bank for our neighborhood friends.
As a teen, Dad would take me along every Wednesday to preach to a group of men in a rehab center off Imperial Avenue. Every time Dad would pray for these guys with big muscles and tattoos, they would break down. Dad had this special way when he prayed for others, as if he represented what they needed most at that moment. Those evenings, I felt so secure with Dad. I was so proud of him for helping others get through difficult times.
Mom was more direct when evangelizing. She would preach to anyone who would listen. If they spoke English, she would say, “My friend, Jesus loves you.” If she could, she would baptize them in that moment.
That’s when Dad would intervene to hold her back.
Dad and Mom were happiest when all the family gathered around them. They were so proud to be grandparents. My dad would say God had blessed them with many generations of servants for God. He loved to perform magic tricks for his grandchildren, and Mom loved to spoil them with candy. They loved sharing their stories of Mexico over backyard carne asada and bonfires.
I’m gonna miss them very much. Dad’s compassionate look when I had messed up. Mom’s frown when something wasn’t right. Mom’s contagious laugh. Dad’s gentle heartwarming hugs. Mom’s bear hugs. Mom’s cheek kisses. Dad kissing the top of my head. Mom’s invitation to come eat at their home. Mom’s fruity fragrance. Dad peeling oranges. Mom’s atole in the cold morning. Dad’s fingers playing the guitar. Mom putting on makeup. And many more intimate moments inside my memory. But most of all, I will miss them calling my name and me turning towards them.
The story of Mom and Dad is a story of perseverance and triumph. The circumstances of their death may seem to be a horrible tragedy, as if all is lost in the midst of this pandemic, but it’s not true. Their legacy continues inside every heart they touched with God’s love. These hearts carry seeds of love.