A few years ago, when my husband became very ill, my Aunt Mary sent novenas on his behalf. It was a sweet gesture, but one I thought was old-fashioned.Who said novenas anymore?
I called to thank her and heard her say, “How are you, Bonnie-dolly?” and suddenly, for just a moment, I was still a child to her grown-up, still able to find solace in knowing she was there.
Today I mourn her, and I mourn the passing of her generation.?Mary came from an era made bitter by the Great Depression and World War II, edged in Edwin O’Connor’s sadness, replete with rituals and traditions as pat as the Baltimore catechism.
Her generation found comfort in those rituals and traditions: Lighting a candle on behalf of a loved one, kneeling, praying the rosary for miracles, for faith, for healing, saying the prayers on the back of a holy card when too numb or scared or sad to speak … these were signs of a faith I lost back in the iconoclastic Sixties and Seventies when I left my childhood behind.
Now, with Mary’s passing, memories of my childhood resurface.I realize that those rituals and Mary’s very presence gave me comfort and faith that all would be well, that – somehow -- her generation and their prayers would keep us safe.
I feel the weight of my childhood settle on me this morning and know it for what it is: a memory of a feeling as warm, as heady, as nearly sacred as Christmas wine.
I’m Bonnie Amesquita, and that’s my perspective.