Cafecito With Mom and Dad

“Son! How are you? How is everyone at home?” my dad asked as he greeted me, leaning forward and giving me a kiss on the cheek at the doorstep.

“At home? Yanik, I, and the dog are well,” I said with a smirk, since all three kids are now off in college or starting a new career. “Manu is getting adjusted to her new apartment in Nashville. Let me show you.” I pulled up a photo on my phone—my daughter, her boyfriend, and me, with the Nashville Sounds baseball field in the background. The team was playing when we visited on Easter Sunday.

My mom walked in from her room and gave me a kiss as my dad started warming up the espresso machine. They used to have an old-school stainless steel cafetera, but years ago my brother and I got them a more modern espresso maker, which my dad has since mastered.

“Let me see,” my mom said, reaching for the phone.

“And Emilia and Nico?” my father asked. That’s our second daughter and youngest son.

“We’re driving up to pick up Nico in Alabama in a few weeks. He has to move out of his dorm by early May. They’re both done in early May, but Emilia is staying a couple of weeks longer in Tallahassee. She has a friend’s birthday party that she doesn’t want to miss.”

“Emilia never wants to miss a party,” my mom said.

“No, she doesn’t.”

Just an excerpt from the conversations that have been part of my morning routine with my parents for the past 16 years. I stop by for about ten minutes or so. They make me cafecito. We talk about family, my dog, the Mets, our faith, politics, and whatever is happening in their lives. At 87 and 85, they’re both retired, but they stay active in their parish community, have lunch daily at the elderly center across the street, and take walks around the neighborhood. Always out and about. Fortunately, they are still in good health, mentally sharp, and yes, still driving.

But my relationship with my parents wasn’t always this way. For many years in my 20’s and 30’s, I ignored them and sometimes went days, or more, without even giving them a call.

The morning visits started after I heard a friend share his story at a men’s retreat I was serving on. He talked about his contentious relationship with his father. He had gone to an exclusive private school where many of his friends came from wealthy families. His parents were blue-collar. His dad worked two, sometimes three, jobs to make ends meet and keep his son in that school. And instead of gratitude, my friend showed him disdain, looking down on him for not being able to provide what his friends had.

Then, without warning, his father got sick and died. It left a wound that has never fully healed because he never told his dad how much he loved him. Never showed him the respect he deserved.

He vowed not to let that happen with his mother. So, he started stopping by every morning on his way to work for cafecito and a few minutes together.

The story really moved me. And it made me think about all the years I had taken my own parents for granted, even though they had always been there for me—helping me move into my house, never missing one of my baseball games, even into adulthood, always available when my car broke down or our kids needed rides.

Around that same time, our nanny, who had helped us raise our two daughters, decided to retire, and my parents volunteered to babysit our son, who was 18 months old at the time. The girls were already in school. So, every morning, I would take him to Mass with his bottle and then drop him off at my parents’ house on my way to work, which thankfully wasn’t far. When he started school at three, I kept the routine. A quick cafecito, a short conversation, and then on with the day. They started expecting me. When I couldn’t make it, I’d call to let them know.

That went on for about 12 years until I started a new job about three years ago. Now, I stop by on the days I work from home, Mondays and Fridays. It’s not the same as every day, but it’s something. And it means the world to them and to me.

A few months ago, I was asked to guest lecture at our parish’s OCIA class on the Ten Commandments. As I prepared, I reached the Fourth Commandment: Honor your father and mother. And I started reflecting.

Now, while it wasn’t new to me, this time it hit me differently as I thought of my parents. The first three commandments are about our relationship with God. Then, when God turns to our relationship to one another, the very first commandment concerns our parents. Not family. Not neighbors. Not friends. Not even spouses or children. But the people who gave us life.

I had always understood that intellectually. But this time, as I prepared to explain it to others, I was overwhelmed.

In what is probably the greatest spiritual book I have ever read, The Return of the Prodigal Son by Fr. Henri Nouwen, he reflects on Rembrandt’s iconic painting and writes of the father’s hands: “Over the years I have come to know those hands. They held me from the hour of my conception, they welcomed me at my birth, held me close to my mother’s breast, fed me, and kept me warm. They protected me in times of danger and consoled me in times of grief. They have waved me good-bye and always welcomed me back. Those hands are God’s hands. They are also the hands of my parents…”

I don’t think there is a more beautiful description of God’s love as reflected through our parents. It tears me up every time.

It has been many years of wonderful morning visits, small conversations, and cups of Cuban cafecito. Some days have been more wonderful than others as my dad learned to master the espresso machine. It’s been an amazing gift, one that I thank God for every day.  

And as the years pass by and our time on this earth grows shorter, the memories will remain, and I pray I never take that blessing for granted again.