In the footsteps of Romero

On the evening of November 29, 1994, Sister Reina Angélica Zelaya Díaz completed sewing the dress she would don the following day, marking her departure from the congregation she had faithfully served for the past eleven years: the Poor Sisters of Saint Joseph. Crafted from garments she had gathered for the impoverished, adorned with the cross she had bestowed upon pilgrims at World Youth Day in Denver, she was adorned with symbols of her selfless devotion. Resolute in her decision, she had resolved to bid farewell to the United States and return to her homeland, El Salvador, where a new calling awaited her. Yet, in that moment, amidst the quiet of her sewing room, doubt crept in, causing her once firm convictions to falter.

The Archbishop of San Salvador, Arturo Rivera Damas, who had agreed to take her in and help her start the new institute, had died suddenly. When a young sister told her the news, Sister Reina's breath caught in her throat. Who would she turn to now? Who could she count on to help her find her way in a country she had left at the age of 18 in the midst of civil war and where she no longer had any family or friends? At that moment, the opportunity to turn back came to her through the mouth of her mother superior. “Reina, what if this is a sign? What if God wants to tell you that you are wrong?” How many more times would Reina ask herself the same question in the following years. How many times would she have to 'rummage around inside' to see if it was really right to indulge the urge to go on, that stirred her insides. To overcome the urge to cling to her own security. To recognise if the desire she felt strongly was really an inspiration of the Spirit. “Lord, what do you want from me?” In how many circumstances would she have asked herself that?

The sudden passing of Archbishop Arturo Rivera Damas of San Salvador, who had extended his support to Sister Reina and pledged assistance in establishing her envisioned institute, struck her like a thunderbolt. As the news reached her through a young sister, Sister Reina's breath hitched in her throat. Who would guide her now? Whom could she rely on to navigate the unfamiliar terrain of a homeland she had left at the tender age of 18, amidst the throes of civil unrest, devoid of familial or friendly ties?  In that moment, a glimmer of doubt emerged, conveyed through the words of her mother superior: “Reina, what if this is a sign? What if God is nudging you to reconsider?” It was a question that would come to her mind in the ensuing years, a persistent inquiry she would grapple with time and again. How many times would she delve deep within herself, probing the depths of her convictions to discern whether her resolve to press onward was truly righteous, or merely a whim? How often would she confront the daunting prospect of relinquishing her sense of security, surrendering to the uncertain currents of divine providence? “Lord, what is your will for me?” she would implore, her plea reverberating through countless moments of indecision and adversity.

“And I continue to wonder. There's still much I feel I must uncover regarding His will for me,” reflects Reina, the visionary founder of the Servants of the Mercy of God, a Salvadoran congregation with a footprint extending to Argentina and Honduras, encompassing 46 religious members under the age of 50. As she recounts her journey, she marvels at the unforeseen path that unfolded before her, tracing back to that fateful evening when she heeded the persistent whisper that had long been beckoning her: “I have a special mission for you.”

“For a long time I tried to silence it. To pay no attention to it. I remember a dream. I was in Sesori, near San Miguel, in El Salvador where I grew up. All of a sudden I saw the façade of the church. And a voice said to me: Reina, repair my church”, she says.

Its meaning, adds this woman of great faith, would become clear to her much later. When, on 2 December 1992, in the convent of the Poor Sisters of Saint Joseph in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, after having accidentally discovered a booklet on Divine Mercy, while reciting the prayer of the Chaplet, she had - she emphasises - surrendered: 'Lord, I realised that you want something different from me. I will try to understand what”. “That day I spoke to her mother and in agreement with her, I started a discernment process. It took me two years to find the courage. I did not want to leave the sisters. It felt like a betrayal”. She was inspired by the strength of Monsignor Óscar Romero, archbishop of San Salvador killed by a hitman in 1980 while celebrating mass, her fellow citizen and friend of her parents, now a saint proclaimed by Pope Francis. “He continues to be so. Little by little it became clear to me what God was asking of me: to create a congregation that would be an instrument of his mercy among the poorest, walking alongside them, going to seek them out where they were”.

On November 30, 1994, Reina found herself in San Salvador, equipped with a self-made suit and a check she couldn't cash. “It was incredibly tough. I was neither a Sister of St. Joseph nor had I established a new congregation. I had no money, no shelter, and no support. Thankfully, the Franciscans and Carmelites provided me with hospitality in those early days. But I needed to secure accommodation. I approached the new Archbishop, Monsignor José Luis Escobar Alas, seeking advice and perhaps a letter to reside within a religious community. Instead, he urged me to pursue my original purpose: to walk among the impoverished. And so, I began.”

On June 29, I found lodging in a borrowed henhouse courtesy of a family from Planes de Renderos, one of San Salvador's most humble neighborhoods. Throughout the day, I tended to the sick in hospitals, offering them companionship. I frequented bustling markets, adhering to St. Teresa of Ávila's wisdom that 'God is among the pots.' After enduring months of solitude, the first young women joined me. Thus, the Servants of the Divine Mercy of God were conceived, although it would be some time before we formally established the community.

In the interim, we subsisted on donated bread and traversed the streets on foot, unable to afford transportation. Naturally, the henhouse lacked basic amenities, leading us to wash in the fountain before daybreak to evade detection. Despite the frigid water, I cherish the memories of huddling together beneath the stars. In their luminance, my uncertainties dissolved, affirming that I was exactly where I was meant to be.”

by Lucia Capuzzi
Journalist with the Italian daily “Avvenire”

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