A Seat for Three
by The Rt. Rev. Hector Monterroso
A few weeks ago, on a Sunday morning before worship, I was sharing breakfast with a group of confirmation candidates and their families. As often happens, the conversation eventually turned to soccer and the FIFA World Cup. Someone asked whether my son Héctor and I had been able to get tickets. I explained that we had entered the FIFA lottery but had not been successful.
Without hesitation, someone replied, “You have to go. We’ll make it happen.”
I smiled and thanked them, assuming it was simply a kind and generous remark. But a few weeks later, we had two tickets in hand.
An unexpected gift.
A generous gift that arrived without being sought.
And immediately, my thoughts turned to my father. I was surprised by how quickly two tickets in my hands carried me back to memories more than half a century old.
Many people remember him as a professional soccer player in Guatemala. He played for several clubs in the top division and had the honor of representing Guatemala on the national team. For many, that is how he is remembered.
For me, however, he was much more than a footballer.
He was my father.
I never had the opportunity to watch him play during the peak of his professional career. But I did see him play years later, on countless Sundays, in neighborhood leagues and company tournaments.
Even then, his skill was unmistakable, but what impressed me even more was the joy with which he played.
One of the greatest gifts God ever gave me was the opportunity to play alongside him. Looking back, those afternoons on the field remain among the most treasured memories of my life.
My father died at the age of forty-six. His absence was real and painful. Yet he has never truly disappeared from my life. He remains present in who I am, in what he taught me, in the values he passed on, and in the memories that continue to shape me.
In fact, his memory continues to travel to places he never visited and into conversations with people he never met. Wherever my ministry has taken me, conversations about soccer have an uncanny way of bringing me back to him.
And now they had brought me back to him once again.
As I looked at those tickets, I realized they had become far more than admission to a football match. They were an unexpected invitation to remember, to give thanks, and to recognize how love, memories, and dreams travel from one generation to the next.
I thought about how much my father would have enjoyed such an experience. I thought about the games we played together. And I thought about my son, who never had the opportunity to meet his grandfather, yet somehow knows him through stories, memories, and the love that continues to connect generations.
As we made that journey together, I realized that, in a way, there were three of us at that match.
My father, whose passion for the game left an enduring mark.
Myself, who had the privilege of playing beside him.
And my son, who never met his grandfather, yet carries part of his story.
As I thought about those three generations, I found myself remembering the words from the Letter to the Hebrews about being “surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses.” Some people shape our lives so profoundly that their love and influence continue to accompany us long after they are gone.
I do not believe my father sent us those tickets. But I do believe that God sometimes uses unexpected acts of kindness to remind us of his presence and his promises.
In that moment, I felt something very deeply: love is never truly lost. What has been lived and shared does not simply disappear, and our stories are not ended by death.
The Christian faith dares to proclaim something even greater. Easter tells us that Christ has conquered death, that life is stronger than the grave, and that love, held in God’s hands, endures forever. As Archbishop Desmond Tutu so often reminded us, “Life is stronger than death.”
Because of that promise, I carried a quiet hope with me into the stadium: that memory is not the end of the story and that one day memory will give way to reunion.
My son and I found our seats, cheered, laughed, and simply enjoyed the beautiful game together.
Then Japan scored the opening goal.
As the ball entered the net and the stadium erupted, my thoughts immediately turned to my father. He always had a special gift for scoring goals, and for a brief moment I found myself imagining the joy he would have felt watching such a beautiful finish.
For a few seconds, I was not only a bishop, a father, or a supporter watching a World Cup match.
I was a son again.
In a mysterious way, my father was there too—not in the crowd and not on the field, but in the memories he left, in the love he shared, and in the passion for the game that continues to connect three generations.
For those whom we love are never beyond the reach of God’s love.
That day, my son and I held only two tickets in our hands.
But in my heart, there was a seat for three.
