Wednesday, March 16, 2011

The Songbird

Cancer.” That's what the doctor told my wife and me. “Your son has terminal cancer.” I had never been fervently religious, but I believed in God, and whereas many people turn from Him when they're hit with terrible news, I hunted Him down. My wife and I found little time to talk anymore being sucked into our own pits of internal Hell, but we managed to break the surface sometimes and spoke for sanity's sake. During one of our sparse talks, she told me a lot about her that I had never known, but for the purpose of brevity, I will narrow them down to the two most significant things pertaining to my search for Christ. Though hardly aware that she was speaking, my wife told me that she had an Irish ancestry originating in the west of the country. To her present knowledge, there were some distant cousins still living in a village called Knock, where her grandmother had resided in a charming thatched house before crossing the big pond.


All of this was rather irrelevant to me until she recited a story her granny had passed down to her about a particular shrine where Mother Mary, St. Joseph, and St. John the Evangelist were said to have appeared hovering above the ground. She also mentioned that there was a lamb in front of a cross and that this whole vision was in white except for the golden crown upon Our Lady's head, but none of this is what awoke me from my sullen stupor. It wasn't until she explained how a number of miracles were said to have occurred when one touched a square section on a shrine containing part of the original gable wall where Mary had revealed herself. If I had understood my wife correctly, an abundance of ailed people came to this bordered square and left their canes behind because they were able to walk after touching the stones within the square and blessing themselves. Upon hearing this, my heart jumped into my throat, a ray of hope shot through me, and my mind worked madly even though my wife was rambling on about her childhood years. I heard nothing of what she said despite my keen interest in her dark past. My thoughts were churning, the wheels in my head were spinning, and the rest of the mechanisms were grinding violently until I had it. The survival of my liveliness rested in this small remnant of an ancient wall.

I knew my wife wouldn't understand my desperation. I simply told her the next day that I would be flying to Ireland within the week, and that the ticket was already booked so there was no point in arguing. I don't know if she'll ever forgive me for leaving at such a dire time in all of our lives, but I had to do it. It wasn't hard to trace her family tree since her granny had kept in contact with her Irish relatives. Within a span of three days, I had arranged a place to stay, set up a trip to the shrine, and packed for the big day. When 8 pm rolled around on the fourth day, I was treading on foreign land. My wife's family were waiting for me with signs. I admit that their excitement made me wish I had chosen a hostel instead, but I bore it with an awkward smile that wasn't too convincing. At this point it didn't matter to me if I tied or severed the family lines in my wife's Irish genealogy. I simply wanted to go to the shrine and find this specific piece of wall. Since I wasn't open for conversation with the relatives, they were more than happy to drive me straight to the shrine and leave me in peace. I nearly tumbled out of the car in a hurry to get to the square of miracles. Rain splashed down on me and soaked every last hair on my head as I wondered around the area in a frenzy. I wouldn't be surprised if people assumed that I was a homeless man in search for mercy, but again, I wasn't concerned with them.

A group of men and women began to channel through the doors of a tall stone tower with three Gothic designed windows falling in a line above the wooden doors. An arched triangle was carved at the head of the entrance with cascading layers cut into the two curved sides, giving it an effect of depth. In the smoothed out middle of the triangle was a clock that read five minutes til seven in the evening. The tower jutted out from a more modern looking building of an off-white eggshell color. Dispirited by my failed attempt to find the square immediately, I decided it would be best to join in the line of flowing people. I couldn't remember the last time I had gone to mass, but it couldn't hurt to spend an hour of my time begging the Lord for forgiveness.

Everybody in front of me dabbed their finger into a small basin of holy water attached to the wall, while I walked past it, uncomfortable with the time between now and the last time I had practiced the routine. I noticed that many of the people knew each other, so I chose a seat to the right of the door in order to isolate myself from the heavy current of community. It was situated back in the corner where I was well hidden from view, which satisfied my inexplicable paranoia. I could see, just above the graying heads in front of me, a small shrine of Mary in a alcove decorated with glowing candles in blue holders and a handful of bouquets emitting a pleasant smell of spring. Tiny tiles, the kind you would find in a swimming pool, covered a part of the wall and presented a pair of hands offering her a crown to the left and a lamb with a cross behind it to the right. Above her head were two stained glass windows adding more color to the embellished area.

To the left of this little shrine was the high alter where a massive work of biblical art depicted the pain of Christ's crucifixion. Lit up by small lights was His body, sculpted in a white marble of some sort, with his limp body caved in from starvation. His head was held up by St. John the Evangelist; kneeling next to his left side was His mother Mary holding His hand and looking upon Him with pity; and down by his feet was Mary Magdalene with hands clutched together. This scene made up the bottom of the alter while above it in the background were six relatively small arches with statues inside of them. I couldn't properly make out what each of them were suppose to be, but their collective meaning was only too obvious. The grandeur of the whole thing was rather impressive. It was suited for a king, and rightly so. The splendor and dazzle of its presence was impossible to miss, and I found it difficult to peel my eyes away from it.

In the middle and slightly below the six arches was a gold tabernacle with a sliding door, which was opened by the priest to produce chalices when needed. I remembered this from when I went to mass as a boy. I always thought of the tabernacle as a treasure chest, and the chalices were always warped into the holy grail by my imagination. A large red candle was suspended from the ceiling in a very fancy candle holder with one long cord branching off into four or five cords a few feet above the candle. The cords attached to the outsides of the holder in order to keep it balanced. To offset the red candle, its holder was silver with many nobs and patterns to add to its intricate style. The whole presentation was incredibly elegant and very ostentatious, but there is no holding back when it comes to the celebrating the Lord.

The poignancy of the artwork was so mesmerizing that I was abruptly called to attention when the congregation suddenly stood up in unity. I joined them with bowed my head as they prayed together with the priest. The effect was like a droning hum except for the child in front of me who was content on saying them a bit louder than the rest. When we all sat down again, the priest began the service, which probably entailed an important lesson, but my lack of discipline made it extremely difficult to focus on his words. It was easier to gawk at all the holy pictures that wrapped around the large room. Wooden plaques illustrated the procession of Christ's struggle when He carried the cross and His ultimate sacrifice of life. My eyes followed the story from one plague to the next until I caught sight of the nearest stained glass window.

I fidgeted in the pew as Mary's eyes seemingly looked down on me from the vibrant glass. As she was floating in the air above a smaller version of the church I was sitting in that very moment, she held out her hands at chest level as if she was blessing me. Her crown was accentuated by a red halo with yellow and white sparks on the outside of it to represent the holy light of God. She was dressed in an elaborate robe of light blues and white, and the sky was painted with deep greens, blues, and purples. The stark contrast between the dark colors of the sky and the light colors of Mary's person made the image of her shine with a profound radiance. I blinked disbelievingly and repeated in my head that it was only a window.

Trying to escape the strange feelings that began to emerge within me, I turned my head to the opposite wall and found myself locking eyes with Mary yet again, only this time it was a painting of her bordered in a gold colored frame. She was in the same stance as the window painting and was wearing a long robe of all white that opened like curtains in the front. Sitting upon her head was the symbolic crown that gave her a regal air, but not of power and wealth, but of closeness to God. The backdrop was a shadowy black in the corners, while the majority of the painting was white due to the glow from Mary's essence. Two bare feet were visible from beneath the robes to indicate the open space between her and the earth. Again, I felt squeamish and wiggled about in the pew. I tried to assess the reason for feeling so uncomfortable, but it was impossible to put my finger on it.

The creaking of the floor and shuffling of bodies distracted me from my self-analysis as I realized the congregation had all shifted forward onto the kneeling pads, while I was the only member who sat back with the exception of a few elderly women and men who were physically incapable of the act. Afraid of being spotted by someone in the crowd, I too, fell upon my knees, although my sixth sense drew my eyes to the child in front of me who was starting right back at me. The woman next to him who I presume was his mother hadn't noticed that the child twisted his whole body around to look at me. Even the children of the group made me feel a little more ostracized. This little boy was automatically accepted into the Catholic community being only an innocent child. I, on the other hand, was a grown man who had neglected my religion for over twenty years now, and the only thing that had brought me back was my own suffering. I suddenly felt like I was exploiting God, but this boy reminded me of my son so much that, I confess with much humility, I began to cry. My head dropped into my hands as the tears fell silently down my face, leaving wet spots on my jeans. My body shook from the restraint of making my my break down obvious, but there was still one who was far too perceptive for this miserable man.

I had heard nothing. I had sensed nothing. I only felt a small probing on my arm that was a very gentle gesture during my moment of despair. There was no denying that I had nearly lost all hope for my son's improvement, and as I sat in the pew under Mary's vigilance, almost all the vitality sucked out of me. That is, until this child, with so much understanding yet so little knowledge of my situation, poked my arm repetitively, which only ceased with the rising of my head. I looked at him through lakes of tears, and he responded by cocking his head to one side. Sliding back into the pew, he scooted an inch closer to me and I noticed his tiny legs didn't reach down to the floor. Like most children, he dangled them back and forth. I opened my mouth to whisper something to him, but he put a finger up to his lips, then pointed rather sternly at the priest who was breaking bread. There was no feeling shame in front of this child. He simply ignored the fact that I was a grown man who happened to be crying like a baby.

I watched the boy lean back in the pew with his eyes glued on the priest. He must have been about seven years old. My son would be only three years older than him. I suddenly had an urge to introduce them to each other, but how absurd was that? His close cut hair and suit looked a bit too mature for his age, but he didn't seem to mind. There were a few stains on his sleeve however, which satisfied me. I wanted to know his name, but cautious of being hushed again, I decided to wait until the opportunity rose to ask him. I missed the chance to do so when he stood without warning, turned to me, smiled a very playful smile at me, and sidled around the end of the pew in front of mine. He laid his head against the woman's arm. She wasted no time in wrapping it around his little shoulders.

I couldn't take my eyes off of him throughout the rest of the mass. I observed him as he stood with hands clasped before him behind the woman who was in line for communion. When he returned to his pew, he gave me another quick smile while he preformed a balancing act on the kneeling pad. He hopped back into the seat and stayed relatively still for the end of the mass. I was so focused on this child's lighthearted demeanor, that I dismissed everything else around me. My source of joy received from the mass was supplied by this young boy who, for some reason, was interested in me. I reached up to rub my eyes since they had become swollen from crying, and the dryness of my face was a shock to me. It hadn't occurred to me that I had stopped crying. I gazed down at my hands. They were so large, but more significantly, they were free of tears.

And then, without expecting anything of the kind, I was lured away from the depressing sight of my gigantic hands. The following incident was, despite its common occurrence in such places, only effective due to its timing and sheer potency. A voice of angelic virtue slowly glided out into the thick of the congregation and drifted through the tight spaces between each individual standing with lowered head. It was accompanied by an organ that had somehow slipped past my thorough study of the church. Nevertheless, the voice outshone the instrument and continued to rise and fall like the bosom of a dozing child. It was deeply moving. The voice of the woman was so low and so heavy, that the weight of the emotional song settled in the pit of my stomach. Then with a great ascent during which my skin was covered with goosebumps, her beautiful song burst forth into an outcry. The words were in Latin, so sadly the story of her song was lost on me; however, the tightening of my throat, the rock in my stomach, and the strained breathing were all invoked by the genuine passion in her voice.

As the height of the song was reached, I nearly felt dizzy from being so stirred, but I held on to the pew in front of me for balance. The note rang out, echoing around the whole building. My ears were filled with the trilled, sustained note that made me clamp my jaws together. For what seemed like an entirety of a day, the note continued to be trumpeted over the heads of the congregation. Finally, the woman relented, and the descent from the outcry was just as moving as the rise, if not more. Her voice cracked during the soft decline, but as her whole heart had been poured into the heralded song, it only glorified the emotional movement of its conclusion. It was the songbird's own personal touch that could never be duplicated, and I had stood with the congregation and felt it move my soul.

The song had regrettably ended, and although I rued its oncoming closure, I don't think I could have endured much more of it. Three lines began to form in the aisles as the people began to file out of the building. I lifted my head to see the faces of my fellow listeners, and to my surprise, a few smiles were directed towards me. What could I do but smile back? I waited till the last stragglers of the crowd had made it through the door before I wondered about the church. A few people had stayed behind to light candles or remain in their pews for a a few extra prayers. I walked around the center section of pews and discovered an alcove to the left of the high alter that was identical to the alcove to the right of it. Instead of Our Lady, it was St. Joseph who stood above the lit candles. Not much was different except for red candle holders, the circular shape of the stained glass window, and the plain design on the walls.

(To be continued tomorrow...) 

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