Sunday, November 16, 2008

Holy Mother of God!

If God was campaigning, I wouldn’t be, like, the church’s first choice for secretary of the state. Hell, I wouldn’t even be spokesperson or media relations manager or anything. The reason COULD be cos I use words like the one that the previous sentence began with. Or because I do things like wear my “evil“ tee-shirt to my cousin’s first holy communion. Or tell the priest blankly that I was forced to attend the retreat by the overzealous nuns at St. Teresa’s and all that. So this post is something of a surprise to me as well.

Well this church I go to ..it’s in this hospital where you actually need a miracle to save you. I mean every time someone I knew went to that hospital, the doctors just managed to get it all screwed up. I was born there. Need I say more? Okay..so it’s this Christian hospital and all…so you have white and blue decked statues of the Most Holy Virgin Mary, bedecked in the most unholy fashion with garish yellow plastic garlands, dotting every corner. It’s not a bad thing. Certainly not, considering the aptitude of the doctors out there, like I mentioned earlier. But I have to mention my pediatrician though he has nothing to do with the subject….he was a sweetheart, even if he gave me those dreadful injections (no, rabies was not one of them. The bitchiness manifested itself much, much later) okay so there are some good doctors, ok. Lord, I’m deviating here!! So about these statues… truth is I’ve been quite a fan of this Virgin Immaculate, Inviolate, Blessed Mary, Most Holy. And we’re..umm..you know..friends…we do coffee sometimes. I drink the coffee..she’s got an image (and perfect skin)to keep up. Okay, so now you see why I’ve had such a crush on her for so long. I mean, all that mercy and kindness jazz really appealed to the cynic in me. She dint even have a lop-sided smile. FYI I’m talking about the crush little girls have on someone they want to grow up to be types..like on-a-pedestal-idolise-pun-unintended-crush. Nothing from ‘queer dyke school’. (The pope would have such a fit, if it were otherwise). God, I’m like a drunk behind the wheel….weaving, weaving, weaving.

So these porcelain figures with their porcelain countenance(s) filled me with what I thought was piety. And my catholic trained arm ached to reach out to every one of them and place a kiss on her feet. (We’re quite the pagan, us Catholics. Have you even seen our church ceremonies?!?)

Let’s just get this over with, shall we. The point is, it seems that one particular statue cried tears of fragrant rose-scented oil. Did I believe it? I’m not sure. Am I that naïve? I guess. But nevertheless, after mass I went right over. And there she was, a tiny little unassuming statue, glorified (subject to opinion. Not in mine, certainly) in catholic kitsch. Someone had even stuck a shiny, sparkly, costume jewellery hairclip-like crown on her head. Her face had a I’ve-been-crying-rose-scented-oil look. I don’t know if it happened or not. If it’s a hoax or whatever. But I know one thing, it has given all these people something to believe in. It shook the routine in faith and hit the refresh button, you know what I’m saying. A little pizzazz, if I may say so.

They all come to church – devout, unquestioning, accepting, like reporting for duty. If there were an attendance register, we all know who’d be St. Peter’s darlings. But how many of them would dare to believe in a miracle. Not in the bible types, for turning to water to wine and walking on wine and seas separating on whim is all fine in the Old Testament and New Testament. It makes great bedtime story telling (tell me about it) but how many of them would tell their grandchildren about a miracle that happened in their lives? how many of them would invest hope in their faith, ask knowing they shall receive? All the same it was a good thing. Like I said, a refresh button. Faith Version 2.0 loading. As for me, all I can testify to was an overwhelming sense of peace. And I almost smelt the fragrance in the air.

P.S: this isn’t even what I wanted to talk about. But what the hell, I guess what should be said, finds a way to be heard.

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