Fran Haley has prompted the writing circle with the idea
of "holy" this month. You can read her post, and the group's
linked posts, here.
I'm not sure when exactly it happened. After my first child? My second?
Whenever it happened...I surprised myself.
The Sign of the Cross is the tell of a Christian raised in the Roman Catholic Church. We dab our fingers in holy water and cross ourselves as we enter sanctuaries, making the Sign again and again throughout Mass, blessing ourselves as we exit. Beyond chapel walls, the Sign begins and ends prayer (most often at the dining table).
I wasn't familiar with the tradition of making the Sign in the presence of other spaces until high school. A friend, fellow Catholic with Latinx roots, urged me to cross myself as we passed churches and graveyards--to ward off evil and solicit blessings, she said. That habit followed me for many years, despite my gradual departure from the Church of my youth.
I was still a fairly regular attendee of Sunday Mass when it happened--the urge, and follow-through, to make the Sign of the Cross while driving past...a hospital.
Not just any hospital. The one where my children were born. Even more specifically, the hospital that bore witness to my less-than-ideal deliveries. The hospital where angels-on-earth saved my twenty-six-week premature firstborn, cared for me through a miscarriage, and safely delivered my son, saving my life in the process. The hospital that allowed me to ensure that another pregnancy wouldn't endanger my life again, to continue mothering my children.
The memories of giving birth in the presence of such care, compassion, and competence fill me with awe and reverence, not unlike entering a grand cathedral with a golden tabernacle.
Is it any wonder, then, that my hand goes to my forehead, heart, shoulders as I pass that building? I utter a silent prayer of gratitude for the caregivers within and the blessings they gave me on that hallowed ground.
I love how the simple sign of the cross gives you a way to intentionally praise God and the caretakers in a hospital. I practice the sign in church but often don't think of it outside the walls. I will now. Thanks.
ReplyDeleteChris, growing up I was always taught the power of the cross. There is strength, peace and hope in it.
ReplyDeleteSuch a beautifully-written tribute to those who cared for you and your babies when they entered the world - a place of hallowed ground, indeed. Those words, awe and reverence...I sense them in your retelling, and in the imagery of your sign of the cross as you pass the hospital. Wonders transpired here. Your story is so moving, Chris - the head bowed, the cross, the gratitude I am grateful - always grateful - to read your words.
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing your story of hallowed ground. It makes me think of the places that I might consider hallowed ground. Hospitals, nurses, doctors, they are part of our miracles of the everyday. Praise God for those who partner with Him in so many holy places. I think our schools and libraries are hallowed ground too, filled with individuals of care, compassion and competence.
ReplyDeleteChris, the sign of the cross is part of my growing up but your thoughts go beyond that. On hallowed ground is a beautiful thought because it involves so much more than just a gesture of holiness. The caregivers and the places filled with love and kindness are places of wonder. I often think of Memorial Sloan Kettering Hospital as a place of happiness and not sadness and remember the gentle priest who visited me. I shall think of it and the people who cared for me in a more pronounced way because of your perspective, Chris. We are blessed. (My post is not finished yet but I let everyone know when it is complete.)
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