Angels and Demons
Señor Castro found him at a gas station on a windy, snowy Sunday morning. He was shivering near the entrance, only wearing a windbreaker. He might have been there all night.
“What’s your name?" Señor Castro asked.
“Ricardo.”
“Do you need a place to go?”
He nodded, grabbed his bag, and boarded the van.
He had come from California. We never learned how he arrived in the area or why. He was quiet, and only God knows what was churning inside him and what made him come to an unknown place.
Señor Castro took him home and gave him something to eat. Ricardo lived with the Castro family for a few weeks, and then they allowed him to live in an apartment in a building they owned.
I met Ricardo at church after Mass one Sunday, and we included him in our group of friends. One Sunday, he hung out with us an entire day. We went out to a buffet and then grabbed ice cream afterward. He seemed friendly and kind, but one of my cousins picked up something else.
“This guy is not what he seems,” my cousin said. “Look at his tattoos.”
I eyed the images on his arms, but they were faded. I figured they meant something, but I didn’t make any judgments.
My cousin was right, though. Ricardo soon stopped going to Mass and started causing trouble at the apartment. Sometimes, he disappeared for days. No advice or warnings worked, so Señor Castro asked him to leave. He vanished from our lives almost as suddenly as he had appeared. The Castro family had been angels, but Ricardo was still wrestling with demons that would nearly take his life.
The last time I saw him was at church again during Mass at St. Margaret Mary Church. I didn’t recognize him at first. He was sitting in the pew behind me, wearing a cap covering most of his forehead. I didn’t get a good look at him until I turned around to shake his hand during the Sign of Peace. He gripped my hand tightly, looked into my eyes, and smiled. I smiled back.
“Hola, Ricardo.”
He didn’t say one word, but he didn’t stop smiling.
Another Angel was standing with him, as that was his name. Angel was in charge of the diocese's Latino ministry and was a good friend of my parents. He shook my hand, too, with a big smile.
“Hola, muchacho,” he said.
Ricardo was covering his forehead to conceal a fresh scar where he had been shot.
The last time I saw him, he didn’t say much after Mass, but Angel told me how he had crossed paths with Ricardo.
After being in intensive care for a month, no one had claimed him. By then, the Castros had moved to California, and I doubt anyone in our circle knew where he had gone to live. It was a Catholic hospital, so they called the diocese and told someone they were disconnecting the life support. If he died, the diocese would cover his funeral costs, but what if he lived? Well, he lived, and Angel stepped up, took him in, and helped him heal, get back on his feet, and eventually, home.
Angel helped get word down to Mexico City through the Mexican Consulate in Chicago, where Ricardo’s information was announced on the radio. Ricardo couldn’t remember his address, but he did remember his family, and after a few months, someone claimed Ricardo for good. His family hadn’t heard from him in years and figured him for dead. I can only imagine their surprise. I didn’t see him after that Mass because Ricardo was on a flight to Mexico City a few days later.
God’s Grace and angels find us even when we don’t want them to, so we should pause when someone appears in our life in some kind of need or if we’re in need. We can open ourselves to that grace, even if it’s just offering or accepting a meal, a ride, or a place to stay where we can help someone heal and find home again.