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Columns
Virgin Mary
The chapel looks abandoned. Someone has
cleared the snow off the walkway. A volunteer
probably. Candles are burning inside. It is
freezing cold. My dog knows the way and sniffs
at the thick, whitewashed walls. Fortunately he
doesn’t lift his paw against the church pews. I
feel around in my pocket, find matches and a
couple of tealights. I light the candles and sit
down in the front pew. A renegade Catholic
facing the Virgin Mary. The only one in the
Catholic Church that I have not turned my back
to. All because of my granddad. He gave me a
hideous wooden statue of the virgin mother that
I kept hidden in my attic for years, wrapped in
a newspaper. Until we moved and I came across
the “thing” again. Since I could use a bit of
help from on high with all the moving stress, I
planted the statue in the living room and put a
candle next to it. And since that day I actually
hardly notice the ugliness anymore. It even
looks trendy next to my faithful bottle of port.
I burn candles now almost every day, for whoever
needs or wants it, or simply for my own
unfulfilled wishes, dreams and desires. It
anchors my thoughts! And in the chapel near my
house that feeling is a bit more intense. Even
my dog knows it, for he forgets his canine
concerns and immediately lies down at my feet
when I sit down.
Recently I drove past a church in a village near
the Loonse and Drunense moorlands not far from
here. It was already dark, and I hesitated for a
moment. Should I? Oh, why not? I parked my car
and walked towards the seemingly empty church.
The door was open, and once inside a strong
smell of incense penetrated my nostrils. A Mass
had started. I pushed the dividing doors open as
quietly as possible, but the creaking sound made
several worshipers turn around in the pews. I
vaguely remembered this church and, as if in a
reflex, walked to the statue of Mary in the
back. The roughly fifteen churchgoers quickly
lost their interest in my unexpected appearance
and sang an unfamiliar psalm. Backs and coats.
And a single hat. Here, in the church? Aren’t
you supposed to take it off? Oh well. I looked
at the sacred statue, which was placed in front
of a dark oaken wall. Mary wore a dark blue,
long velvet dress, trimmed with golden borders
and white lace. The child on her arm seemed
practically fused to her body. Like when you
clutch a bag under your upper arm, that’s how
the little one sat against her body. Mary thus
had both of her hands free. In the one hand she
held a sort of silver staff, in the other a
burning candle. Would this statue be carried
through the village in a religious procession?
What did I still really know about religion? All
I know about it came about in the days when we
had to go to church.
The church organ suddenly sounded familiar notes.
My God, no, not Ave Maria. For sure. I heard a
stairway creaking and faced around. A huge woman
climbed up to the balcony behind the altar and
positioned herself, facing the churchgoers. From
her knees on up she protruded above the edge of
the balcony. Her floral-patterned blouse fit
tightly around her enormous upper body, and I
petrified when she sounded the first flawless
note. An Ave Maria for fifteen believers, the
pastor and two altar boys. All this for a
wandering soul….
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Written on 30 November 2010 |
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