I grew up in the Washington Heights area of Manhattan. We lived on the fifth floor of an apartment building that had no elevators and my grandmother lived on the second floor of the same building. This was the first home my brothers and I lived in when we arrived in the United States (my mother and sister were already living there).
I have fond memories of this place. I saw my first snow while living there. Part of the reason I still speak Spanish is because of this community – most of my neighbors were Dominicans. Our grocer was Dominican and so were many of the other business and stores we frequented. We attended a church that had mass in Spanish and the school I attended taught us in both English and Spanish. There was even a park my mother used to take us to when we were children that had the neighborhood pool.
Despite having so many happy memories, I can remember one particular day that wasn’t so fond. When I was about seven years old, my mother and grandmother took my sister and me to that very same park. I remember we played on the swings, monkey bars and teeter totter that day. While playing in the sandbox we met a little girl who happened to be at the park by herself. My mother and grandmother were sitting on a bench not too far with their back turned from us. After a while, the little girl got up from the sandbox and told us she was going home. My sister announced she was going with her. As her big sister, I told her not to, but didn’t try to stop her. Instead, I continued to play in the sandbox.
After some time, my mother came to retrieve my sister and me from the sandbox. She noticed my sister was missing and asked me where she was. I told her that she left with the little girl, but my mother did not believe me. We searched the entire park and could not find her. We had to call the police and give them a picture of her. We rounded up the rest of the family and began looking all around the neighborhood for her. My mother was frantic, and I felt it was my fault. My sister was lost and I did not do enough to help her.
Hours passed… but thankfully, we finally received a call from the police! A young man had found my sister roaming the streets, lost and alone, and took her to the nearest police station. We all breathed a sigh of relief. An officer drove my mom to the station to find my sister eating an ice cream cone.
I only had one sister growing up, but today I have many friends that I consider my sisters. But just like the empty feeling that I had the day my sister was lost, there is nothing as heart wrenching as when I realize one of my sisters is lost and the world has gotten its grips on her. I feel helpless – just as I did when my sister was lost as a child. Christ is the only one who can find us and keep us safe. He has placed us in our “sisters’” lives to direct them down the right path, just as the young man directed my sister to safety that day. If your sister is lost today, why not direct to Christ?