A Season for Remembering

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!