I was part of a pastoral team that had the responsibility for the parish of Capinota, Bolivia, which consisted of about 30 villages, many of which were nestled in the thinning air of the Andes Mountains. One day to guide us to the isolated village of Calacaja, the campesinos brought a mule for me to ride up the mountain. At first, riding went fine, but after a while my legs started to hurt. I said I wanted to get off the mule. “No, Sister,” the campesinos said. “You will not be able to breathe.” I kept riding. A while later, legs hurting even more, I again expressed my desire to get off. The answer was politely repeated. Finally, with my aching legs going into spasms, I announced I was...
