To be honest, she wormed her way into my heart within about 12 hours. I can’t lie about that. The little brownhead is the canine version of me and I knew she belonged with Alli and me.
Protecting my family was paramount; I even went so far as to set up an underground railroad-type system of six different non-relative friends she could stay with if the case were dismissed and she was to be returned. I hoped. I prayed. Walks were more protective that winter, since I now lived in a world in which I was sure sheriff’s deputies, armed with warrants were lurking around every corner, ready to snatch my baby back to the unknown that was Turner County.
It all got to be a little obsessive since I loved my girls so much, but also because of my wacked out, over-active imagination. Somehow that imagination led me to specialty Catholic supply store. Catholic friends, don’t be offended—the first time I went to a Catholic church my observation was, “Cool, you have footrests.” It would be a cute story if I were eight. I was 19, but I was corrected—“They’re for kneeling when you pray”—and did stay for the service, er mass, but was really confused about all the up and down. Back home in the Reformed Church, we were stuck in the pews unless asked to stand during a hymn, and that was riding the pine—no cushions there.
My limited experience with the Catholic church did remind me that they recognized different saints to pray to and help with certain life situations. So who would be my saint? I waited on plenty of priests at the restaurant at which I worked, but I was a little scared of that dialogue since I wasn’t Catholic, let alone go to any specific church. I didn’t want to leave the impression that I was mocking their religion or just trying to score a favor from the Universe since I was experiencing some trouble and uncertainty in my life. Same story with consulting a friend—religion is so odd like that, some people assume I’m an atheist or have no spiritual basis to my life since I am not a church-goer. So what did I do?
I Googled.
Was I looking for the saint who comforted the confused? The fearful? The saint who looked out for the attorneys trying the case? The judge presiding over the mess? The lost? The 30-something chick making herself sick with worry over losing one of the beings she loves more than herself before she barely had a chance to know her?
Then it smashed across my head like a sack of potatoes: it wasn’t about me. It was about Joey.
Oh humility.
It wasn’t about the chance of me losing her, it was about the hope for her to continue the good life we’d started.
Then I found my saint, not like a wrecking ball, but like the birds surrounded him as he preached to them. My saint was Saint Francis, the nurturer of animals and the environment. The humble man who lived in poverty and is probably the closest saint I could get to a hippie. When I was a child I would hold funerals for dead birds, usually robins, the most basic bird in these parts, but the 40 inch tall version of me knew each little bird deserved a few words before time took their feathers away.
Maybe I didn’t find Francis, maybe I re-found him.
He was with me when I was 23 and went to Paris, in front of Notre Dame. There’s a beautiful courtyard space on the Western side of the church where I was sitting one morning, taking the whole scene in, the way one has to when the buildings have centuries of history, wondering who might have stood in this spot and pondered his or her life. My thoughts were interrupted when I noticed a rough-looking man feeding tiny songbirds just a few feet away. Rough-looking isn’t the right way to say it; one could easily jump to the conclusion he was homeless.
Whatever his situation, the joy on his face was incredible. I started to take his picture and when he noticed, he stopped to pose. It wasn’t a full smile, but it was beautiful. He motioned me over.
The cynic in my thought I was about to be robbed if I walked to him.
He took my hand at the wrist, turned it over, and placed some of the bread crumbs in my hands. He pointed at the birds, nodded, and gently guided my hand towards the tiny, feathered creatures. One jumped into my hand and started pecking, tickling my palm. A second friend joined in the pecking on my hand. The man laughed at my laugh. Maybe Francis looking for me again…
But I wasn’t thinking about those experiences when I walked into the Catholic supply store that day, I was just on a mission to find a Saint Francis medallion. I knew I didn’t need a nun’s habit to pass as a Catholic, but I also knew I couldn’t get roped into any type of questioning about where I attended mass or if OG won the last big game. So, I lied. The lady at the store was so nice and helpful, but I lied. I told her it was for a gift. I’m not sure what the penance for lying to the nice Catholic lady at the Catholic supply store is, but I should probably do that. Mission was accomplished, though, as I found a Saint Francis medallion and a prayer card.
That was late in 2009 and I’ve worn one everyday since. I had to do one replacement medallion as it was lost somewhere on the bike trails. But faith, superstition, or whatever you want to call it makes me want to wear it.
Once at the restaurant, I was cleaning off a table after the guests left and I found a Mary medallion on the floor. It must have fallen off someone’s chain. The guests were gone, so I put it in my pocket without really thinking much about it. I just thought I’d toss it in the lost and found on my next trip to the host stand. I had to laugh when the table was re-seated and it was a priest and two nuns. I relayed the story to them and said, “Your presence was announced.” The priest laughed. The nuns smiled.
We all have signs and symbols woven into our lives; we place the amount of meaning we chose into them. I am always amazed when I reflect and really look for the patterns, though. Did Joey find me Francis or did Francis find me Joey? Not that it really matters in the end. Joey is curled up in the papasan chair with Alli in a big pile of brownhead bitch love, just where they should be. And I’m listening to After the Gold Rush, humbled at the love in my life and grateful it’s there, no matter the path by which it came.
Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi
Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love,
Where there is injury, pardon,
Where there is error, the truth,Where there is doubt, the faith,
Where there is despair, hope,
Where there is darkness, light, and where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;
To be understood, as to understand;
To be loved, as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive,
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.
