Barbara S. White
Robert Pasquel-White, my son, was born in Rio Piedras, a suburb of San
Juan, Puerto Rico on November 17, 1972. Even though we moved back to the U.S.
mainland when he was six months old, he retained an unexplained love of Puerto
Rico and was proud of his birthplace.
On October 30, 1990 (four months after graduating from high school in
Virginia, a week after returning from working with his father in San Juan, and
a week before entering the U. S. Army), Robert was killed in a tragic
automobile accident. His exuberant love of life was stilled a few days before
his 18th birthday.
Six weeks later I moved to Puerto Rico to join my husband in San Juan. I
gave up a successful and most enjoyable career with Girl Scouts USA, left our
home in a scenic and historic area of
Virginia and
said farewell to many friends and the close-knit community of Buck Mountain
Episcopal Church. I also left an English-speaking culture. All of this caused a
loss of my identity and a strong base of support while bearing intense pain in
my heart and soul.
It was several months later, during a visit to the Art Museum of Ponce on the
Caribbean side of the island, that the miracle happened. While viewing an
extraordinary collection of pre-Renaissance paintings, all of which had religious
themes, I encountered one among the many that held my focus. How did the artist
capture such grief in the eyes of the Virgin Mary? Where had I seen that look
before? It took a few minutes to realize that I had seen the same look of
absolute sorrow in the mirror. I realized that when I was at my lowest, there
in the bottom of my soul were God and Mary. They, too, had lost a beloved son.
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