Of Seasons and Altars

The Día de los Muertos celebration altar from last weekend

As John and I have written about in past blogs, our father Roger was a United Methodist minister for much of his life. Before Google calendars became the norm and countless secular celebrations filled Target aisles, our family’s church rhythms revolved around religious seasons such as Advent, Pentecost, and Lent. I was always fascinated by the color coding of my father’s stoles, worn over his ministerial robe, each hue marking a shift in the church’s annual life.

Halloween 1969

Growing up, I wondered why Halloween didn’t merit its own orange stole. For a child, it ranked right up there with Christmas! My mother spent hours sewing elaborate costumes but could also improvise a last-minute pirate from an old velvet hat and mask. We loved the preparation, the parties, the trick-or-treating – and, of course, the candy. As tweens, John and I would dump our haul onto the living room floor, trading Snickers for Sweet Tarts while devouring Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups whole.

When we moved to south Evanston, and transitioned from grade school to high school, we no longer followed the youngsters out of the sanctuary during the Sunday sermon – we were now considered young adults. After Halloween, we began to notice All Saints Day appearing on the church calendar, carrying an aura similar to Good Friday. It wasn’t about parties, decorations, or costumes – it was about remembrance, honoring loved ones in a solemn way.

This past weekend, my wife Shazi and I traveled to Austin, Texas, to visit Ale and John, friends we’ve known for over 30 years. We were blessed to reconnect with their son Johnny and daughter Sarah, both brilliant, hard-working students with a passion for music. Over a couple of days, Shazi and I relived the chaos of parenting kids who never stop moving. I found myself exhausted just hearing about their daily schedules.

Shazi has known Ale since their college study abroad days, and over the years, we’ve had the joy of experiencing Mexican culture – traveling through towns and cities on different trips such as San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, Guadalajara, and Tampico. Ale met her husband, John, in Venezuela when they were children. They eventually settled in Austin, where they’ve built a warm, loving life for their family.

Before our trip, Ale asked if we could bring photos of our parents for the family’s Día de los Muertos celebration with her own parents, whom I’d first met decades ago at their wedding in Tampico. As I hastily pulled dusty frames from our living room bookshelf, I realized how disconnected I’ve become from memories of my mom and dad. A few years back, my brother John admitted he was having trouble recalling details about our mother as time passed – I was sadly feeling the same.

This was the first Halloween we weren’t home handing out candy to trick-or-treaters. With our son Tristan now living in New York, we’ve watched the neighborhood kids grow from toddlers in duck onesies to teens dressed as Han Solo or Harry Potter. This year, instead of candy duty, we found ourselves at an Austin Friday Night Lights football game, watching the McCallum High School marching band perform their program ahead of a state competition.

As we wandered the stadium before the show, we passed the band’s “front ensemble” with rows of xylophones and marimbas. Their warm-up was Radiohead’s Everything in Its Right Place, which, amid the chaos of football teams, band members, and costumed parents, stopped me in my tracks. For some reason, I could only think of a haunting video of that same song I’d seen a few weeks earlier.

The final product

On Sunday, we gathered to build an altar with photos of both families that included generations of loved ones who had passed. John spent hours preparing a delicious paella with ingredients that “swim, walk, and fly.” It became the perfect centerpiece for our meal. Around the table, we swapped stories, laughed about the quirks of numbering in different languages, and felt deep gratitude for being present in that moment.

After dinner, I stood before the altar. We’d placed small offerings – white chocolate for my mom, licorice for my dad, and bacon for my grandmother in tiny bowls. I saw pieces of myself in each of their smiling faces and felt the quiet weight of remembrance and connection. Life isn’t linear; it’s a web of moments woven through time and space. In the end, everything really is in its right place.