Our Lady of Charity finds a home in Atlanta

I used to think that all the driving around I did was because I was always hauling children — mine, and other peoples’ kids — all over the place for the multitude of activities in which they participated (and by default, I ended up as team mom, concession director, stage mom, booster minion, ticket master, chaperone, chief cook, and bottle washer).

No.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I just like to drive. And I like adventures.

Which brings me to today’s mission: I drove into the city of Atlanta to visit a tiny statue squirreled away in a side altar. You know there has to be a story here because even I have my limits.

Well, not really, but there is a story. It started last month when I was in Miami for my birthday and took a little trip to the Ermita de la Caridad, the national shrine of Our Lady of Charity, patroness of Cuba. A dear friend accompanied me, and asked more questions than I could answer, which led to some more things, and suddenly I found myself exchanging emails with some very interesting people.

In one of the exchanges was a request to find anywhere in the world where there is a statue of Our Lady of Charity. Well, I knew there was one in the Archdiocese of Atlanta because of the annual celebration, but I didn’t know where. A friend of mine, a newly ordained deacon who happens to be Cuban, told me she was on one of the altars at the Cathedral.

Impossible, I think. I grew up going to that church. The altars are gold mosaics with bas relief images. No virgencita there, my friend.

So I went to the Cathedral of Christ the King to find out for myself. I walked into the beautiful cathedral and was suddenly transported back to my childhood when I was a student there. I stood in the back, taking it all in and letting that wonderful feeling of being home wash over me.

I realized that Mass was going to begin soon and I didn’t want to be a distraction (and I wanted to stay, too) but I also wanted to find the statue. Was she really at an altar? Was she in the hall behind the sacristy? I panicked a little, thinking I was going to have to get permission to wander around.

Suddenly, she revealed herself to me. It was so strange. I happened to be standing in just the right place, at just the right angle to look between the columns towards the altar on the right, and there she was, beckoning me. If it’s possible to make eye contact with a statue, I accomplished it. That’s quite a feat, too, cuz boy am I near-sighted.

Do you see her? On the right?

Better? No? Here you go, then…

Isn’t she just like our moms, patiently waiting in a corner watching for when we get home?

This particular statue has a fascinating history. The Archdiocese of Atlanta has celebrated September 8th, the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary — also celebrated as the feast of Our Lady of Charity  by Cubans– since the 60’s when Cubans began arriving in Atlanta in large numbers. It was a beautiful way for these exiled Cubans, alone — very alone in this new country, to connect with each other, and connect with the community and the Church under the welcoming and comforting mantle of their beloved virgencita.

Many years ago, a woman, a young wife and mother, came to Atlanta with her small children to visit her husband who was incarcerated at the federal prison here. She had traveled with the statue, and upon learning that the Archdiocese was using only a painting of the Blessed Virgin, offered the good people from the office of Hispanic services the use of her statue for the annual event. Grateful, some representatives from Catholic Social Services went to her home to pick up the statue. After the celebration, they returned to her home with the statue and discovered that there was no sign of the woman. Further investigation revealed that there was no person by her husband’s name incarcerated in the area.

Her appearance…and subsequent disappearance have remained a mystery for decades, but thanks to that miraculous appearance, Our Lady of Charity has found a permanent home in the cathedral.

[updated]a light unto my path

I’m that person that blinds you with the high beams on a country road. Yeah. I’m sorry about that. Really, I am. I’ve just hit one too many deer in the past years and hate driving down the winding road after dark where the county doesn’t bother to put up street lights. A friend of mine suggested that I paint a tally on the side of my car – what a joker. He gave me The Deerslayer for Christmas and was quite pleased with himself. Smartass.

I’m not trying to be obnoxious; I just like to see where I’m going. The headlights illuminate the road and a little bit of the surrounding area, but then, the light just…ends. Everything beyond that clearly demarcated line remains pitch dark. In spite of my own misgivings, though, I make it home safe. I trust that the headlights illuminate enough of the road for me to drive safely, and frankly, I get the light that I need.

It’s not unlike my experience with a hesitant faith that sometimes shines like a brilliantly lit candle, and other times flickers, pathetically clinging to a wasting wick almost drowned by the wax.

That happens because I forget the source of the Light.

I can’t make the light or flip a switch and turn on the high beams no matter how much I’d like to see further down the road. But just because I can’t see it doesn’t mean the road isn’t there, and as I keep traveling along that road I get enough light to keep moving.

My faith has often been like that, and I have mistakenly claimed to have been in the dark because I was focusing on the space in the road that was out of reach.  The light was always there, illuminating my path, but I wanted more. More control. More knowledge. More … more.

What I needed was more trust.

And maybe a swift kick in the backside to see the light and quit moaning about the darkness outside.

I needed to trust more. The issue of trust, of course, is a difficult one, especially for me. As a student of literature I could expound on the juxtaposition of light and darkness as powerful universal symbols. I could build upon the metaphor. I could quote scripture, and literature, and The Rolling Stones.

They would be empty words because the surrender is missing.

In order to trust more I would have to surrender my control, and that, ladies and gentlemen, runs counter to every fiber of my being. I’ve always been in control, always been in command. Always expected, even demanded, that my charges trust me to do what was best for all of us.

Oh. Well. Isn’t that a little eye-opener for me.

When I found myself consumed with the idea that I was all alone in the dark because the naked bulb hanging over my head was casting, not a safety net (though it was) but a circle beyond which lay the darkness, I focused on the unknown outside my lit perimeter.

I won’t beat myself upside the head over it, just observe that even in my darkest hour there was light and there’s something terribly, frighteningly, awe-inspiringly comforting about that.

We’re deeply into the season of Lent. For me, it is like a drive down that scary country road. The journey requires that my senses be alert – focused on what is revealed to me one piece at a time. As I cover more ground, the light shines on the pavement, illuminating the way.

I struggle to keep up with the promises I made, but God, merciful and loving, knows what I need. After my most recent confession, I received something that I jokingly call a parting gift from the kindly priest.  He reached into a book – maybe a Bible or prayer book – and shared the following poem with me:

The Pillar of the Cloud

LEAD, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom
          Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home—
         Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene—one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor pray’d that Thou
          Shouldst lead me on.
I loved to choose and see my path, but now
          Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
          Will lead me on,
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till
          The night is gone;
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

 ~Blessed John Henry Newman

I first read that poem decades ago when I was too young in the journey to ever think about the ups and downs of life. Could that priest have known me so well in 15 minutes to have pulled out this particular poem? Surely not. It is the One who knows me so well.

I see in this poem the hope and surrender essential for growing in my faith. I see that I receive what I need, not in one fell swoop but in the increments that I can handle.

One could say I see the Light.

—————–

Totally worth bringing this video out of the combox. Thanks to Laura from The Bronzed Shoe Archives  for the link

finally, I put my feet up and relaxed

The beautiful part about not bringing work home and  having gotten that insanity under control is being able to enjoy the weekends the way they are meant to be enjoyed. In no particular order, I bring to you the highlights of my weekend:

  • cooked
  • ate
  • spent time with friends
  • saw goofy movies
  • read
  • wrote
  • prayed
  • cooked some more
  • went to Mass
  • ate some more
  • shed a tear or three over a moving poem
  • did a human amount of laundry (1 dark 1 white)
  • enjoyed some sidra (no, I didn’t throw it)
  • prayed some rosaries
  • listened to some good music
  • listened to some loud music
  • made a little music
  • drank a lot of coffee
  • read some more
  • wrote a poem
  • had some tea
  • laughed a lot
  • and finally, put my feet up.

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