I consider myself more spiritual than religious – although
it was the religion that filled my spirit as a child.
Are you ready for
this? When I was around six years old, I built a shrine in my bedroom using
the top of my little desk – which was sacred to me even then – the desk that
is. A small statue of the Virgin Mary sat atop a lace doily, and I taped red
and white paper streamers from the grey metal surface of the desk to the wall, as
high as I could reach.
Why am I sharing this,
you might ask. No idea, I would have to say.
I don’t recall what else I incorporated into the holy shrine
or how long I kept it on display. But that was a long time ago and my prayer-filled
religious fervor is a faint memory. I’m not sure what my mother thought of this
spectacle. We didn’t talk about it.
My family mostly
considered me odd or should that be considered me mostly odd. But then later in
life, I came out as a writer and that explained everything. Sort of.
Thinking back, I should have mentioned the shrine to my
teacher – the irascibly cranky nun who saw fit to strap me and keep me inside
at recess every day. I realize now, when I think of the terrible ways she
singled me out for abuse, that she was mentally disturbed. So maybe telling her
about the Virgin Mary on my desk, and my fervent prayers, would have earned no
brownie points for me.
I miss the Latin Mass of my childhood. I can still hear it
in my head if I think hard enough. The high and low notes of the priest’s
singing chant. A few years back I was thrilled to hear that my hometown parish
church was holding a Latin Mass. I slid onto the same wooden pews I sat on as a
child. I looked up to the ceiling at the large grill vent. When I was little
someone told me, or perhaps I imagined it, that God watched us through that
vent to make sure we were praying and not daydreaming. Especially scary for me
– the daydreamer. I’d keep my eyes on that vent hoping for a glimpse of Jesus
Himself. No such luck.
The church service, by the way, was a bust. The young priest
had no idea. He could barely speak Latin let alone sing it –which is what I was
expecting. As I walked out of the church, I wondered if everyone else felt as
disappointed.
A crucifix hangs in my den. Visitors spot it – they must –
and likely believe I am someone with a
strong connection to the Lord. The truth is I keep it for sentimental reasons. It
was from my mother’s casket and I’ve coveted it for the past 47 years. She died
when she was too young – so was I.
Today I unpacked Christmas decorations including another
remembrance of my mother’s passing. A Virgin Mary planter. Memories of school,
religion, Christmas, and Mom, came back in a rush. The planter is a keeper from
the many funeral tributes. Over the years, I’ve renewed the silk floral
arrangement and always with a Christmas theme, the same as the original. I always
place it in my space – close to me – where I have the crucifix. Usually my
office/den. A spot conducive to quiet reflection. If you’re wondering, the
answer is no. There are no paper streamers taped to the wall or desk. It’s not
a shrine. J
It’s a reminder. It’s memories.
And the memories are good – except for that teacher. She was
bat crazy. Seriously. One day I’ll tell that story.
Cherish those reminders of the past, my friends. They make
us who we are today. Have a beautiful and happy season!