Hopelessly Devoted
Icons - Showing Me a Way....
By Kim Long joked, half-heartedly, about my upcoming trip to Russia and my growing from it. plan to ditch optional clothing in order to have more room in my The whole luggage to bring back icons. I did exactly that-two tee shirts, a image was sweater, and one pair of leggings later my suitcase barely closed. vibrant with I have not always appreciated icons. When I encountered my life and was first one in the 1980s, I dropped it like a hot Irish potato. They were glowing and too severe, too elegant, too honest, too much. Not understanding slightly the point of iconography I defaulted to the familiar images holy backlit. I would cards sported...the manly Jesus and the almost child-like images unpack this of Mary, and the earnest and careworn saints, weary from all that symbolism later interceding. but for now, In our parish gift shop, the icons were suspended on invisible I felt a smile hooks, lining an entire wall. They were beginning to speak to me. break across my Later, I bought a triptych I was particularly fond of. In the early face and I held days, I was still not completely comfortable with them so I the image there relegated them to the Easter season, hauling them out and using gazing upon it, them to guide me through the fifty days. They have turned out to feeling peace be very good travel companions as we navigated our return to being restored ordinary time. A lovely silver one of the Blessed Mother which to my soul, my could not find a home now rests in the center of my icon wall, my mind and my nod to the elaborate and holy iconostasis in all Orthodox churches. heart. Twenty years later, I began to listen as the icons tried I cannot know how long or short a time I sat this way. When I whispering again. opened my eyes the icon seemed to beckon me, this time I did not My mother and I had a very difficult relationship as adults; a hesitate. The peace I felt remained with me throughout the day, for dynamic I fervently want to avoid with my own children. After her weeks and several months. The icon’s beauty, however, remains. This death, I realized we had left some things too late and they would is what I wanted to bring home from Russia. I searched high and never be resolved here in this plane of existence. Therapy helped, as low and showed the image via screenshot on my phone to everyone. did confession, both with a priest and my girlfriends complete with No one seemed to have seen or even heard of it before. appetizers and glasses upon glasses of red wine. One of our last tours was to the oldest active monastery in Then, something happened. I don’t recall the nature of the Russia, Sergei Posad. I asked the tour guide if she had ever seen this trigger, it could have been a song, the feel of the day, even the icon. She immediately turned to our local guide and I saw a smile of particular way the wind brushed my check, once surfaced, it could recognition fall over the woman’s face. Yes, she knew the icon. It was not be ignored. The wounded emotions, the heavy heart, my mouth dear to the hearts of Russian Orthodox in countries outside of quickly filling with the taste of ashy regret all ganged up on me and Russia, very popular she said. I asked if she knew if I might find the day became unbearable. In an effort to regain control, I it and she smiled and said perhaps--ask in the shops. Later, we refocused and dialed down on work. were given “free time” to shop or explore or walk around with our Often I seek inspiration from other church’s bulletins, my effort mouths hanging open, slack-jawed at the immensity of Russia’s to think outside the box, to see what the rest of the “God business” beauty and stumble from one gilded onion dome to the next. I has going on, which is exactly what I was thinking when I pulled ducked into one of the shops. No luck. Then like Hansel and up the online bulletin of St. Nicholas of Myra Orthodox Church in Gretel, I followed a breadcrumb trail to the next shop which was Shreveport. In it was a small blurb informing all that a stuffed with icons of all shapes, sizes, and prices. I had nothing to miracle-working icon was to be traveling through the area and that lose with yet another inquiry “Do you have this icon?” I offered my very day it would be in Shreveport for only a couple of hours. I phone with the screenshot of the longed-for icon. “Da Da. Yes.” bolted with no hesitation and soon I walked through the door of “Spasiba-thank you," I said. And there it was, the same beautiful St. Nicholas. image which haunted my prayers. The priest recognized me as a visitor, welcomed me, and gave At home, I hung my new icons on my “icon wall.” Prayers of me information on this icon, known as the Kursk Root Icon, the thanksgiving floated around me. Not only for the appreciation of single most beautiful item I had ever seen; sky blue enamelwork and icons and their whispered lessons but also gratitude for the faith of ornate trim framed the blessed Mother and child whose eyes seemed the people who still engage in this timeless practice. The to rest on me alone. iconographer writes the icon, as the creative process is called. Icons Suddenly the weight of this burden was completely are a window into heaven, the doorway to the mystery. The icons unwelcome. I asked, begged, entreated, the Blessed Mother to help have my full attention now; no longer are they too much. Instead, ease it. Concentrating on the sound of my breathing, an image they center me, reminding me of the sacred wonder. Please God, formed in my mind’s eye-a strong, thick, green stem with tiny leaves never let me lose that. AMEN.
I
12 THE CATHOLIC CONNECTION
