A Reflection on Time, Family, Faith, and Hope
For many years, Mother’s Day was complicated for me.
I had not seen my mother for almost 40 years.
The last time I had truly been with her was around 1982. We spoke on the phone a few times in the 1980s and early 90’s, but eventually we lost contact.
She was living in the United States.
I was living in Canada.
Somewhere between immigration, distance, fear, survival, and the passing of time… life separated us.
During the years of gang violence in El Salvador, I was afraid to contact family members back home because I feared criminal groups could use those connections for extortion or harm.
Fear became silence.
And silence slowly became years.
I searched for my mother a couple of times over the years, but could never find her.
Then in 2018, through Facebook, I found my sister… and through that reconnection, I found my mother again.
After almost four decades apart, we were able to reconnect.
That experience reminded me that sometimes life creates distances that feel impossible to overcome — across countries, years, pain, fear, and silence.
But hope is never completely gone.
But there is another part of that story; the story of my grandmother, María Aurelia Aguilar Villacorta.
Scripture says in Ecclesiastes 3:
“To everything there is a season,
and a time for every purpose under heaven…
a time to be born,
and a time to die…
a time to weep,
and a time to laugh…
a time to mourn,
and a time to heal.”
There are certain conversations in life that never leave you.
Not because they were loud.
Not because they were dramatic.
But because they carried truth.
When I finally saw my grandmother again after many years apart, she told me something I will never forget.
She said:
“You had prepared me for this. You told me there was a time for everything… a time to leave the country and a time to come back, a time to live and a time to die.”
At the time, those words felt heavy.
But over the years, they became even deeper.
Because life has a way of teaching us how fragile time really is.
When we are young, we think there will always be more time.
Another visit.
Another phone call.
Another opportunity.
But life moves quietly.
Years disappear.
Families age.
Relationships drift.
And sometimes we do not realize how much time has passed until we stop long enough to look back.
There were many moments in my life when I internally mourned my grandmother because I feared she may have already died.
Sometimes distance becomes so large, communication becomes so difficult, and life becomes so complicated that people begin grieving emotionally long before they truly lose someone.
There were years filled with uncertainty.
Years filled with silence.
Years where life kept moving while important parts of the heart remained unresolved.
But by God’s grace, I was able to see my grandmother again before she passed away.
And I will always be thankful for that.
I remember something else she told me that deeply touched me.
She said:
“Every time you come from Canada, you do something.”
She was talking about simple things:
painting,
repairing things around the house,
trying to improve things little by little.
Simple things.
But over time I realized she was speaking about something deeper.
Sometimes love is not expressed through grand speeches.
Sometimes love looks like presence.
Effort.
Service.
Helping quietly.
Trying to leave things a little better than you found them.
There is something else my grandmother told me that stayed deeply with me.
She said that during that week she have had a dream.
In the dream, she was sitting in the middle of a room, and people would come in one by one.
And she would ask each person:
“And what can you do?”
One person would answer:
“I know how to sew.”
And she would respond:
“Then you will sew uniforms for the youth soccer program.”
Then she would say:
“Next.”
Another person would enter the room.
And again she would ask:
“What can you do?”
Over and over, each person had something different they could contribute.
For a long time, I reflected on that dream.
And maybe what touched me most was how simple it was.
She was not asking who was rich.
Who was important.
Who had status.
She was asking:
“What can you contribute?”
Maybe that is one of the deepest meanings of community and faith.
Not that everyone must do everything…
but that everyone can do something.
Some people encourage.
Some teach.
Some build.
Some cook.
Some repair.
Some organize.
Some pray.
Some listen.
Some give.
Some serve quietly without recognition.
And maybe one of the most beautiful things in life is when ordinary people bring their small gifts together to help others and leave the world a little better than they found it.
And maybe that is one of the most important things faith should produce in people.
Not performance.
Not appearance.
Not pride.
But humility.
Service.
Compassion.
Presence.
A week after I left El Salvador, my grandmother passed away.
And although there is sadness in that memory, there is also peace.
Because I saw her again.
I heard her voice again.
I sat with her again.
And sometimes grace looks like being given one more moment you thought life had already taken away.
That experience changed the way I think about life.
It reminded me not to take people for granted.
Not to assume there will always be more time.
Not to delay love, forgiveness, gratitude, or reconnection forever.
Maybe someone listening today is carrying the weight of lost time.
Maybe there are words left unsaid.
Relationships left unresolved.
People you still think about quietly sometimes.
Life has a way of convincing us there will always be more time.
But time moves silently.
And sometimes years disappear while we are busy surviving, working, worrying, or simply trying to get through life.
That is why moments matter more than we realize.
A conversation matters.
A visit matters.
Presence matters.
Not because people are perfect.
Not because relationships are always easy.
But because love still matters even in imperfect lives.
And maybe one of the saddest things in life is not only losing people…
but slowly becoming strangers while they are still alive.
Yet even in that reality, there is still hope.
Because sometimes after years of silence…
people reconnect.
After distance…
healing becomes possible.
After regret…
grace still finds a way to enter the story.
And maybe faith is not only believing in extraordinary miracles.
Maybe faith is also recognizing the sacredness of ordinary moments:
a conversation at a table,
a quiet goodbye,
a repaired relationship,
a helping hand,
one more opportunity to sit beside someone you love.
Maybe in the end, life is not measured only by how far we traveled, how much we achieved, or how busy we became.
Maybe it is measured by something quieter.
By the people we remembered.
The people we returned to.
The conversations we did not abandon.
The kindness we offered.
The things we repaired little by little.
The moments we chose to be present instead of absent.
My grandmother understood something many people only realize later in life:
that time moves quickly,
that people are fragile,
and that love often reveals itself in simple acts of presence, service, patience, and care.
And maybe wisdom is learning not to wait too long to value those moments.
Because eventually, conversations become memories.
Homes become echoes.
People become stories.
But sometimes, by grace, we are given one more opportunity:
one more visit,
one more conversation,
one more moment to reconnect,
one more chance to say:
“I’m here.”
And maybe that is where grace quietly meets us —
not only in extraordinary moments,
but in the simple moments where we choose to love, forgive, return, reconnect, and be present for one another.
Because in the end, love is never wasted.
And the moments we share with others often become the moments that shape us most deeply.
