He puts the identification card on the kitchen table, the most recent picture of his wife.
"Is this what they want?" he asks in Spanish.
The Rev. Uriel Ojeda looks at the form from the funeral home and then at the photo.
"Está bien," answers the priest.
Luís Arellano slips the card back in the sandwich-size baggie, seals it and thanks Ojeda.
Two days before, Arellano's wife, Virginia, was hit by a car and killed while crossing a street in Woodland after walking her granddaughter to school.
The family had lived here for decades, but Arellano, who works in the fields, speaks limited English. He needs Ojeda to help him with the paperwork from the funeral home. The priest spends 40 minutes with him, mostly listening as the man talks about his wife.
The driver of the car is also a parishioner. Ojeda meets with her. The two families attend the same church but do not know each other.
Ojeda puts his head in his hand when he talks about them. This isn't something they teach you in seminary. There's no textbook to follow.
He is relieved the family does not blame the driver.
"Even in tragedies," the priest says, "there are blessings."
Ojeda is a new priest coping with the daily demands of his job – from blessings to burials – in the changing Catholic Church.
He is 28, Latino and at the forefront of this change. Spanish speakers make up the fastest-growing segment of the church. Ojeda is bilingual and bicultural, as comfortable talking about his favorite Mexican soccer team, America, as the Sacramento Kings.
Ojeda's title is parochial vicar at Holy Rosary Parish in Woodland, one of the busiest parishes in the diocese.
But he is more than that.
Ojeda ministers to an English-speaking congregation as well as a Spanish-speaking community. He helps preside over five packed Spanish weekend Masses.
Parishioners call the young priest Padrecito Uriel. He translates for them at the hospital, comforts them in jail, listens to their confessions. He writes letters on their behalf to the immigration service, finds money for them to buy groceries, makes sure they know where to get dental checkups and diabetes screenings.
He's the connection the church desperately needs.
The Catholic Diocese of Sacramento serves most of Northern California from Vallejo to the Oregon border. More than a half-million Catholics attend its churches, and half the prayers are in Spanish. Of 169 active priests in the diocese, only 33 are Latino.
Church officials predict 60 percent of Catholics in the region will be Latino in 10 years.
"There are so many, and we just don't have Hispanic men becoming priests," says the Rev. James Murphy, diocese spokesman. "And the gap is growing."
Spanish speakers make up 36 percent of Catholics nationally but only 11 percent of new priests, according to the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops.
Ojeda, born in New Jersey and raised in Mexico, feels that burden. He knows there aren't enough Spanish-speaking priests. He has a hard time saying no. He has listened to confessions for as long as eight hours over one weekend, until every last person was heard and their sins, large and small, weighed on him. He wonders if he is worthy of the calling.
In his first six months as a priest, he has been both worn down physically and built up spiritually.
Church leaders have cautioned him to cut back.
"I'm worried about him. He's going to get burned out if he keeps going like … he is," says Germán Toro, director of Hispanic affairs for the diocese. "He can't be effective if he's exhausted all the time."
HIS DREAM OF SERVING
MIGRANTS IS REALITY
After dinner at a migrant camp in Dixon, 20 miles west of Sacramento, a quiet hour follows.
The workday is done, and men kick a soccer ball. Mothers visit and watch their babies crawl on the grass.
Ojeda approaches and waves. He asks if they are going to Mass. About 30 workers wait for Ojeda in the meeting hall for the 7 p.m. service. Once inside, he puts on his green robe and welcomes worshippers to one of the last services of the harvest season.
Call The Bee's Jennifer Garza, (916) 321-1133.
