A Bed of Roses ~ Sacred Signs

My mother, Dolores, turned 85 last Saturday. A small gathering feasted on a hamburger noodle hot dish supper, finishing with rhubarb dessert and a glass of sweet wine. 

The next morning, my cousin, Polly, drove out from “the cities” accompanied by her own elderly mother. My brother and sister-in-law who live on the home place one mile east, stopped by. A feisty game of dominoes later topped off the celebratory day. It had been filled with laughter, table blessings, birthday rituals, and small talk.

Later that night after the house quieted, I reflected upon how my daily life had been immersed in rituals when I was young.  As a daughter of devout Roman Catholic parents, there was a multitude of reminders in our simple, rural life that indicated something more than what met the eye was at work there. While the church of my childhood had seven sacraments, my parents’ home held countless more.

Back then, before bolting downstairs for breakfast, the day began by dipping one's fingers in a holy-water-font. It was a tiny water bowl embossed with a cross or a haloed silhouette of Mother Mary.  Every bedroom occupied by our ten-member family had such a vessel nailed to the door frame. We kids would dip, swish, and make a cross on our forehead, shoulders, and chest even if the hot air furnace had vaporized the font's water.

At the table, no child dared eat a morsel until we blessed the food and ourselves and then said the Morning Prayer. It offered our joys, works and sorrows to God for the day. At the end of the meal, a thankful blessing for the food was given as we went off to school or chores or both.

Those table prayers were said three times each day regardless of exhaustion, hunger, or the need to hurry onto the next task.

There were other seasonal, ritual actions. For instance, spring found us kneeling in succession on the four corners of our farm. We prayed for strength, good weather, and health in the coming planting time.  We buried little palm crosses from the fronds of branches given to us on the Sunday before Easter. The crosses were reminders of the Bible story where a Rabbi named Jesus was said to have ridden into town as a hero one week only to find himself experiencing the horror of death on a cross the next.  

However, the real story--the sacrament--carried on in the sign of what we did as a family.  Kneeling together in a 25-mile an hour wind on a barren prairie field told it: stay strong, stay together, and believe in the power of Love to overcome all hurts and difficulties. That was the unstated, sacred story of the actions accompanying life.

Decades have passed since then. Citified rituals have replaced agricultural practices. Other actions have simply faded away as no longer relevant. New sacred stories continue to be written.

Mom, at 85, is not one to speak of her own death or share plans of what she might like as age continues to take its toll on her and dad…who is also 85. Gifting her is difficult, at best. But, my sister Jill, thought of gifting Mom with roses…one for each year of life. We hauled them 263 miles to the farm in the trunk of my car.

Early the next morning, we gathered vases from the cellar and filled them with baby’s breath. We cut leaves from budding lilacs and dogwoods outside the farmhouse.

Then, along with Dad and my youngest sibling Jenny, we marched into the master bedroom carrying 'sacred' vessels filled with "holy" water and aromatic roses. While singing “Happy Birthday to You, Mom!” we hoped to communicate our love to this beautiful woman who was sitting in her flannel nightgown, drinking her morning coffee in bed. 

Mom, a woman of few words at most times, could only stutter, “Well, I never.  I never!” And then she made her annual, birthday statement: “Oh, you kids shouldn’t have!”

Well, of course we should have, Mom.  We had to because you and dad taught us there is more to life than that which meets the eye. The accumulation of all those simple actions growing up affected something deep inside. They were what make us whole--and occasionally--capable of holiness.

Like you, my dear readers,  I come from an imperfect family where its own joys, works, and sufferings accompany each day.  However, what my heart tells me is this: there are many more sacraments than the codified number established by churches and temples and mosques.
Whatever actions you can do this week to pass along goodness, create new possibilities, and increase joy in your life and the life of your family is a sacramental action. 

“Everything is holy now,” as Peter Mayer sings so sweetly.

This I know.

                        Peacebeinall, Jane