Enrique's Writings

The evening was cold, one of those December nights when the air feels sharpened, almost metallic. David eased the car into the church parking lot, headlights sweeping across a cluster of choir members gathered outside. Their huddled shapes, shivering in the freezing dark, immediately unsettled him. Choir practice never started outdoors. He glanced at Lyanne beside him. She stared at the group as though she’d been expecting something to go wrong. Since her return from Central America, she carried a je ne sais quoi , that hadn’t existed before. Her once bright demeanor now flickered only occasionally. She gave him little to work with, no explanations, no details, just vague responses when he asked how she was doing. He didn’t push, didn’t dare. As he turned off the engine, his thoughts drifted back to the conversation that had changed everything, the night she told him she needed to volunteer in the earthquake zones. Back then, their relationship had come apart from the seams, threads pu...

          The first signs of the Christmas season had arrived. It was their very first Christmas in their adopted country. Canada was dressing itself in multicolored lights, shop windows glowing warmly, and familiar seasonal songs drifting through the cold air. For this small family of new Canadians, everything about the season felt tender, tentative, and new. The year coming to an end had been a year of firsts, first winter, first home, first language learned on the fly, first Christmas far from everything they once knew. After all, it was the year they had arrived in their adopted country. “A country made by immigrants, for immigrants,” the immigration officer had said as he welcomed them at the airport on that frigid January morning. Now, months later, those words felt a little distant, as if winter itself had stretched endlessly since that day. They were “newcomers.” That was the word people used when referring to them, whether they were within earshot or no...

 By the time Carlos Borromeo entered his office that morning, she was already there, waiting for him. She rose as he approached, and when they shook hands, her grip was firm, immediately commanding. “Lyanne Smith,” she said, introducing herself. She had long, reddish-blonde hair braided neatly down almost to her hips. Jerelyn’s gray-green eyes held both intelligence and defiance. She wore no makeup, just a long blue skirt and a traditional local white blouse embroidered at the neckline. Her impeccable Spanish caught him by surprise, clear, deliberate, touched with the faint lilt of an accent that could only be from Spain. For a brief moment, he was silent, caught between admiration and professional composure. Then, regaining his voice, he asked, “Welcome. How can I help you?” Lyanne gave a small, knowing smile, half amused, half challenged, and began to tell her story. She explained that she was a volunteer working with survivors of the earthquake, and that her team, arriving from ...

The old woman who managed the small bed and breakfast where the couple was staying offered a word of caution. She advised them to be careful on the roads. “If you go for a hike, be careful out there” she said. “This time of year, the roads and paths are treacherous,” she warned. “Things happen, and no one believes what happens. That’s one of the reasons we close the B&B a week before and a week after Halloween. The staff need a break, too.” The couple expressed their gratitude for the exception. “We are truly thankful and appreciate the exception you did for us,” he responded. The woman explained, “Well, that was thanks to my daughter. She didn’t know our practice, she had been studying in Toronto, you see. It was only this week she started accepting reservations like yours. Now you are here, I’m not going to send you back. am I?” With that, she handed the room keys to the young couple. After resting for a while, the couple decided to drive back toward a little road they had notice...

 The barn stood empty and unmoving, its silence weighed down by the gravity of past events. The atmosphere was thick and quiet, infused with the musty scent of dust and old hay. Beneath these familiar barn odors, a sharper, metallic undertone lingered, subtle yet unmistakable. This lingering note, perhaps a memory of blood, claimed the air long after the evidence had faded from sight. Sunlight slipped through the gaps in the barn’s wooden slats, forming thin, uneven lines that illuminated drifting motes of dust. These tiny particles floated aimlessly, seemingly unaware of the violence that had disturbed them only hours before. The floor, uneven and comprised of packed earth and splintered boards, was strewn with stray pieces of straw. Here and there, the muted shine of something metallic caught the light, perhaps a dropped tool or a fragment of something, whose significance had already faded with the moment. At the center of the barn, something small lay almost insignificant agains...

 Meeting the First Saint In 1978, as a new law student, I began volunteering in the legal department of the Archdiocese’s Human Rights Office, then known as Socorro Jurídico (Legal Relief). For many of us, volunteering there was a way to gain practical experience in legal procedures, investigations, and case documentation. The Faculty of Law encouraged students to seek such placements to build professional skills. As new volunteers, we were not directly involved in frontline human rights defense; that responsibility rested with a dedicated team of lawyers and senior students. Our role was mainly investigative and focused on documentation. Many of us worked full-time while studying full-time, which limited the hours we could dedicate to volunteering. In my case, I contributed during the early morning hours from seven to nine. Immediately afterward, I rushed to my job at a hardware store, where I worked until six in the evening. From there, I hurried to the Faculty of Law to attend l...