The Privilege of Meeting Two Saints and Not Knowing It

 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 lectures, often staying until ten at night.

It was a demanding schedule during an unstable period in the country. The military government had intensified repression against students, unions, religious leaders, and peasant organizations. Since the early 1970s, blatant electoral fraud, along with systematic imprisonment, kidnappings, and assassinations of social leaders, had created an atmosphere of constant fear. Traveling by public transportation, or even driving one’s own car, carried a lingering anxiety. Anyone could become the victim of a death squad attack, a guerrilla assault on a military post, or simply be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

In contrast, my volunteer placement each morning felt like a small refuge of peace. It spared me the stress of being on the streets, the pressure of sales responsibilities at the hardware store, and the constant intimidation at the university. Since 1976, the campus had been under the control of an oppressive governing body aligned with the military. Armed guards patrolled the premises, constantly harassing students, frisking us, searching our bags, and even touching women inappropriately.

Óscar Arnulfo Romero (August 15, 1917 – March 24, 1980) was appointed, on February 3, 1977, as the fourth Archbishop of San Salvador. His appointment was seen as a compromise: while he was respected as a conservative and spiritual escolar, pleasing the military government, many progressive members of the church viewed him with suspicion and did not trust him to advocate for social reforms. 

A turning point in Archbishop Romero’s life came on March 12, 1977, when his close friend, Father Rutilio Grande SJ, was brutally murdered while driving on a remote road. Alongside Grande, two peasant leaders and several children were also killed. This tragedy profoundly affected Romero and transformed him into a vocal advocate against social injustice and the indiscriminate violence perpetrated by the state. 

Between 1977 and 1980, more than fifty religious leaders were captured, tortured, or forced into exile. Six priests were killed, four American nuns were raped and murdered by the National Guard. Countless students, union leaders, and peasants were also killed, “disappeared,” or detained without due process. Archbishop Romero became a powerful voice denouncing the military government’s brutal repression. In his homily the day before his assassination, he had urged soldiers to disobey illegal orders to kill given by their superiors. His murder became the catalyst that ignited the Salvadoran Civil War, which lasted twelve years.

That was the context I met him in 1978. Almost every morning around eight o’clock Archbishop Romero used to pass in front of our offices, on his way to his duties. Our director, Roberto Cuellar, would call us out of our workstations so we could greet him, we gathered on the corridor of the archdiocese palace to wish him good morning as he walked the corridors toward his office.

I never had a personal conversation with Archbishop Romero. I was just an unknown student doing volunteer work in one of many Archdiocese offices. Yet, he always acknowledged us warmly. When I greeted him, he would return the greeting and sometimes, with a smile, gently tap my stomach with his finger and say, “You must lose weight, you are too fat.”

People often ask me whether I ever had the opportunity to meet Saint Romero of America, as he is now recognized following his canonization. Whenever I recall those early mornings at the Human Rights Office, I like to believe that, in his own special way, the saint was wishing a young student good health. His gentle greetings offered comfort and encouragement, reinforcing the sense of peace that the office provided during those troubled times.

Archbishop Romero a champion of social causes and the Liberation Theology that proposed the “preferential option for the poor” was assassinated, while celebrating mas, on March 24, 1980, by a right-wing dead squad. After years of political delays within the hierarchy of the Catholic Church, his canonization was finally celebrated in Saint Peter’s Square in Rome on October 14, 2018. These events marked the recognition of his enduring commitment to justice. 

The week of Archbishop Romero’s assassination coincided with a significant moment in my own life, the marriage of the mother of my children and me. We had spent over a year planning our wedding, and I had arranged time off to focus on the ceremony and our honeymoon. This meant that I was not present during the immediate aftermath of the crisis. Amidst our celebrations, we received news of the indiscriminate shooting by soldiers at the saint’s funeral while we were staying at a hotel by the beach. The juxtaposition of personal joy and national tragedy remains deeply etched in my memory.

Meeting the Second Saint

On June 26, 1980, by order of the military government, the University of El Salvador was once again occupied by the Armed Forces, beginning a four-year period of exile for much of the university community. Some of us, senior students by then, were fortunate enough to continue classes in private residences or makeshift classrooms hosted by sympathetic schools and institutes.

Despite the turmoil, I graduated in 1984 and was authorized by the Supreme Court as an attorney and notary public in 1985. Shortly after my graduation, and even before my authorization was finalized, I began working as one of the staff lawyers at the newly established Human Rights Office of the Catholic Archdiocese. The prior organization had been dismantled after Archbishop Romero’s assassination, when all its staff fled into exile. The new archbishop, Arturo Rivera Damas, created a replacement institution known as Tutela Legal (Legal Tutelage).

By then, the civil war was in full effect, and our office was overwhelmed, working nonstop to address the constant stream of human rights violations. To make matters worse, in October 1986, a massive earthquake struck, flattening much of San Salvador and surrounding towns. The disaster added yet another layer of crisis and urgency to our already exhausting work.

Many foreign governments and international aid agencies sent assistance to the earthquake victims. However, due to widespread corruption, the Salvadoran government was not trusted to handle the aid, and the archdiocese was entrusted with administering most of it.

One morning in November 1986, I was informed that a group of earthquake victims and refugees had been detained by the National Guard. Both activists and government representatives requested that our office send an authorized representative to resolve the situation. The chancellor of the archdiocese, Monsignor Ricardo Urioste, called me directly and asked me to attend to the matter immediately. A priest from his office and several nurse nuns would accompany me because there were children and elderly people at risk.

After finishing my conversation with Monsignor Urioste, I gathered the necessary documents and called the National Guard headquarters to inform them that I was on my way to deal with the crisis. Informing them I carried the full authority from the archbishop, and who was with me, providing the names of those accompanying me.

In those days, it seemed that every hour brought a new emergency. The challenge was always deciding which crisis to attend first. That day, as I hurried out of my office, I found Archbishop Rivera standing at my door.

Since 1977, the Missionaries of Charity, the religious order founded by Mother Teresa, had maintained a convent in San Salvador. Their nuns were a familiar sight in the city and surrounding towns, easily recognizable by their distinctive white and blue habits. Seeing them in the corridors of the Archdiocesan Palace was not unusual.

“Hi,” Archbishop Rivera said. “I was just coming to introduce you to Mother…” (I did not catch the name he mentioned.) I turned and saw a small, frail nun standing beside him. “Nice to meet you, Sister,” I said, shaking her hand briefly. If she replied, I didn’t hear it. My mind was already focused on the crisis at hand. I quickly updated the archbishop on the situation and rushed out to the parking lot.

The next day, I learned that the nun I had met so briefly was, in fact, Teresa of Calcutta, who was visiting the country and the convent of the Missionaries of Charity.

Mary Teresa Bojaxhiu (August 26, 1910 – September 5, 1997), better known as Mother Teresa, was canonized in Saint Peter’s Square, Vatican City, on September 4, 2016. The frail woman whose hand I shook that day in November 1986 was later declared a saint, and I had met her without knowing who she was.

Looking back, I realize how extraordinary those encounters truly were. In the midst of chaos, repression, and human suffering, I had crossed paths, unknowingly, with two people whose lives would one day be recognized as models of holiness. Both saints stood for compassion and justice in times of darkness. Their brief presence in my life reminds me that even the smallest human exchanges can carry significance, often revealed only with the passage of time.