The year was 1952; I was seven years old. I could feel my mother tingling with excitement as we entered the 5 & 10 cent department store. She had painstakingly put aside scarce household change in anticipation of this day; buying a special Mother of God statue for her devout mother. My grandmother wept with joy at the sight of her beloved Mary statue. It was a rare day of celebration with each of us allotted an extra bowl of potato soup and a glass of powdered milk.
My grandmother was the humblest most spiritual person that I have ever known. She never spoke about her love of God or her devotional habits. I was privileged to witness her daily fidelity first hand having shared a bedroom. Each night she patiently smoked a cigarette while waiting for me to fall asleep. Feeling a sense of peacefulness, I often stole a look at her evening ritual. After first blessing me with holy water, reading her bible by the Lady of Fatima night light, she pulled the tight rubber band from her bun allowing her hair to fall along her weary shoulders. She raised her arms toward her sacred altar which held the Mother of God statue and the large crucifix which hung directly above Mary’s head. As if frozen in time, she remained in that precise position for what seemed like an eternity. I drifted off to sleep with a sense of the sacred. Not that at the age of seven I understood what sacred meant but I had the feeling of being sheltered.
After grandmother died my mother kept the altar in her bedroom in the exact manner as her mother had done. The Mary mother of God statue, the Lady of Fatima night light, the holy water the rosary beads, all remained in the same order as grandmother had placed them on her altar. Some thirty three years after grandmother’s death my mother died.
Enter Rose, a crusty, stubborn, mouth-like-a-sailor, no-nonsense kind of gal. Eighty plus years of age she wore flashy clothes and bright red lipstick. After mother’s funeral, Rose asked if she could ‘borrow’ the Mary Mother of God statue for her newly acquired altar. Rose had a falling out with her local church and she wanted to perform her own nightly service in the privacy of her bedroom. She asked me if I could obtain holy water for her. Happy to assist in her hallow endeavor I found the holy water donated by our local Episcopal priest.
Seven years later when Rose passed away, I requested that the Mary Mother of God statue be returned to me which her family graciously tendered. To my surprise and delight, the statue was covered in bright red lipstick where Rose had apparently kissed it repeatedly as she completed her nightly ritual. A sacrament made possible in Rose’s mind by the presence of the blessed holy water and the Mother Mary Statue.
Fifty-six years have passed since that enchanting shopping day at the five and dime store with my mother. This special event celebrated with an extra bowl of watery potato soup and a glass of powdered milk. The atmosphere held the feel of Christmas. I cannot help but think of that day as sacramental, an example of sharing “our daily bread”; my mother’s excited anticipation of her mother’s joy, my grandmother’s tears of elation, my jubilation at participating in their happiness, my mother’s subsequent comfort gleaned from the inheritance of her mother’s sacred objects and Rose’s peace and reverence garnered from a statue that she perceived as holy. Lastly, the many years of grace and sweetness bestowed upon me as I reflect on my good fortune to stand upon the shoulders of these devoted, albeit somewhat eccentric, women. Through their quiet daily rituals, these women demonstrated living their lives sacramentally.
I now have my own altar complete with Rose’s holy water. The Mary Mother of God statue herself has long ago faded from her original beautiful colors. She is now discolored, chipped, glued in several places and just plain old. But I believe in miracles, prayers and holy energies. Can you imagine the bountiful collection of Gods graces, the myriad of unending fruits, the sorrows, the gratitude’s, the comforts, and the peace held within the ancestry of this old statue. One day when I pass on perhaps she will end up in a heap in some obscure place, but the comfort that her presence has bestowed on the young and old can never be diminished.
