Vol 17 - Christmas 2015

REGINA Inspiring. Intelligent. Catholic.

The Secret Catholic Insider’s Guide to

Christmas

Volume 17 | Christmas 2015 Regina Magazine

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Editorial Editor

Photography

Father Jeffrey Keyes Justin Johnson Beverly De Soto Yume Delegato Emanuele Capoferri Dr Elizabeth Lev Harry Stevens

Beverly De Soto

Webmaster Jim Bryant

Writers

Ed Masters Meghan Ferrara Brennan Doherty Annette Young Patrick Michael Clark Jacob Boddicker, SJ Beverly De Soto

Advertising Contact

bridget.green@reginamag.com

Designer

Helen Stead

Volume 17 | Christmas 2015 www.reginamag.com

REGINA Magazine is published six times a year at www.reginamag.com.

REGINA draws together extraordinary Catholic writers, photographers, videographers and artists with a vibrant faith. We’re interested in everything under the Catholic sun — from work and family to religious and eternal life.

We seek the Good, the Beautiful and the True – in our Tradition and with our God-given Reason. We believe in one, holy, Catholic and apostolic Church. We are joyfully loyal to the

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Magisterium. We proudly celebrate our literary and artistic heritage and seek to live and teach the authentic Faith. We are grateful for this treasure laid up for us for two thousand years by the Church — in her liturgy, her clergy, her great gift of Christendom and the Catholic culture that we are the primary bearers of.

REGINA Magazine is under the patronage of Our Lady, Mary Most Holy. We pray that she lays our humble work at the feet of her Son, and that His Will be done.

Contents 96

The Nativity of Our Lord......................................................05 A Tale of Two Women...........................................................06

Christmas Illuminations

The Queen Of Queens.........................................................40

06 A Tale of Two Women

Christmas in Rome Through the Ages...............................62 Empty Seats: The Catholic Film-Makers Part II..................75 An Illuminated Christmas....................................................96 St Philomena, Saint Of The Impossible............................112 Christmas Convert..............................................................138

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King Wenceslaus.................................................................145 A Distant Prospect...............................................................161 The Try-On Wife..................................................................180

Empty Seats

Merry Christmas Catholic Girl...........................................190

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Purity Ring...........................................................................200 Consecration.......................................................................206 Our Lady of Guadalupe.....................................................218

The Queen of Queens

The Eve of Christmas..........................................................220 For Auld Lang Syne............................................................222

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The Nativity of

Our Lord

All of history held its breath to stare Though no midnight chime did sound the hour Nor did any mighty trumpet blast dare, For then did awed silence hold all power.

Yet all was shattered by a baby’s cry— The Word of God’s first wordless utter loosed— Followed soon by the Virgin’s pious sigh As took she to her breast our Life, our Truth.

Stars swirled o’erhead—nay!—angels danced and sang, For no greater wonder had they ere known: Their infinite God now born this wee thing, Couched in virgin arms, leaving Heaven’s throne.

Come ye all and gather ‘round to adore; Rejoice! God and man are estranged no more.

- Jacob Boddicker, SJ

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A Tale of Two Women Photo Credit: Emanuele Capoferri They are Italian women, drawn to the beauty of the Latin Mass.

Laura is 22; Marcella is 56. Both journeyed to Rome from their wide-flung regions for the golden October days of Summorum Pontificum 2015. While they were there, the Synod on the Family convened, where the Church’s hierarchy discussed how Catholic women like Laura and Marcella were to live their lives. Here’s what they saw, and what they had to say.

Marcella: “My impression of Rome in these days was great in part because the weather was fantastic - it was sunny for all the three days I was there, unusual in late October. �

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A Tale of Two Women

Laura: “In my opinion, Rome is one of the most beautiful cities in the world.�

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Marcella:

“I felt the universality of Catholicism strongly.�

Marcella:

This was the first time I went to the pilgrimage “Summorum Pontificum.�

Laura:

Taking part at the Summorum Pontificum was a great spiritual experience, because now I have seen the beauty of the Vetus Ordo Liturgy within the beauty of Rome.Â

Marcella: “ I was positively amazed due to the huge number of pilgrims, who came to Rome from all over the world -- the most part of whom were young people or families with small children. �

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A Tale of Two Women

Laura: “At the Pilgrimage I noticed the presence of great numbers of young families, usually with small children.�

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Laura: “It made me think that these families wanted to get their children accustomed to the Beauty, so that they will be able to appreciate it. �

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A Tale of Two Women

Marcella: “People who attended the Pilgrimage were all strongly praying and hoping -- with great participation of many young people who love the Tridentine Mass! ”

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Laura:

I saw everywhere people who actively participated at the Pilgrimage’s events.

A Tale of Two Women

Laura: They all were greatly enthusiastic, and I noticed that the reality is in sharp contrast to the stereotype which says that the Traditional Rite is an old, dusty kind of liturgy which has been outdated by the new forms -- for example, “hippie Masses�, with rock hymns.

CARDINAL WALTER KASPER ARRIVES AT SAINT PETER’S EARLY IN THE MORNING

Laura: “Even though I saw the Cardinals and the Bishops who were attending the Synod while I was in Square of St. Peter, I did not talk to any of them. ”

A Tale of Two Women

Laura: “Unfortunately the Italian media did not cover the Summorum Pontificum pilgrimage at all. I really think they should talk about this, so that more and more people may join the pilgrimage next year.�

Marcella:

The Italian media, except for some blogs and social media, have completely ignored Summorum Pontificum. They focused only on the Synod, which ended on the same day.Â

Laura:

I do not think that the Synod focused on issues that are important to me, a young woman. I know this year’s Synod was concerned mainly the question of the Communion ban for those who are divorced and remarried. I am not married, so these issues are not so significant for me.

Laura:

On the other hand, I know these issues are very important for the Church, which should make clear that a person’s worth does not depend on whether he or she is allowed to receive Communion. In the last decades the Church has focused more on Communion than on the other Sacraments, and for that reason people regard Holy Communion as if it is “the� Sacrament -- meanwhile there are six other Sacraments which are not less important.

The Patrolman’s Fraternity of St. Michael Do good. Avoid evil. Join today.

The Patrolman’s Fraternity of St. Michael

Marcella: “The Italian media make the people believe that it is Pope Francis who has made possible a ‘renewal’ in the Catholic Church, due to his permissiveness towards Progressivist positions.”

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A Tale of Two Women

Laura: “I feel as if the Italian press is not giving a fair report about what happened at the Synod.�

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Laura:

I do not know what exactly did happen, but I think there has been media manipulation - a thing which sadly happens regularly in our country.

Marcella:

In my opinion, people are unaware of the Synod’s results. I can say I am somewhat anxious, since they feel that the one who will decide is Pope Francis. He is basically an absolute ruler and this allows him to make decisions autonomously. That is why I am so worried.

R

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The Queen of Q

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Queens Starting Up a Catholic Homeschooling Co-op in the Heart of New York City Article By: REGINA Magazine Staff Photo Credits: Justin Johnson

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he is a recent convert to the Faith, at this past Easter Vigil. She says her conversion was ‘a slow and deeply intellectual process, with many issues to contend with before finally accepting the Faith--primarily, issues of culture and ethnicity.’ Now, however, Lovina Ikenga is putting her Faith –and everything she’s got – on the line in a brand-new venture, a Catholic home schooling co-op for boys.

Especially at Christmas, Lovina’s story is more than inspiring for all of her fellow Catholics.

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The Blood of Slave Traders

last name (which was not that of a slave master) and the fact that I spoke fluent Igbo because of my mother’s instruction and having spent many holidays and summers in Arochukwu. All of this set me apart from the black American children that I sometimes encountered. When I was growing up, the Igbo communities of New York and New Jersey were a pretty tight-knit group.

The Igbos of Arochukwu were notorious for their participation in the trans-Atlantic slave trade; they traded thousands of slaves to Europeans. I have the blood of slave traders within me. This knowledge provided me with a very false superiority complex when it came to dealing with traditional black Americans.

My Father’s Religion

I am a first generation born American. My parents came to this country in the late sixties from Nigeria; though they were not refugees per se, Nigeria was not safe for them because of the Biafran War. Both of them come from the same tribe, the Igbo and can trace their ancestry back to the same infamous Igbo town, Arochukwu.

I was indirectly taught by my Igbo community here in New York to view blacks somewhat contemptuously. They were victims, people who were not smart enough to make it without government help because of their historical circumstances. I grew up not really having anything to do with them or their institutions. I was taught to feel proud of my 42

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So, in terms of worship, it went without saying that growing up I never set foot inside a black church. I was raised in a VERY White Anglo-Saxon Protestant church, Grace Episcopalian Church in Brooklyn Heights. We were one of two black families at the church. With the exception of the pastor (and his wife), Reverend and Mrs. Sherrill, the parishioners were not particularly friendly--they were a melancholy and brooding sort.

From what I remember, my father’s reaction to Grace Church and its people was interesting. I could tell that he did not enjoy the services, but going there was more of a status thing.

The Queen of Queens However, he always kept one foot in the traditional religion of his ancestors. I was fascinated with the rituals that he would sometimes perform as a result of the traditional worship--especially when we were in Arochukwu. I remember having a deep desire to understand these rituals and how they had come into existence. The religious traditions were all a part of something that the Igbos call “Omenala Ndi Igbo”, which roughly translates as “the ancient traditions of the Igbo people”.

I felt that knowing the roots of all of this would put me on a different level not just from blacks who did not know their history but from whites as well.

There was so much reverence for everything--even how a kola nut was presented to a guest, who might have come to see you unexpectedly.

College, Roots and Classical Education From these experiences, I began to intuit that knowing one’s history very well was the key to being truly civilized. All of this also played a huge part in what I chose to study. I have a B.A. in history from CUNY and an M.A. in classics from the University of Colorado at Boulder. I also did a study abroad program at Christ Church, Oxford University.

Sometimes, I meet people who are impressed with all of this, but they shouldn’t be. I was a high school dropout even though I went to prep schools; and it took many years for me to get my act together. I guess in many ways, what the secular culture was offering did not seem legitimate, even though I bought into most of it. At this point I had completely left the church. I bought into all of the “intelligent agnosticism” of the 80’s and 90’s. All of this and of course other things paved the road for what we have now: the tyrannical and technocratic atheism of the information age.

But when it came to my college degree(s), I was unequivocal. I was not going to study something that would prove to be worthless in a few years or

decades. I wanted to study the things that did not change. I wanted to be able to pass on a legacy of knowledge to whomever. So until I found classics and the Romans in particular, I worked in the special events industry, helping to plan and work parties for the most impressive people of the world at that time (I worked for one of the top catering and events companies in the country for many years).

Deciding to major in history and pursing a graduate degree in classics was important because it showed me how superficial my understanding of many things including myself really was. The whole notion of feeling superior because of my non-slave ancestry was torn to shreds. Everyone has been a captive at some point in history. And to use any form or side of captive history to judge a people, no matter how recent the history might be is just foolish. It exposes a deep level of ignorance.

Speaking of captivity, I love these words of St. Jerome when he was thinking and writing about the Roman Empire in its final phases: “Capitur urbs quae totum cepit orbem--the city which captured whole world is now captured”. I just love that because it is true of all things that are great in the eyes of the world. At some point, it will all come to an end. Isn’t America now going through the same thing? It’s all trifles in the end.

The ancient standard bearers both pagan and Catholic are my best teachers. They showed me how not to put my trust in worldly things. From the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius to the snippets that I have read from Eusebius’ History, all of them humbled me with their knowledge.

But the great fathers of our Faith were also my guiding light to the One True Light. They led me to Jesus Christ. They were my road map to the ultimate treasure! I would never have converted had I not met them. Now, I want to do everything that I can to pass this on to the boys that I work with.

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Starting Up This classical home-school co-op was a long time in coming. Basically after finishing graduate school, I had to move back to New York because there was no real work in Colorado for me. It was 2008 and the economy was tanking. Also, even though I wanted to teach, I refused to do an additional degree in education. I knew what was going on at the ed schools, and I wanted no part of that nonsense. So moving back to New York, although I dreaded coming back to a disappointing quality of life, made sense. New York was where the jobs were supposed to be, but I was wrong because the job situation was the same. I was so depressed.

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Here I was with all of these qualifications and credentials and no one wanted me! It was a very bad time. I felt as if God had completely abandoned me.

Finally, I found some part-time work as a NCLB (No Child Left Behind) tutor. I was beyond overqualified for the position, but I was so grateful. I took the work very seriously. I was sent to work with inner-city students who were seriously struggling in school. Mostly middle school students who just hated school.

I was allowed to use my own curriculum, so I began to introduce my students to Latin and abridged ver-

sions of the great literature of our Western Civilization. They loved it! Through the study of Latin, I also began to teach them the lost art of English grammar.

Children who once really struggled with reading and writing were now excelling. I re-introduced the concept of old-fashioned arithmetic--basic, intermediate, and advanced. The fact that children who could barely subtract, multiply or divide were being asked to do algebra in their elementary and middle schools was ridiculous. But this is exactly what the education schools are pushing.

American children are being robbed of a proper education--this has been going on for generations. Now with the Obergefell v. Hodges ruling--what a nightmare this will bring to public schools and private ones that accept government money. They all have to

change their curriculum to accommodate the decision. Everything is breaking down. We are eroding from within. But there is always hope in Christ.

Former NCLB clients began to request my services; I soon became overwhelmed with clients and had to start a real business. That business, a classical supplemental education company, was the precursor to the co-op.

That business taught me a lot. But it was missing something very significant. It was missing Jesus. It just got to a point where it had to be all or nothing.

But I didn’t want to open a school because I wanted heavy parent involvement. I wanted the parents to be held accountable, to stop outsourcing their responsibilities. But most importantly, I wanted a Christ-centered curriculum.

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TODAY, I LIVE IN ROCKAWAY BEACH, A CULTURALLY VIBRANT COMMUNITY WORKING HARD TO RECLAIM ITS FORMER TRADEMARK AS THE “POOR MAN’S RIVIERA”. A lot of money is coming in here; it’s the new ‘it” location.

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The Queen of Queens

I LIVE IN A BEACH HOUSE APARTMENT. THE APARTMENTS ARE SMALL BUT HAVE INTERESTING FEATURES; SOME OF THEM ARE PERFECT FOR CLASSROOMS. When I decided to start the home-school co-op with some parents, my landlord was happy to rent us additional space. So, I came up with this idea of the home-school co-op. It's a hybrid--a cross between home instruction and a Catholic classical private school that is run by the parents and myself.

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NYC DETECTIVE JUSTIN JOHNSON, THE CO-OP’S TREASURER, HAS A 13 YEAR OLD SON AT THE COOP. He is my rock. He is also going to convert to Catholicism. He has already been attending Mass regularly for about a year.

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The Queen of Queens

HIS SON IS DOING BEAUTIFULLY, AND DETECTIVE JOHNSON HAS BEEN AMAZING in all that he does for the co-op--from his home improvement classes with the boys to the way he has handled the money situation.

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REGINA

THE CO-OP IS FOR BOYS ONLY. I am especially good with boys who are just not doing well in a regular school system. The ones that have the parents crying and pulling out their hair.

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The Queen of Queens

WE HAVE FIVE STUDENTS NOW, AND INTEREST IS GROWING. But this is a paradigm shift, so people are not always quick to understand. We need members, but they need to be the right fit. Generally speaking, I think that I know what this is all about.

One of the other problems that we have in our society is how masculinity is being attacked. The progressive left has demonized and mutilated the definition and ancient understanding of patriarchy.

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BOYS ARE BEING TAUGHT THAT THEIR MASCULINITY IS AT ODDS WITH “FAIRNESS”. So the culture is finding interesting ways to emasculate young boys--turn them into deflated genderless creatures who worship at the altar of video gaming and online pornography. This is Satan at work.

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The Queen of Queens

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“I push them to the limit -- a lot of tough love. They crave it.”

I TRULY BELIEVE THAT CATHOLIC HOMESCHOOL CO-OPS CAN HELP TO TURN THIS SHIP AROUND. My boys study lots of Latin, arithmetic, literature, logic, and so forth; but they also go fishing, dig in the dirt while weeding gardens, play “mudball” on the beach, and build things. And they love Jesus.

WE STUDY THE BIBLE AND CATECHESIS. THEY ARE IN HEAVEN. I am very hard on them. I push them to the limit -- a lot of tough love. They crave it, and I don’t think that they would have it any other way. They are excellent students and so well behaved. We get complements where ever we go.

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The Queen of Queens THE BOYS’ PARENTS BEING COMPLETELY INVOLVED ALSO MAKES A HUGE DIFFERENCE. The intellectual bond between the parents and the children continues to grow and grow. It is a beautiful thing to experience. I am so honored to be a part of all of their lives.

I HAVE LEARNED THROUGH EXPERIENCE AND RESEARCH THAT ONE OF THE WAYS THAT GOOD SCHOOLS OR CO-OPS TURN BAD is by being forced to accept students that they originally would never have dreamed of accepting. This is what has been happening to Catholic schools in New York for so long. I know many Catholic schools that now accept Muslim students and allow them to pray their own set of prayers! The schools have had to lower their standards in order to pay the bills. This is the giant elephant in the room that no one wants to talk about because everyone wants to be “inclusive”. It’s all very pathetic. I will never predispose my boys to this.

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WE HAVE AN ON-GOING MICRO-FUNDING CAMPAIGN. We need people from all walks of life to donate a very small amount of money every month -- $6.00 - $7.50. That's all that we need. People can set this up via our FB page (desktop or laptop only).

As a recent convert to Catholicism and as a classical educator, I am living a new life. I have had high powered positions, made good money and met very trendy and glittery people, but I was always restless. I really struggled to find my way.

break my heart to not be able to see this project through. I start to tear up just thinking about that possibility. So I will fight hard to stay the course. If I can get this co-op off the ground, then we might think of opening one for girls in the near future.

But meeting the great minds of Christian antiquity like St. Augustine through my classical studies put an end to all of that. Works like his Confessions were very moving and delightful for me. I'm still struggling but in a different way. My struggle now, for the most part, is a beautiful thing filled with mystery.

Email: catholichsc@gmail.com Phone: (718) 673-2266

Right now my job is to be extremely focused on this co-op. We are still swimming for survival.

As much as I really want to believe that Our Lord and Savior wants this, in the end His Will must be what is done. I know that it will really

Mailing address only: Catholics Who Homeschool Cooperative of New York c/o Lovina Ikenga 176-25 Union Turnpike #429 Fresh Meadows, NY 11366 On Facebook: Catholics Who Homeschool Co-op of New York

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THE PORTA

www.stjosephsa 60

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ABLE ALTAR

apprentice.com

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Christmas in Rome Through the Ages Article By: REGINA Magazine Staff

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Photo Credits: Dr. Elizabeth Lev

s Christmas historical? Dr. Elizabeth Lev is a renowned art historian who has lived in Italy for over 25 years. She teaches art history at The Pontifical University of St Thomas Aquinas in Rome and at Duquesne University’s Italian campus. She has written for Magnificat and First Things, and has appeared on television on EWTN and the History Channel as well as working as Vatican analyst for MSNBC. Her books include Rome Pilgrimage: The Station Churches with George Weigel, and she has written books and DVDs for the Vatican Museums.

In this exclusive interview with REGINA Magazine, Dr. Lev conducts us back in time to understand the earliest celebrations of Christmas.

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REGINA: Was Rome where Christmas was first celebrated?

DR. LEV: The earliest records of Christian celebrations are spotty at best, but it appears that Christmas was first celebrated in Rome at least from the era of Christian legalization.

REGINA: That would be when the Roman Emperor Constantine legalized the Faith in 325 AD? DR. LEV: Yes. However, in art history, we look to images to shed light on the history of the faith, and in Rome, one of our earliest images in the history of Christianity is the Epiphany, the encounter of the Magi with Christ. Oddly enough, this feast was created not in Rome but in Antioch, which had a special devotion to the Incarnation.

Eventually, Christmas made its way to Antioch while Epiphany made its way to Rome where it was thoroughly embraced.

The earliest image of the Magi is found in Rome, and it’s from the third century and painted in the catacombs of Priscilla; but it is striking for its depth of meaning.

REGINA: Why was the Epiphany so important to the early Romans?

DR. LEV: The image of the Magi was so important that if there was to be only one image of Jesus in a fresco cycle, it would be the Epiphany. So in Rome, artistically, this feast took precedence over Christmas as ‘the’ feast of Christ’s birth.

The Roman interest in the Epiphany was two-fold. One, it justified the existence of visual arts. Whereas the Old Testament, marked by an invisible God and “the generation that seeks him, that seeks the face

of the God of Jacob.”(Psalm 24) prohibited images, God-made-man invited images.

“When the Invisible One becomes visible to flesh, you may then, draw a likeness of His form,” wrote St John Damascene.

Secondly, the Epiphany carried greater resonance in the Hellenized world, as the Greeks and Romans understood through pictures. Gregory the Great said “Hence, and chiefly to the nations (ie Gentiles) a picture is instead of reading…”

The early Romans didn’t know Scripture but they could read images exceptionally well. For this world, the story of the nativity sounded like a local affair, a block party. God born in the middle of now, here in a stable and a few shepherds nearby invited to drop by. How could the Gentiles feel like a part of that? But that these wise, wealthy men, each with his own gift, searching for meaning could also see the Savior -- that was Good News.

When we look at the earliest image of the Magi, we see three men in pointed hats, symbolic to the Romans of a foreigner, someone who is not part of the original clan. They move forward, searching and they find their destination, conclusion in the Christ Child, still and stable in Mary’s lap.

They are three different colors, too, to indicate the greatest diversity possible.

Africa, Asia, Europe; old, young and middle aged; or Jewish, Roman or Persian -the point is that everyone finds the answer in Christ. So Christmas was less about celebrations and more about liturgy, even unto living memory. Masses on Christmas, yes, but gifts were for the Epiphany.

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THE NATIVITY APPEARS REGULARLY IN ART AS OF THE 4TH CENTURY, especially as Christianity is legalized and the sites of Christ’s life are commemorated in the Holy Land with churches. Oxen, asses and troughs crowd into the carved reliefs of Christian coffins filling the small spaces with the joyful events of Christ’s birth.

REGINA: Did the first Christian Roman emperor appropriate the pagan festivals of Saturnalia or Sol Invictus to celebrate the birth of Christ? This is often bandied about as a sort of 'proof' that Christmas is unhistorical, a kind of Christian myth.

DR. LEV: The raging debate regarding the conflation of pagan festivals such as Saturnalia and the birthdate of Re Sol Invictus is misleading because it create a “sameness” between the ancient religions. Re Sol and Saturn have been proved myths despite all the popular and imperial devotion, and therefore, some reason, so too will Christianity. This is the implication. This massaging of all religions into “sameness” is a luxury of the modern age which should be rejected by Christians first and foremost because it is utterly false.

Superficial similarities, such as the exchange of gifts and the celebration of the winter solstice, do not twins make. St Paul encouraged Christians to see “if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things,” but he certainly did not give his life for Saturn.

If the Romans exchanged gifts and social roles as a reminder of their good fortune in the natural order and if the end of early darkness and the beginning of longer light brought joy to people, why should Christians combat this human desire for thankfulness and truth?

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Christ was terrifying to the Romans and they did everything in their power to eradicate this simple carpenter from Nazareth and his followers.

The early Christians, however, knew full well that they worshipped a God who was not like any other in the imperial pantheon. For they and only they, the followers of Christ, lost their jobs, were imprisoned or even thrown to the beasts in the arena for their beliefs. No one mocked Saturn, no one outlawed Re Sol, but Christ was terrifying to the Romans and they did everything in their power to eradicate this simple carpenter from Nazareth and his followers.

The emperor gave no feasts at all in the early church so we cannot look to Constantine as the author of Christmas, and indeed, since Sol Invictus was only made official by Emperor Aurelian in 274 AD, I think given the growing popularity of Christianity, who is to say the emperor didn’t take the date from the Christians?

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FITTINGLY, THE PAGAN PANTHEON IN ROME was made over into a Catholic parish, the church of the Virgin Mary and All the Martyrs.

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DR ELIZABETH LEV: We see the awareness of Christian uniqueness already in our early Christian churches: they were built large to include all, not like the exclusive temples and cult cells of the other beliefs. They are flooded with light as opposed to the “strongholds of darkness� as Tertullian described pagan worship spaces. They offered direction, a people gathered together to journey towards Christ. (PHOTO: Interior of the Basilica of Our lady of Pompeii, early 20th century) 68

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Christmas in Rome Through the Ages

DR. LEV: The Middle Ages saw the pomp increase around Christmas celebrations, although the period of Advent was considered a penitential period like Lent. The Midnight Mass came to dominate liturgical celebrations, and the Nativity scenes arrived, one of the earliest carved by Arnolfo di Cambio in 1289 for St Mary Major, which had already received the relic of Christ’s crib in the seventh century. (PHOTO: Di Cambio’s Nativity, St Mary Major)f the Basilica of Our lady of Pompeii, early 20th century)

REGINA: How about the date of December 25? Some assert that the early Church posited this date from concepts in Judaism about the time of the deaths of prophets being linked to their conception or birth.

DR LEV: The date appears to have been reasoned out from the Jesus’ death and resurrection – the perfect and closed cycles of numbers seems to have motivated the Annunciation to be the March 25th calculated as the day Jesus died and then 9 months forward from that. It appears that some have calculated the date to April 3 or April 7, but given how erratic we are in the Mediterranean with time, it could well be a little off.

REGINA: What was an early Christian celebration of Christmas like in Rome?

DR. LEV: We know virtually nothing about the Christmas celebrations in the years before legalization as there are no documents. There was a development of the Christmas liturgy in the first centuries after legalization as St Mary Major, the glorious edifice built in 432 AD to celebrate Mary as the “God-Bearer” became the station church for the first Papal Mass of Christmas. Ironically in the dazzling decorative mosaics over the triumphal arch there are scenes of the Annunciation, the Presentation at the Temple and the Epiphany, but no image of the Nativity.

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REGINA: What about Christmas in the Renaissance and Counter-Reformation?

DR. LEV: The Renaissance saw the surge in musical arrangements for Christmas. As aristocratic households kept greater and grander choirs, the delights for the ears, eyes and palette grew. The liturgies gave way to great and often decadent feasts, but amid the many gilt and elaborate paintings of the era, the paintings of the Nativity maintained a sobriety befitting the humble circumstances of Christ’s birth.

The Counter-reform, in reaction to the protestant denominations (such as the Calvinists and Puritans) that had removed Christmas from their calendars, made a point of celebrating the feast with greater solemnity. Celebrations became more public, albeit more subdued, and more altars were dedicated to the Nativity upholding the ancient Roman tradition of honoring the birth of Christ in the face of the then-current trend of dismissing it. (PHOTO: The first page of Gaudete in the original version of the Piae Cantiones, Finnish National Library) REGINA: As the Faith fades in modern Italy, how would you characterize Romans celebrating Christmas today?

DR. LEV: Italians, unlike many other countries, make big and public displays over Christmas. While indeed, fewer Italians go to Mass than ever before and many young people don’t consider themselves religious, the faith in Italy remains in the background, like a foundation that people don’t even realize they are standing on. Nativity scenes appear in the most un-expected places –on bridges, in alleys and even in the Roman trash collector’s offices, without fear of lawsuits. Romans wish each other a Buon Natale a ‘Good Christmas’ without tying themselves up into politically correct knots – it’s Christ’s birthday, why not just say it? Granted if it is only for a day out of the year, the churches are packed, as are the confessionals. Despite modern secularism and consumerism, Christmas remains a day for food, family and faith. • 70

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Christmas in Rome Through the Ages

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EMPTY SEATS •

Where are all the great Catholic films?

Photo Credits: Fr Jeffrey Keyes, Beverly Stevens & Marcus Siske

Interview By: Regina Magazine

I

f Christmas is the time for great family films, 2015 marks yet another year where Catholics are absent from the box office. In this second of a two-part series, REGINA continues our roundtable discussion about this with Catholic film-makers in Australia, France, Italy and the UK. Our first question is: Some observers point out the lack of great scripts. Do you think there any truly Catholic stories that can be made into films out there?

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“We must raise up a new generation of storytellers who can represent the Beauty and Truth of the One True Faith in exquisitely appealing ways.”

LOIC LAWIN LAWIN/FRANCE: There are so many stories that could be approached from a Catholic perspective. I think that the real question is not why people from the film industry are no longer writing those Catholic stories but why Catholics themselves do not write those stories anymore. Catholics have abandoned many artistic fields. We need Catholic artists, we need Catholics who master their crafts, we need young Catholics to go to film school.

STEFANO MAZZEO/UK: I disagree with that, the only problem is Catholic screenwriters need to think out-side the box sometimes. It is possible to write exciting movie scripts and champion traditional Catholic themes and place them in any situation, because God placed man in the world. So anywhere that Catholics could find themselves can be used, be it a Western, a War film, Romantic Comedy or Action Adventure, almost any genre. I would only really find science fiction difficult and of course if the narrative went against Catholic moral theology, it would be impossible.

TOM DUNN/USA: The challenge is getting a writer who can truly tell a good story cinemat76

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ically, to write the content that they know is not going to be of much interest to a studio to pick up. There is a lot of material out there that has been pitched to the school, with the hope of getting a good Catholic film made by Catholic filmmakers, that is just not cinematic. Just because you can write a script does not mean the script will work on screen.

JIM MORLINO/USA: In the last several years, I’ve only seen a few scripts that I thought had serious potential. But this issue absolutely vital.

We must raise up a new generation of storytellers who can represent the Beauty and Truth of the One True Faith in exquisitely appealing ways. It can be done. It must be done. But it need not be didactic or “preachy” - in fact, that is a recipe for disaster. Subtlety, cleverness, nuance, wit, wisdom, virtue, honesty, truth... this is what is needed in Catholic writers - artists who view the human condition through the razor sharp focus of Holy Mother Church. It is Christ and Christ alone who know us, loves us, and has the answer to our every longing and need, and it is His Church who brings Him to us.

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LIAM FIRMAGER/AUSTRALIA: A great question – and again I feel this relates to our lack of solid Catholic identity. I’m certain there are some wonderful Catholic writers out there, chomping at the bit to invest their passion and time into a Catholic themed story with real substance, but they aren’t receiving the support from the Catholic world to do so. We all have to pay the mortgage, so Catholic based stories tend to take a back seat. Some networking and investment wouldn’t go astray!

DANIEL RABOURDIN/USA & FRANCE: Of course but I have one more hope: the homeschoolers. We need a big pool of writers to get a few excellent ones. We also need people who feel and see the world in a Catholic way, who grew up in this. People who do not mostly live their faith in a theoretical and liturgical way. Religion must become spirituality, spirituality shapes the senses, the formed senses allow to express the faith with beauty. I am almost certain that those domestic churches that are the homeschoolers will provide people who grew feeling and seeing the world in a Christian way. When they will become talented writers and producers, they will express some naturally occurring (not contrived) Christian messages.

JOHN SOARES/USA: The idea that there is a lack of Catholic stories that could be made into

movies seems silly to me. I don't think I've ever read anything about our history that doesn't immediately strike me as having the potential to be the most dramatic cinematic experience I've ever seen. The miracle of the Sun? Pope Gregory's accounts of the life and miracles of Saint Benedict? The story of Saint Patrick's confrontation with and ultimate evangelization and Catechesis of the Druids? Those are only three examples off the top of my head that I would love to see as good film adaptations. They would be harrowing, suspenseful, uplifting, challenging -- everything that a good story ought to be. The 20th century produced more martyrs than every preceding century of the Church's history combined. And these are all great stories. Xavier Beauvois's OF GODS AND MEN jumps to mind immediately as one of the best film adaptations of a story of modern Catholic martyrs that I've ever seen in my life.

LEONARDO DEFILLIPIS/USA: Writing is always the hardest part of film-making. But I’m actually very encouraged by the talent that I see springing up among young Catholic artists. I think we’re about to see a renaissance of excellent Catholic writing. As the times get tough for Catholics, we’ll see a new creativity springing from adversity. That’s the way the arts always prosper and influence the culture – by pushing against ugliness and lies with beauty and truth.

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(Photo Credit: Marcus Siske)

REGINA: Films need funding, and mainstream films generally use limited partnerships for this. Is this happening in the Catholic film-making world?

STEFANO MAZZEO: Perhaps this is because of the reasons we have discussed here already, Catholic themes are not attractive (at the moment) to a wider audience and it may be difficult to form limited partnerships. My films have always been funded by co-producers who are charities. I do think however if we are to achieve the production values needed to compete with Hollywood we need to go down this route. However, it is important not to compromise Catholic values.I was very pleased that EWTN commissioned me to make, In Search of Christendom - The Chartres Pilgrimage, which well received

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by Traditionalists who saw it. This is available on DVD so I am hoping that Traditional Catholics will rally around and support this film, buy the DVD so that we can make further Latin Mass based documentaries.

DANIEL RABOURDIN: With my limited vision of this field, I would say I do not see it but wish to discover it.

LIAM FIRMAGER: Again it’s a question of unity of vision. The Catholic world is fractured, with many unwilling to encourage or invest if it doesn’t fit into their agenda. Technology has now pushed the bar very high in terms of production value and audience expectation – so even an independent film needs to have a production value and budget to meet those audience expectations.

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“Technology has now pushed the bar very high in terms of production value and audience expectation – so even an independent film needs to have a production value and budget to meet those audience expectations.”

JOHN SOARES: The biggest personal project that I’ve ever done, my web series, THE DANGER ELEMENT, was financed both out of pocket and by its audience. Ultimately, we were able to raise one third of the budget through crowd sourcing methods. My next film project will likely be financed in a more traditional way, but I haven’t gotten that far. I will also likely have a lot more support from people who understand that sort of thing than I have had in the past. I couldn’t tell you how other films that are being made by Catholics are being financed right now. Most of my experience comes from having to make some pretty serious sacrifices, financially and in other areas of my life, in order to make my work happen.

JIM MORLINO: I do not know. But I really don’t think the money is the primary issue. No amount of money is going to make a bad Catholic movie,

good. Great writing will attract investors.

LOIC LAWIN: Every country has its own channels to fund a film project but we can see everywhere that they are less and less accessible for small companies or small projects. I let you imagine what it can be for a « Catholic film ».

We must avoid to cut ourselves from the main industry but alternative funding are of course something that we have to consider. Crowdfunding has become very common and offers a possibility to Catholics to support Catholic projects. I think that more substantial ways to fund films have to be studied too. There are economic models already existing that we could apply for bigger projects. What is certain is that nothing will be possible without the involvement of Catholics themselves.

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REGINA: Have you seen any web-based film distribution ventures which interest you as possible models?

JOHN SOARES: This question is tricky for me because I am in the middle of trying to figure out exactly where things are headed in terms of the future of distribution. Everything I have ever done has been distributed through the internet. My own work is all available online so far and I am also an editor for a Dreamworks television show that is distributed exclusively through Netflix. So the internet seems to be a top to bottom distribution method for just about everyone at this point. I’ve been to Youtube headquarters and learned how to supposedly reach and build audiences and have collaborated with a lot of the inside minds of the new media revolution. The most important thing that I’ve learned is that you still face a lot of the same problems as you would with traditional distribution. You still have to make something really good, which is really the biggest challenge, and you still have to get the word out about it. In my experience, simply having something on the internet does not guarantee that anyone is going to want to watch it. Even Netflix, which a lot of indy kids today are really keen to have their films distributed through, doesn’t really guarantee that people are going to be watching your movie. But I will say that, yes, if you can solve those problems, then the internet definitely obviates the problem of distribution.

LEONARDO DEFILLIPIS: Independent films are so inexpensive to produce, and through multi-channel distribution, the public is much easier to reach. This gives talented, financially-strapped film-makers the freedom to produce great works at a fraction of the cost of previous projects. Audiences also are more willing to look at truly innovative low-budget work, through the advent of Youtube.

DANIEL RABOURDIN: I am afraid not. I do not claim to know much but I have been trying for three years and I am barely making it. I know a young couple who produces food web video spots. They are great. But they only get $100 in Nestle advertisements for spots that cost them $1000 to produce…But on the positive side, what works in this industry is humor, charm, quirkiness, brevity, passion.

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Empty Seats “Getting one’s film seen by the wider Catholic world on a grassroots/viral campaign is KEY.” STEFANO MAZZEO: Again I would say that EWTN have the most advanced internet viewing systems in place. EWTN has a viewer reach of 250 million homes in 140 countries, before internet viewer systems are taken into account this is very close to the reach of the BBC, on a fraction of the budget.

JIM MORLINO: I think theatrical distribution is going to be around for a while yet. Nothing replaces the communal experience of watching a film in a big, dark room with a lot of other humans. There’s nothing like it. Watching a film on my phone has never appealed to me. And as good as our home theater systems have become, there’s nothing like watching a first-run, popcorn film on the big screen.

TOM DUNN: To a certain extent the internet softens the challenge of distribution for independent films, but it also creates others. The success of distributing on the web relies no longer on the relationship the filmmaker has with a distribution company, but now on the relationship that has been established directly with an audience. With this new model there is now a need to establish a rich and trusting platform or tribe prior to a release, otherwise you have no audience interested in watching your film. What I have seen are filmmakers creating their material, putting it on the web, and then trying to build an audience interested in viewing it, which is very similar to how the traditional film distribution model works: create content and hope an audience shows up. On the web, successful models build the audience first and then they deliver content to them. It’s a different way of thinking and requires more up front time and a 82

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longer commitment. I think that once we have a few success stories for younger Catholic filmmakers to model, there will be a flood of great material available.

LIAM FIRMAGER: Distribution potential is still much in its infancy, and many if not all major studios still struggle to exploit/understand it. The days of independent films making a healthy return via classic revenue streams ( VHS rentals, Catholic media networks, Cable TV etc..) are long gone as all platform providers tighten the purse strings to survive. Yes, there are plenty of avenues to screen a film - but very few that are profitable. Many film makers would be lucky to recoup the cost of production, let alone turn a profit to enable them to create another film. Getting one’s film seen by the wider Catholic world on a grassroots/viral campaign is KEY. I think the future in Catholic film lies in strong Networking, like minded filmmakers and willing investors with a clear vision and strength of unity to work together and take up the challenge.

LOIC LAWIN: The technology to make films is more and more accessible. There are of course downsides to this, but great projects that would have never been possible before are made today. Internet offers an alternative way to show films. More and more people are watching films or TV on their computers. Distribution on the internet will definitely play a more significant role in the coming years. We also have to preserve the importance of movie theaters. Cinema is a wonderful Art and cannot be dissociated from movie theaters. As one of my teachers used to say : « you must always think for the big screen ». The big screen should always be a goal for Catholic filmmakers.

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Empty Seats

REGINA: Have you made use of the network of US Catholic parishes which screen films?

LEONARDO DEFILLIPIS: Yes, when our feature film Thérèse was released in 2004, its surprising success was the result of a grassroots effort among lay people across the U.S. who brought their parishes to the theaters in droves. I also traveled to parishes all over the country, showing the trailer and promoting the film.

JIM MORLINO: I have only done this in a very limited way with our last film, The War of the Vendee. A couple years ago, I toured the country going from one parish to another with screenings hosted primarily by The Institute of Christ the King, Sovereign Priest, and the Fraternity of St. Peter. It was very successful.

Parishes like those I felt were our target audience, although I still think our films would appeal to a wider Catholic audience.

JOHN SOARES: I am still in the process of finishing my first feature length film, so I haven't gotten as far as finding places to screen it. I am personally not very familiar with this network. It sounds interesting, though.

DANIEL RABOURDIN: Actually, I did not even know an organized network existed if it is what you mean. Can they bring half a million dollars in tickets sales to a high quality documentary? I think they can. And they could do as well with small budget movies.

TOM DUNN: If there is such a network, I'm not sure it is well known. It seems like a daunting task trying to connect with such a diverse group of locations.

Any time I have been involved with projects trying to coordinate any type of media related event in conjunctions with multiple parishes, it has been a logistics nightmare. And I wouldn't want a film of mine to be shown in any of the parish halls I have visited. They are just not set up for cinema viewing which needs a high output, properly calibrated projector and the correct sound system. Not to mention the acoustics of the room.

LIAM FIRMAGER: I recently accepted an invitation to screen my film in progress ‘The Life and times of Gabriel Garcia Moreno’ at the Holy Innocents parish in NY – A very satisfying and successful evening which certainly highlighted that Catholic communities are desperate for more Catholic based films.

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Empty Seats

REGINA: What are the greatest signs of hope for Catholic films?

LOIC LAWIN: I think that we are witnessing a revival among Catholics, especially young Catholics. La Manif pour tous in France had a great impact and new initiatives saw the day. It is very encouraging and I have good hope that this will spread to artistic fields and especially filmmaking.

LEONARDO DEFILLIPIS: Young people, who don’t carry the burdens of transition from Vatican I to Vatican II, and who never lived in a world where to be Catholic meant to be mainstream, are our greatest hope. I see this in my own children. They may not be representative of the majority of young people, but it doesn’t take a majority to make a difference. Young Catholics, graduates of really orthodox Catholic colleges, or coming out of strong Newman Center programs, are ready for the battle, and they have no illusions about it being easily won.

LIAM FIRMAGER: There is a massive audience out there, still willing to take a chance and buy a ticket or purchase a DVD that inspires, provokes, challenges and enlightens people about the faith. And even more so – there’s a plethora of talented and enthusiastic Catholic film makers out there who have the passion to do it. I cannot stress how important networking is within the Catholic community. There is the talent, there is the capital available via private investments/consortiums – we just need a little more unity and vision.

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STEFANO MAZZEO: I think that there so many good Catholic directors, producers, presenters and scriptwriters the future looks good.

We have always had great Catholic actors all we need is better funding and good scripts to give these good Catholic actors Catholic roles. So in the midterm future internet based videos will push orthodox Catholic values forward. The burgeoning Catholic film festival circuit are also a good platforms to reach out to new audiences, The Crusades recently won the Grand Prix of the Niepokalanow International Film Festival in Poland. With the result that the Polish Public broadcaster is interested in broadcasting the series. It has already been show on Slovak national TV as was Wales the Golden Thread of Faith which was a co-production with Lux and the Latin Mass Society of England and Wales.

of Nihilism and class warfare which were dark values. But that movie was not far from being a moral success in my eyes. We could imagine that the 20% mentioned could be replaced with, for example a spirit of common good and of Hope.So in my opinion, hope is also in Catholics working in Hollywood and learning the ropes of the craft from true artists. I am getting to know some young ones who do so. Then, with seniority they will be able to put together true movies.

JOHN SOARES: The greatest sign of hope for Catholic films that I can see is that those of us who are Catholic know that the Church is always going to be here. At the best and the worst of times, the Church will exist. So that means we will always have stories to tell and we will always have reasons to tell them. And, in the right hands, they are the greatest stories.

TOM DUNN: I feel the greatest hope is the awareness by young Catholic filmmakers about the lack of good content available. Many of our students have a strong desire to work as narrative story tellers, but not necessarily with feature length material. Shorts, episodics and webisodes are what many of them are spending their time watching. And for free on the web. The desire to drop ten to twelve dollars on a movie at the theater is not as strong a draw for them as it was for me at their age. But I had no other options if I wanted to see a good story.

DANIEL RABOURDIN: I may be shocking here. To me the great signs are not in what Catholics do but in what “Hollywood” does. Why because many (not all) create movies with moral values. The only problem to me is that they stain the 80% of their good values with 20% of bad values made of cynicism, bad life styles, language and nudity. I just watched a film called The Hunter with William Dafoe. There were great values in there such as paternal love, care for the widow and the orphan, humility, life in the wild, love of beauty in nature etc. It recharged my moral inspiration. And then there was some 20% 88

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JIM MORLINO: The growing popularity of the TLM. That Mass (as my Spiritual Director has been saying for the last 20 years) will be the salvation of Western Civilization. And the fact that I see a growing number of artists falling in love with that Mass fills me with a tremendous amount of Hope.

Today’s young filmmakers want to do things differently. They don’t want to spend 20-30 years working their way up the ladder at a big production company or studio when then can produce their own material and post it on YouTube tonight. But they do have a strong urge to create good, compelling and meaningful content that is truthful to the message of the Gospel.

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REGINA: What are you currently working o

Leonardo Defillipis

Loic Lawin

Liam Firmager

I’m currently producing a live drama on the life of Father Augustus Tolton, the first African-American priest. I’m very excited by this project, because I see that our country is fractured more than ever by racial tension. Father Tolton, who died in 1897 at the age of 43, has the answer, and that answer is Jesus Christ. A former slave, he knew oppression and prejudice intimately, yet he never gave up on souls. What a perfect example of the new evangelization in action.

After almost a year of shooting, my first documentary film is currently in post-prodcuction.

I will be in Rome in October to make a documentary film about the Populus Summorum Pilgrimage. As a Catholic attached to the Traditional Latin Mass, I am really excited about taking part in this event. Even though I am already working on new documentary projects, fiction and the big screen remains at the back of my mind.

“I’m presently working on a feature film documentary on the rock singer ‘Suzi Quatro’. A fascinating life indeed. She is a Detroit native from a big Catholic family – who went on to become a huge star in the 70’s… sold 55 million records, but still remains relatively unknown in the US. Not exactly a Catholic themed project, but good intentions don’t pay my mortgage - I would love to sink my teeth into a strong, well backed Catholic film ---any story, any subject so long as it’s compelling!”

on?

Daniel Rabourdin

Stefano Mazzeo (left)

I am trying to finish this docudama The Hidden Rebellion. It’s about the people’s rebellion against the French Revolution, a sort of Les Miserables in massive proportion. Those farmers went into a vendetta against Paris with a massive network of around 70 000 peasants in arms. Several revolutionary armies were defeated by them before they were eventually deeply crushed. And then, up to 200 000 people were shot, beheaded, skinned, industrially drowned in sinking boats on the Loire River. To the historians and the 300 reenactors playing out battles and villages I have added a little love story in the chaos of war in this coastal region of France. Many historians say that when Napoleon signed a treaty giving Christians back some of their liberty, it may have been because of this resistance.

I am currently working on the follow up to The Crusades docudrama - The Inquisition, which we have just finished filming. My next project will be called the Message of Fatima again for EWTN. And after that I have a mini-series on The Reformation lined up so we will have completed a ‘Black Legend’ bashing trilogy The Crusades (2014), The Inquisition 2015/16 and The Reformation 2017. I hope one day to make a Traditional Catholic feature film, I have some of the script in place and I am very excited about it.

Empty Seats

Tom Dunn

John Soares

“I am currently working on building out a multi-camera television studio here at JP Catholic. The first years of our school have focused on narrative storytelling. With multi-camera capabilities, both the students and the school will be able to create more web-centric programming that is tailored to the critical audience of 20-40 year olds.”

As a film maker, I am a Roman Catholic first, of course, but I grew up being absolutely thrilled by action and adventure. Right now I am working to finish the web series as well as my first feature film, which are both really part of the same project. All but the final episode of my web series, THE DANGER ELEMENT, are available on Youtube. The final episode will be released this year.

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Christmas Illumination Article By: Meghan Ferrara

T

he Nativity of Our Lord has inspired some of the most exquisite art of the Christian ages. Beginning with the early Christians and through the High Middle Ages, illuminated manuscripts communicated and preserved the history and high culture of Christendom.

For a thousand years, illuminated manuscripts depicted biblical scenes of the Christmas narrative. In this scene, we see the flight of the Holy Family into Egypt above, pursued

by King Herod’s troops below.

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THE EARLIEST TRACES OF ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPTS DATE FROM THE FOURTH CENTURY. We see one of Europe’s earliest Christmas depictions in this Madonna and Child from Ireland’s Book of Kells (ca 800 AD). Until the advent of Johannes Gutenberg’s printing press in early 15th century Germany, all literature was written by hand. The word ‘manuscript’ derives from the Latin “manus” for ‘hand’ and “scriptum” for ‘writing’.

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Christmas Illumination

ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPTS ARE HANDWRITTEN TEXTS DECORATED WITH ORNATE PICTURES OR DESIGNS, bright colors and burnished gold leaf. This adornment reflects the origin of illuminate, “illuminare” which in Latin means to light, adorn, and enlighten. Here we see the Three Magi traveling to and adoring Mary and her Child in the Codex Bruchsal from the 1100s in Trier, Germany.

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THE PURPOSE OF ILLUMINATION WAS TO EMBELLISH INITIAL LETTERS AND PORTRAY ENTIRE SCENES. The use of gold, especially in religious manuscripts, was meant to give praise to God. The art of illumination peaked during the twelfth century and declined steadily with the rise of the printing industry in the fifteenth century.

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Knights of Columbus Traditional Latin Mass Association “Equites Traditionis�

Join Knights from around the world promoting the traditional Latin Liturgy. We have monthly conference calls to discuss various ways of accomplishing this and to coordinate collaborative events www.kofclatinmass.org Join today!

MANUSCRIPTS ARE AMONG THE MOST COMMON ARTIFACTS TO ENDURE FROM THE MIDDLE AGES with many thousands in existence today. They are also the best, and in many instances, only preserved examples of medieval painting. In this Codex Egberti, we see King Herod ordering his army to slaughter the male babies in Bethlehem, the Feast of the Holy Innocents (‘Childermas’) celebrated in the Christian churches in the West on December 28 and in the Eastern churches on December 29 (Matthew 2:16–18).

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Christmas Illumination

THOSE RESPONSIBLE FOR CREATING THESE TEXTS, KNOWN AS ILLUMINATORS were artists of the highest caliber. Both men and women, such as St. Hildegard of Bingen, were renowned for their artistic achievements.

Here, we see Hildegard’s ‘Choirs of Angels’ illumination from the Rupertsberg Codex in Germany.

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ILLUMINATION BEGAN AS A GREAT TRADITION OF MEDIEVAL CONVENTS AND MONASTERIES. Monks and nuns labored in a scriptorium, a separate area dedicated to creating manuscripts. The scriptorium was divided into individual cubicles so each illuminator could work without disruption. Here we see St Jerome –the first translator of the Bible from Greek to the Latin Vulgate – depicted in his scriptorium by the Master of Parral in Segovia, Spain.

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Christmas Illumination

IN THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES, THE MANUSCRIPTS MAINTAINED A RELIGIOUS NATURE. However, beginning in the thirteenth century, the world outside the Church began to imitate the Church’s art and an increasing number of secular texts were also illuminated. By the fourteenth century, the production of illuminated manuscripts had entered the secular arena with commercial scriptoria in Paris, Italy and the Netherlands. In this 15th century Flemish codex on history, we see Alexander the Great’s third victory over Darius.

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THESE WORKS NOT ONLY PRESERVED PRECIOUS MEDIEVAL ART, BUT CULTURE AS WELL. Without these dedicated scribes, much of classical literature would have been lost. In fact, it is no exaggeration to say that we know what we know about who we are as a culture in the West because these manuscripts preserved this priceless heritage. Here we see the evangelist St. Matthew depicted in the famous Lindesfarne Gospels.

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SACRED MUSIC, FROM OUR HOUSE TO YOURS.

TWO ALBUMS FROM THE SCHOLA CHOIR AT THE DOMINICAN HOUSE OF STUDIES IN WASHINGTON, D.C. FEATURING CHANT AND POLYPHONIC TREASURES FROM THE CHURCH'S MUSICAL TRADITION.

FROM MANUSCRIPTS, WE LEARN MUCH ABOUT THE CONDITIONS OF DAILY LIFE-- faith, politics, war and economics – in the thousand years between the collapse of the Roman Empire and the Protestant Reformation. Here the Battle of Ménfő is depicted in the Hungarian Chronicon Pictum of 1360.

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Christmas Illumination

TODAY, THE WEST CONTINUES TO LEARN FROM THE MANUSCRIPTS OF OLD CHRISTENDOM about our legacy of literature, medicine, astronomy, scripture and theology. And, of course, about Christmas, as we can see in this delicate illuminated design by the Dutch Limbourg Brothers, active in the early 15th century in France and Belgium.

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St. Philomena:

The Saint of the Impossible Article By: Ed Masters

Photo Credits: Beverly Stevens

If you have an impossible dream this Christmas, St. Philomena may be your Saint!

Eighteen centuries ago, a 13 year old girl was sentenced to death for no other crime than that of practicing her faith, which included her vow never to marry. After repeated and savage attempts failed to kill her, she was finally beheaded. Her body was hurriedly buried in the Roman catacombs by her Christian friends.

This victim was meant to disappear without a trace, without a ripple, remembered only by her close friends and family. She was meant to be one of many nameless faces slaughtered for refusing to adhere to tyranny. She was not even supposed to be remembered as a footnote to history.

God had other plans, however -- ones that were centuries in the making.

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St Philomena

STATUE OF ST PHILOMENA WITH HER ATTRIBUTES: Inscribed onto her tomb were the insignia of a lily and a palm – ancient Christian symbols of virginity and martyrdom. Also, an anchor, a scourging whip and two arrows pointing in opposite directions, one curved which suggested fire -- all symbolic of the sufferings this girl endured for the Lord.

Finding Philomena In 1802, in the catacombs of St. Priscilla in Rome on the Via Salaria Nova an inscribed loculus (space hollowed out of the rock) was found. Archaeologists unearthed an untouched, wholly pristine burial chamber containing the skeleton of a female between thirteen and fifteen years old. Three terra cotta slab tiles were found with the Latin inscription: LUMENA PAX TE CUM FI. This proved a mystery, as the tiles arranged in this way made little if any sense. The archaeologists, however, were familiar with this phenomenon, as Christian burials were often done hurriedly in the years of persecution. (it was also possible that the person who arranged the tiles was not familiar with Latin.)

When, however, the first tile was placed last, it became clear: the inscription read PAX TECUM FILUMENA (‘Peace be with you, Philomena’). Within the chamber that contained her mortal remains, the excavators also found embedded in the cement a small glass phial partially filled with dried blood -- indicating that this girl was a martyr for the Faith. The vase had been was meticulously placed inside of an urn. It was noted that the blood glimmered and sparkled, and mysteriously darkened when anyone who was not in a state of grace venerated it.

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NEAR NAPLES LIE THE RUINS OF POMPEII AND HERCULANEUM, BURIED BY THE ERUPTION OF MT. VESUVIUS OVER THE COURSE OF THREE DAYS IN AUGUST IN 79 AD. For 16 centuries these cities remained buried and forgotten, until excavations began in earnest in the year 1748. In the city of Rome there are catacombs 30-50 feet below the surface where for nearly 300 years Christians buried their dead. These enormous structures hold the remains of millions of Christians entombed there over the course of three centuries. The 19th Century would see excavation fever gripping Italy, as archaeologists discovered and explored these cities and Rome’s ancient network of catacombs

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THE PRIEST FROM MUGNANO: Philomena’s relics remained in Rome until the year 1805 when Canon Francis de Lucia of Mugnano, a small town near Pompeii and Herculaneum, visited Rome with the intention of obtaining relics of a Saint for his private chapel. He was supported in this endeavor by the Bishop of Potenza and so was permitted to visit the Treasury of Relics at the Vatican.

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TABERNACLE & INLAID MARBLE ALTAR at the shrine of St Philomena in Mugnano, Italy.

When he viewed the relics of St. Philomena, Canon de Lucia described a feeling of exaltation coming over him; he instantly asked for her relics. These were eventually obtained after some trials as it was not usual for a simple priest to be given such important relics. Interestingly, he had become seriously ill during this time and through her intercession he was cured immediately. De Lucia’s was the first miracle attributed to St. Philomena and others quickly followed; a woman who had suffered from an incurable illness was healed after asking for St. Philomena's intercession and other cures followed as well.

Once he was granted Philomena’s precious remains, Canon de Lucia took them to Naples, where they were enclosed within a statue of the Saint. On August 10 (note this date) 1805 St. Philomena's relics were brought to Mugnano, where they remain to the present day.

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St Philomena

THE SHRINE AT MUGNANO When the relics arrived, the effects felt by the townspeople of Mugnano were instantaneous. In his Relazione istorica della traslazione del sagro corpo di s. Filomena da Roma a Mugnano del Cardinale, written in 1833, Canon De Lucia recounted that wonders accompanied the arrival of the relics in his church, among them a statue that exuded a liquid continuously for three days.

A soaking rain fell on parched Mugnano after a long drought. An incapacitated lawyer confined to his room had himself brought to the place where her relics were and came home completely healed. An aristocratic woman with a malignant tumor on her hand had St. Philomena’s relic placed on it; her physician noted the following day that it vanished without a trace. However, it was the cure of one individual suffering from a particular malady that would ensure St. Philomena’s canonization.

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St Philomena

PAULINE JARICOT’S JOURNEY Frenchwoman Pauline Jaricot was a wealthy and devout Catholic who used the riches her family had amassed to found three separate Associations: The Society for the Propagation of the Faith, the Association of the Holy Childhood, and the Living Rosary. This last group would help ensure she would be affiliated with St. Philomena.

In March 1835 in France she was afflicted with a serious illness that rendered her near death. She longed to make the journey to St. Philomena’s Shrine, but such a trip seemed impossible for one so incapacitated, especially over the snow-laden Alpine passes. Incredibly, she made the trip despite this, aided by members of the Living Rosary; nevertheless she nearly perished along the way. For two days she lay unconscious; when she awoke she knew that death was imminent and that she would probably die far from both home and Rome.

However, in one of the passes in the Alps, a miracle occurred; a beautiful young child appeared from nowhere, and presented Pauline with a white rose which had the sweetest scent, smiling knowingly the whole time. The child vanished and the guides were astounded, not the least because roses do not grow in the icy Alps at that time of the year. This miracle gave strength and encouragement to Pauline, who was inspired to continue her trek.

Finally, after a serious relapse in Loreto she finally arrived in the Eternal City where the nuns of the Sacred Heart received her with great joy. Her condition still critical, the nuns feared she would not survive to meet the then- reigning Pontiff, Gregory XVI. The Pope, having heard of Pauline’s condition, made haste to meet her, as she was well known for her support of the Church. He thanked her and asked her to pray for him when she got to Heaven. Pauline consented to his request but she also made Pope Gregory XVI promise that when she was cured of her condition and came back to the Vatican that he would continue the final inquiry into St. Philomena’s Cause. The Pope agreed to this, though he was convinced they would never see her alive again.

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Pauline’s Miracle A few months later, to the delight of the townspeople, a partially-recovered Pauline Jaricot returned to Mugnano and St. Philomena’s Shrine. The next morning was August 10 --St. Philomena’s Feast Day – and there Pauline received the Eucharist near Philomena’s relics. After a short burst of pain, the nearly-unthinkable happened; Pauline Jaricot was cured! The crowds were exuberant at her cure, shouting the praises of St. Philomena and Pauline Jaricot. After staying in Mugnano to give thanks to the Saint, Pauline departed, taking a relic of the Saint with her as she made her way back to Rome.

Needless to say, His Holiness Pope Gregory XVI was astounded to see her not only alive, but healed. He had a chapel built in St. Philomena’s honor at her request and bade Pauline to stay in Rome for one year in order to validate the miracle. When Pauline finally returned to France, Pope Gregory XVI kept his word. Eventually, the Sacred Congregation of Rites investigated the case and gave a favorable report of her two miracles. Two years later in 1837, Pope Gregory XVI issued a decree authorizing the public cultus of St. Philomena.

Who was Philomena?

Because of the miracles attributed to this Saint, questions arose in the minds of many: who exactly was this girl? When did she live? How did she die? The answers would come as a result of private revelations to three individuals in different parts of Italy. The most well-known was Sister Maria Luisa di Gesù, a Dominican Tertiary in Naples. The other two visionaries were a priest and an historian.

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Popes Devoted to St Philomena: Many popes have venerated St. Philomena, with several visiting her Shrine in tiny Mugnano:

Pius VII (1800-1823) Donated the body of St. Philomena to

Mugnana.

Leo XII (1823-1829) On the 7th of December 1827, he stated: “She is a great Saint!”

Gregory XVI (1831-1846) Donated to the Sanctuary of St. Philo-

mena a precious medallion with his effigy, a silver lamp with golden decorations and a golden chalice.

Pius IX (1846-1878) was cured of his epilepsy by the intercession of

the Saint. When he was Bishop of Imola his secretary, Don Joseph Stella, was cured in 1834 by intercession of St. Philomena.

Leo XIII (1878-1903) He came in pilgrimage to the Sanctuary of

Mugnano when he was still Archbishop of Benevento. In 1883, he approved the use of a red and white cord in honor of the Saint; six years later he granted the title of Archconfraternity (solely to France) to the Work of St. Philomena. In 1902 he celebrated Mass in the Roman Catacombs of Priscilla, on the first centenary of the finding of her body. He also sent two gifts to the Sanctuary in Mugnano: in 1888 a pastoral and on May 25, 1902, on the centenary of the finding of her relics, a wonderful missal.

St Pius X (1903-1914) proclaimed the Curate of Ars ‘Blessed’ on

the first centenary of the translation of St. Philomena’s body from Rome to Mugnano. In 1912, he extended to the whole Church the Archconfraternity of St. Philomena: the highest tribute from a pope to a great Saint.

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Philomena and the Cure’ of Ars But the one who had the greatest devotion to St. Philomena was probably St. John Marie Vianney, aka the Cure’ of Ars. In her Shrine in Mugnano there is a statue of the Cure’ of Ars with St. Philomena.

Pauline Jaricot “introduced” the Cure’ of Ars to St. Philomena. The simple Cure’ from the south of France was so impressed with her story that he made St. Philomena a part of his daily devotion. Someone once asked the Curè: “Is it true, Monsieur le Curè, that Saint Philomena obeys you?” to which the holy priest replied, “And why not, since every day God Himself obeys me at the altar?”

The Cure reported that ‘a perfect understanding existed’ between he and St. Philomena and that he ‘perpetually felt’ her presence. He addressed her by name as he would a good friend and always promoted devotion to her for all needs, spiritual and temporal.

The Cure’ could often be heard saying, “My children, St. Philomena has great power with God, and she has, moreover, a kind heart; let us pray to her with confidence.

Her virginity and generosity in embracing her heroic martyrdom have rendered her so agreeable to God that He will never refuse her anything that she asks for us.” It is said that the Curè did everything for her and St. Philomena did everything for him.

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St Philomena

Philomena and the Saints Saints of the 19th and 20th centuries have been devoted to St Philomena, including St. Peter Julian Eymard, St. Peter Chanel, St. Anthony Mary Claret, St. Madeleine Sophie Barat, St. Euphrasia Pelletier, St. Francis Xavier Cabrini, St. John Nepomucene Neumann, Blessed Anna Maria Taigi and Ven. Pauline Jaricot. St Damien of Molokai, who had strong devotion to Philomena, named his church at Kalawao Hawaii in honor of her.

Philomena Today There has been some confusion about the status of St. Philomena. On February 14, 1961 the Sacred Congregation of Rites in Rome issued an instruction from Pope John XXIII which removed St. Philomena from the then-current liturgical calendars; her Feast was never on the general Roman Calendar. However, this does not mean devotion to her is somehow forbidden; it only means that her situation has returned to where it was before 1837. She is a canonized Saint, and her relics (shown above) remain at Mugnano.

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wall calendar now available * With meditative selections from the Psalms * * Featuring seasonal photography from the monks’ outings to the beautiful Umbrian countryside around Norcia * * Symbols to assist observance of fasting and abstinence *

* Highlights key dates in the history of the Monks of Norcia *

TO ORDER, VISIT osbnorcia.org/2016calendar

OR E-MAIL development@osbnorcia.org

Today, St Philomena’s devotees hail from around the world. As for the locals in Mugnano and the surrounding area – close to the ruins of Pompeii and Herculaneum – they remain proud of their Saint. When this author visited Philomena’s Shrine in April 2015, a nearby gas station attendant's face lit up when he learned we were headed there. With a broad smile on his weathered face, he eagerly provided directions to the Shrine.

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St Philomena

She is a patron of babies, children and teenagers and also of the impossible, along with St. Jude and St. Rita of Cascia.

St. Philomena continues to intercede for those devoted to her to this day. She is a patron of babies, children and teenagers and also of the impossible, along with St. Jude and St. Rita of Cascia. It is said that when she is about to answer your prayers she playfully announces this by knocking three times.

St. Philomena, ora pro nobis!

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A Private Revelation: The Trials of St. Philomena

A GLIMPSE INTO THE ANCIENT ROMAN WORLD OF ST PHILOMENA: In the late 3rd century AD, the Emperor Diocletian initiated the last and most vicious Roman persecution of the Christians. He was especially infamous for having Christians pierced with arrows (such as St. Sebastian) and for tying anchors around their necks and having them tossed into water.

In the story reported by the visionary Sister Maria Luisa di Gesù (1799–1875), a Dominican tertiary hear an account of Philomena’s sufferings under Diocletian.

(Editor’s Note: Catholics are not bound to believe private revelations. They are considered to be useful to know and food for thought.)

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"My dear Sister, I am the daughter of a Prince who governed a small state in Greece. My mother is also of royal blood. My parents were without children. They were idolaters. They continually offered sacrifices and prayers to their false gods.

A doctor from Rome named Publius lived in the palace in the service of my father. This doctor professed Christianity. Seeing the affliction of my parents, by the impulse of the Holy Ghost, he spoke to them of Christianity, and promised to pray for them if they consented to receive Baptism.

The grace which accompanied his words enlightened their understanding and triumphed over their will. They became Christians and obtained the long desired happiness that Publius had assured them as the reward of their conversion. At the moment of my birth, they gave me the name of "Lumena," an allusion to the light of Faith of which I had been, as it were, the fruit. The day of my Baptism they called me "Filumena," or "Daughter of Light," because on that day I was born to the Faith. The affection which my parents bore me was so great that they had me always with them.

It was on this account that they took me to Rome on a journey that my father was obliged to make on the occasion of an unjust war with which he was threatened by the haughty Diocletian. I was then thirteen years old. On our arrival in the capital of the world, we proceeded to the palace of the Emperor and were admitted for an audience.

As soon as Diocletian saw me, his eyes were fixed upon me. He appeared to be pre-possessed in this manner during the entire time that my father was stating with animated feelings everything that could serve for his defense.

As soon as Father had ceased to speak, the Emperor desired him to be disturbed no longer, to

banish all fear, to think only of living in happiness. These are the Emperor’s words, ‘I shall place at your disposal all the force of the Empire. I ask only one thing, that is the hand of your daughter.’

My father, dazzled with an honor he was far from expecting, willingly acceded on the spot to the proposal of the Emperor.

When we returned to our own dwelling, Father and Mother did all they could to induce me to yield to Diocletian’s wishes and theirs. I cried, ‘Do you wish, that for the love of a man, I should break the promise I have made to Jesus Christ? My virginity belongs to him. I can no longer dispose of it.’

‘But you were young then, too young,’ answered my father, ‘to have formed such an engagement.’

He joined the most terrible threats to the command that he gave me to accept the hand of Diocletian. The grace of my God rendered me invincible, and my father, not being able to make the Emperor relent, in order to disengage himself from the promise he had given, was obliged by Diocletian to bring me to the Imperial Chamber.

I had to withstand for some time beforehand a new attack from my father’s anger. My mother, uniting her efforts to his, endeavored to conquer my resolution. Caresses, threats, everything was employed to induce me to compliance. At last, I saw both of my parents fall at my knees and say to me with tears in their eyes, ‘My child have pity on your father, your mother, your country, our country, our subjects.’

‘No! No,’ I answered them. ‘My virginity, which I have vowed to God, comes before everything, before you, before my country. My kingdom is heaven.’

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My words plunged them into despair and they brought me before the Emperor, who on his part did all in his power to win me. But his promises, his allurements, his threats, were equally useless.

He then flew into a violent fit of anger and, influenced by the Devil, had me cast into one of the prisons of the palace, where he had me loaded with chains. Thinking that pain and shame would weaken the courage with which my Divine Spouse inspired me, he came to see me every day. After several days, the Emperor issued an order for my chains to be loosed, that I might take a small portion of bread and water. He renewed his attacks, some of which would have been fatal to purity had it not been for the grace of God. The defeats which he always experienced were for me the preludes to new tortures. Prayer supported me. I did not cease to recommend myself to Jesus and his most pure Mother. My captivity had lasted thirty-seven days, when, in the midst of a heavenly light, I saw Mary holding the Divine Son in her arms.

‘My daughter,’ she said to me, ‘three days more of prison and after forty days you shall leave this state of pain.’

Such happy news made my heart beat with joy, but as the Queen of Angels had added that I should quit my prison, to sustain, in frightful torments a combat far more terrible than those preceding, I fell instantly from joy to the most cruel anguish; I thought it would kill me.

‘Have courage, my child,’ Mary then said to me; ‘are you unaware of the love of predilection that I bear for you? The name, which you received in baptism, is the pledge of it for the resemblance which it has to that of my Son and to mine. You are called Lumena, as your Spouse is called Light, Star, Sun, as I myself am called Aurora, Star, the Moon in the fullness of its brightness, and Sun.

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Fear not, I will aid you. Now nature, whose weakness humbles you, asserts its law. In the moment of combat, grace will come to lend you its force, and your Angel, who was also mine, Gabriel, whose name expresses strength, will come to your aid. I will recommend you especially to his care, as the well beloved among my children.’

These words of the Queen of virgins gave me courage again, and the vision disappeared, leaving my prison filled with a celestial perfume. I experienced a joy out of this world. Something indefinable.

What the Queen of Angels had prepared me for was soon experienced. Diocletian, despairing of bending me, decided on public chastisement to offend my virtue. He condemned me to be stripped and scourged like the Spouse I preferred to him.

These are his horrifying words.

‘Since she is not ashamed to prefer to an Emperor like me, a malefactor condemned to an infamous death by his own people, she deserves that my justice shall treat her as he was treated.’

The prison guards hesitated to unclothe me entirely but they did tie me to a column in the presence of the great men of the court. They lashed me with violence until I was bathed in blood. My whole body felt like one open wound, but I did not faint.

The tyrant had me dragged back to the dungeon, expecting me to die. I hoped to join my heavenly Spouse. Two angels, shining with light, appeared to me in the darkness. They poured a soothing balm on my wounds, bestowing on me a vigor I did not have before the torture.

When the Emperor was informed by the change that had come over me, he had me brought before him. He viewed me with a greedy desire and tried to persuade me that I owed my healing and regained vigor to Jupiter, another god that he, the

St Philomena Emperor, had sent to me. He attempted to impress me with his belief that Jupiter desired me to be Empress of Rome. Joining to these seductive words promises of great honor, including the most flattering words, Diocletian tried to caress me. Fiendishly, he attempted to complete the work of Hell which he had begun. The Divine Spirit to whom I am indebted for constancy in preserving my purity seemed to fill me with light and knowledge and to all the proofs which I gave of the solidity of our Faith, neither Diocletian nor his courtiers could find an answer.

Then, the frenzied Emperor dashed at me, commanding a guard to chain an anchor around my neck and bury me deep in the waters of the Tiber.

The order was executed. I was cast into the water, but God sent me two angels who unfastened the anchor. It fell into the river mud, where it remains no doubt to the present time. The angels transported me gently in full view of the multitude upon the riverbank. I came back unharmed, not even wet, after being plunged with the heavy anchor.

When a cry of joy rose from the debauchers on the shore, and so many embraced Christianity by proclaiming their belief in my God, Diocletian attributed my preservation to secret magic. Then the Emperor had me dragged through the streets of Rome and shot with a shower of arrows. My blood flowed, but I did not faint. Diocletian thought that I was dying and commanded the guards to carry me back to the dungeon. Heaven honored me with a new favor there. I fell into a sweet sleep, and I found myself, on awaking, perfectly cured.

Diocletian learned about it. ‘Well, then,’ he cried in a fit of rage, ‘let her be pierced with sharp darts a second time, and let her die in that torture.’

They hastened to obey him. Again, the archers bent their bows. They gathered all their strength, but the arrows refused to second their intentions.

The Emperor was present. In a rage, he called me

a magician, and thinking that the action of fire could destroy the enchantment, ordered the darts to be made in a furnace and directed against my heart. He was obeyed, but these darts, after having passed through a part of the space which they were to cross to come to me, took a quite contrary direction and returned to strike those by whom they had been hurled. Six of the archers were killed by them. Several among them renounced paganism, and the people began to render public testimony to the power of God that protected me.

These murmurs and acclamations infuriated the tyrant. He determined to hasten my death by ordering my head to be cut off. My soul took flight towards my heavenly Spouse, who placed me, with the crown of virginity and the palm of martyrdom, in a distinguished place among the elect. The day that was so happy for me and saw me enter into glory was Friday, the third hour after midday, the same hour that saw my Divine Master expire."

"Dear Sister, August the 10th was the day of my rest, my triumph, my birth into Heaven, my entering into the possession of such eternal goods as the human mind cannot possibly imagine. That is why my Heavenly Spouse disposed, by His most high decrees that my coming to Mugnano should be on the day which had seen my coming to Heaven!

He prepared so many circumstances which should make my arrival at Mugnano glorious and triumphant; giving joy to all the people, even though the priest who brought me had absolutely decided that my translation should take place on the fifth of the month very quietly in his own house. My omnipotent Spouse impeded him with so many obstacles that the priest, although he did all he could to carry out his plan, could not do so. And so it came about that the said translation was made on the tenth, the day of my feast in Heaven." •

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Christmas Convert Article By: Brennan Doherty

Photo Credits: Fr Jeffrey Keyes

I

t was not Christmas when I invited her. It was not an emotional kind of holiday experience.

Nonetheless, I learned later that the woman who had accompanied me to the traditional Latin Mass (the Dominican rite), this praise-and-worship, non-denominational woman, had tears streaming down her face.

Yes, during that awful, anachronistic, didn’t-youknow-Jesus-didn’t-speak-Latin Vetus Ordo Mass.

This movement of grace during the liturgy was no accident; the liturgy itself, with its reverence, chant, rhythms, rubrics, and setting all conspired to move upon the waters of her soul -- evoking this

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response even though it was in a language she did not understand.

I wonder what her response would have been had I taken her to a typical parish Mass? Let’s leave that alone; I’m feeling a bit too polite.

Above human understanding

Of course she is not the only person to react this way. Throughout history our traditional liturgy has inspired countless conversions, vocations, and the visible manifestation of our Faith in art, architecture, music, statuary, devotions, and a multitude of other signs that catch the wandering eye or the listening ear.

Christmas Convert

And this is normal. This is what is supposed to happen when our liturgy acts upon the soul. It’s not always within our human understanding, but it surpasses it, just as grace often works on the soul in ways we do not always perceive immediately.

Converted by Beauty

I also had been immersed in a low liturgical background prior to my conversion to Catholicism.

And it was beauty that helped draw me in; not liturgical beauty, since I was not attending any Mass -- but the beauty of the lives of the mystics and saints.

There was a depth there that I could not fully explain. This attracted me. These people seemed to be living in a closer union with God than any I had known before.

This was what I had been seeking in my search through so many churches.

Finally, my contact with books by Catholic apologists like Scott Hahn and David B. Currie caused my Protestant edifice to crumble, and I came into the Church in the year 2000.

When I converted, it was as if the heavens had shifted. Now, there was more than merely me, my Bible, and Jesus. In place of my “Jesus and me” relationship, (along with any disposable intermediaries like my local pastor), there was now the Blessed Virgin, the saints, the angels, the mystics, and the multitude of Catholic ancestors.

Naturally I wanted to get to know them better. Of course one can read about them, and that is good.

Yet since we are moving toward the same goal union with God - we want a bit more immersion.

And there is no better immersion than experiencing nearly the same liturgy, praying the same prayers, watching the same gestures, and even seeing the same art, as those holy men and women who went before.

What I found

But it was not to be. The Church I came into was reeling from the effects of the so-called ‘Spirit’ of Vatican II, where changes in the liturgy were accompanied by a devastating drop in both Mass attendance and vocations which still afflicts the Church 50 years later. This is not even to speak of the de-sacralization of the churches.

If the committee which reformed the liturgy after Vatican II had simply put the traditional Latin Mass in English, it might even have been fine.

Then one could still celebrate the Gregorian rite, which goes back hundreds of years, prior to Trent, in either the vernacular or Latin.

But they didn’t. Tragically, they decided the entire liturgy, including the prayers and rubrics themselves, needed to be updated for “modern man”.

I can think of no more effective means of cutting Catholics off from the history of their Church and the nourishment which sustained and formed countless Saints than revising the liturgy in such a manner. Because now when you hear the liturgy in English, you aren’t hearing the prayers which countless Saints prayed over the course of history.

You’re hearing the prayers concocted by a committee in the 1960’s which decided most traditional elements of the liturgy had to go.

And so we are left with an utterly banal liturgy, one which is incapable of inspiring great works of art as the traditional Latin Mass has done over the centuries.

The sad truth is most Catholics can’t attend a traditional Latin Mass. If you have a liberal or progressive bishop, good luck in finding one. And best wishes finding one available every Sunday so one can fulfill their Sunday obligation.

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Christmas Convert

Separated from our ancestors in the Faith Conversely, where there is a rupture in this immersion, as happened when the liturgical committee after Vatican II decided to drop/alter the prayers and rubrics of the liturgy in order to adapt them to “modern man”, one can become cut off, in a sense, from our ancestors in the Faith.

Not that they are no longer near to us and interceding for us, but the way they followed has become more dim and uncertain because we no longer have access to the same help they did. We are no longer praying the same prayers, imitating the same gestures, nor are surrounded by the same beauty for the most part. And since Catholicism is an incarnational religion - one goes through the Church to God and not around it - the way we worship God is essential and not merely a set of “externals” which can be altered or jettisoned with hardly a ripple among the faithful.

Since this is the Christmas season we recall that Jesus was born in humble circumstances, not in a palace or a magnificent temple. Yet what was the response to the Christ child? Mary wrapped him in swaddling clothes and placed him in a manger. The wise men gave Him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. In other words, they gave Him the best they had, whether it was cloth or gold.

And it was a physical manifestation of what was in their hearts. Since that time, countless Catholics have given to Christ the best they had, in art, music, architecture, or in composing the radiant, timeless prayers of the liturgy. Others made smaller sacrifices, such as building a home shrine. As such, they helped offer not only a repose for the soul beset by the corrosion of the world, but a means to transcend this world and draw closer to God. This is not to be mocked or disregarded.

Women, of course, play a crucial role because they often specialize in what our market-driven world

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considers ‘useless’ – ie not money-making. Thus when women make a home more beautiful, or spread an elegant table, they too are providing an avenue for grace. May God bless their efforts.

So this Christmas season, let us all pray and work toward a re-beautifying of our liturgy, our sanctuaries, and our homes. Even a single statue, prayer station, or home shrine can fight against the tide of brutal mediocrity ever-present in our culture.

The Future

And the woman I invited to Mass? She has returned a few times, drawing ever-closer to immersion in the ancient liturgy. I hope and pray for her conversion, and also that one day I can bring others to the traditional rite with Gregorian chant.

My further hope is that the liturgy may become an avenue to explore the ancient riches of Catholicism for all converts, rather than some sort of endurance test.

God works in strange ways. While the rest of the Church languishes for lack of vocations, Orders and monasteries which celebrate the ancient liturgy such as the Institute of Christ the King Sovereign Priest, the Priestly Fraternity of St. Peter, Our Lady of Clear Creek Abbey, and The Monks of the Most Blessed Virgin Mary of Mount Carmel are bursting with youthful callings. Apparently a number of men aren’t attracted to the modern liturgy simply because it’s easier to celebrate.

But Dietrich von Hildebrand has said it better than I ever could: “Do we better meet Christ by soaring up to Him, or by dragging Him down into our workaday world?”

Merry Christmas!

Brennan Doherty is a convert from Protestantism.

He lives in Oregon, USA.

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GOOD KING WENCESLAS: The Saint of Bohemia Article By: Ed Masters

I

n the 9th century those two great Apostles to the Slavs, Sts. Cyril and Methodius, began the task of bringing the true Faith to those wild tribes which had been migrating into Europe for centuries. The Khazars, Moravians, and Bulgarians -- among others-- were all converted through their efforts, and multitudes were baptized into the Church as far east as Kiev. One of their successes was the Prince of Bohemia. Of the Premsyl Dynasty, Borivoy is the first known documented ruler of that nation and his wife Ludmilla were converted by these two brothers from Thessalonica.

It is at this juncture that our story begins, for not too many years after their deaths a child was born who would become a legend in his own time. His name is venerated by his countrymen today, and the rest of the English-speaking world knows him as ‘Good King Wenceslas.’

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Ludmilla’s grandson Wenceslas (aka Vaclav) was Borivoy and St. Ludmilla’s grandson, was born during a pagan backlash against Christianity, in Prague around the year 907. At the death of his father Wratislas in battle against the Magyars Wenceslas was 13 years old -- too young to rule. He was brought up by his grandmother St. Ludmilla; his brother Boleslas was brought up by his mother, the Jezebel-like Drahomira, an enemy of the Faith.

Ludmilla was instrumental in not only teaching Wenceslas the Faith and the Liturgies, but also educated him in Latin, Greek, and Slav. She also taught him the craft of making bread and wine for use at Mass, a skill he valued throughout his 146 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

life. Indeed, writing centuries later, St. Alphonsus Ligouri remarked� ... tender indeed was the devotion to the Most Blessed Sacrament of St. Wenceslas, Duke of Bohemia. This holy king was so enamored of Jesus there present that he not only gathered wheat and grapes and made the hosts and wine with his own hands and then gave them to be used in the Holy Sacrifice, but even during the winter he used to go at night to visit the church in which the Blessed Sacrament was kept.

These visits enkindled in his beautiful soul such flames of Divine love that their ardor imparted itself even to his body and took from the snow on which he walked its wonted cold; for it is related that the servant who accompanied him in these nightly excursions, having to walk through the

Good King Wenceslas

THE KILLING OF ST LUDMILLA: Knowing the Christian influence Ludmilla would have on Wenceslas and therefore considering her a threat, Drahomira sent two loyal subordinates to assassinate Ludmilla. The Saint won her crown of martyrdom when the two assassins strangled her at Tetin, just after she received Holy Communion.

Stunned by her savagery, the nobility removed Drahomira and Boleslas from governing Bohemia, installing Wenceslas in their stead. Drahomira was subsequently exiled to Budech. At this time, Wenceslas was a Duke and 18 years of age.

snow, suffered much from the cold. The holy King, on perceiving this, was moved to compassion and commanded him to follow him and only to step in his footmarks; he did so, and never afterwards felt the cold.�

No sooner was Wratislas dead than Drahomira made her move; with an intensity reminiscent of the Roman Emperor Julian the Apostate, she attempted to re-impose paganism on that land.

Priests and religious were exiled. Christians were banned from public places and offices.

gent, the widows and orphans. He bought freedom for slaves and even visited prisoners during the night, giving them alms and listening to their concerns as well as exhorting them to leave their former ways of life behind and to repent of their crimes. He was known to have carried wood on his back in the middle of the night to those that needed it for fuel and assisted at the funerals of the poor. He went to church to pray at night, walking to church during the winter months barefoot through the snow.

There were instances where Heaven showed Good King Wenceslas favor to Wenceslas; this made a deep impression Wenceslas was a model ruler. He was generous to on those who witnessed it. Wenceslas had to deal and provided support for the needs of the indiwith the rebellion of Radislas, a Duke of Gurima

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who regarded Wenceslas’s piety with contempt.

When Wenceslas sent envoys to Radislas with offers of peace this only emboldened the latter; he saw the gesture as a sign of weakness. Wishing to avoid unnecessary bloodshed Wenceslas challenged Radislas to single combat with the victor and both armies going home. Radislas accepted.

At the appointed time, the two combatants charged in a classic medieval battle joust, Radis-

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las with a spear and Wenceslas with only a sword.

As they approached, Wenceslas made the Sign of the Cross and suddenly two angels appeared, warning Radislas. Awestruck by the appearance of the celestial beings, Radislas dismounted from his steed and knelt at the feet of Wenceslas, begging forgiveness for his actions and promising him his loyalty from that point on. Wenceslas bade him to arise and the two were reconciled.

Good King Wenceslas

Wenceslas and the German Emperor Not long afterward Duke Wenceslas was summoned to the Diet of Worms by the Holy Roman Emperor Henry the Fowler, father of Otto the Great. He was late in coming to the Diet as he had attended Mass and the Emperor and other princes agreed not to rise at his entrance as they considered his tardiness an affront. However, when Wenceslas arrived, the Emperor and nobles saw that he was accompanied by two angels. The Emperor not only gave him a seat at his right but also gave him a precious relic, the arm of St. Vitus which Wenceslas took back to Bohemia with him.

Wenceslas was also very skilled politically. He wanted to unify Bohemia and also sought an alliance with Henry the Fowler, controversial even then. Wenceslas sought closer relations with the Catholic nations of western Europe to not only fend off future invasions from the east but also to make his own nation thoroughly Catholic.

Unfortunately some of the nobles of Bohemia resented this pact as they wanted Bohemia to be completely free of the Holy Roman Empire.

Wenceslas knew this wasn't possible as his nation was not strong enough to fight wars on multiple fronts. Wenceslas even invited German priests to say Mass in Latin as Slavonic had fallen into disuse. His advisory council included priests.

(A couple of centuries later German craftsmen were invited to Bohemia in order to help develop the area economically. They became known as Sudetan Germans and their presence there gave Adolph Hitler his pretext for invading the country in 1938).

Plotting to Murder the Good King Other nobles were still embittered at Wenceslas’ Catholicism, however and considered him a pious fool. These yearned for a return to their pagan ways; they hatched a plot with Wenceslas’ brother Boleslas and Drahomira to rid themselves of their ruler. Then, they waited.

On the Feast Day of Sts. Cosmas and Damian (ironically they were brothers) in 929 (some sources say 935) Boleslas invited Wenceslas to a banquet. The conspirators had originally planned to murder Wenceslas there but as they saw the expression on his face that exuded holiness, they wavered.

Wenceslas left the banquet and was warned by two retainers that something was amiss and that the Saint should leave in all haste. Wencelas refused however, and went back into the banquet to the surprise of all. Sitting back in his chair he raised his glass and bade all to toast St. Michael the Archangel, saying, “St. Michael, whom we pray to guide us to peace and eternal joy.” he then retired to bed, reciting the Psalms.

It was then decided that Wenceslas would be assassinated the next morning on his way to Mass.

Wenceslas awoke and went to Mass that morning as was his usual habit and met his brother Boleslas on the way, thanking him for the previous day’s hospitality.

Boleslas responded, “Yesterday I did my best to serve you worthily, but this must be my service today!” He then drew his sword but Wenceslas blocked it effortlessly.

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The Aftermath There are varying accounts about what became of those who plotted and carried out the murder of Wenceslas. One story says the three assassins died of madness and suicide, that Drahomira was swallowed up by a chasm that opened up beneath her, and that Boleslas died after many years of suffering physical illnesses. Another account Wenceslas fell inside the Church door which was says both Drahomira and Boleslas repented of splattered with his blood --which can be seen to their actions, with Boleslas himself being responthis day -- uttering the words, “May God forgive sible for the reburying of his brother’s remains in you this, my Brother!” The date was September 28, St. Vitus’ Church; some say he had a church built A.D. 929 (some sources A.D. 935). and dedicated to him in Prague in A.D. 972.

He would not, however, kill his own brother. Boleslas then called for help from his three co-conspirators, Cesta, Tyra and Hnevys who then pierced Wenceslas through with their swords, one thrust in particular piercing his side.

Some accounts say Boleslas himself thrust his sword into his brother.

Like another royal Saint a century and a half later, King St. Canute of Denmark, St. Wenceslas achieved martyrdom in a church. His body was desecrated upon his murder, hacked to pieces and buried on the spot of his martyrdom, but was later reburied in the Church of St. Vitus in Prague.

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The translation of his relics is celebrated on March 4, coincidentally the Feast Day of St. Casimir of Poland.

St. Wenceslas’ legacy was immediate and lasting.

During his lifetime he had many churches built

Good King Wenceslas

“May God forgive you this, my Brother!” in Bohemia and founded the rotunda of St. Vitus at Prague Castle. Miracles occurred at the scene of his death within a very short time of his martyrdom and was considered a Saint.

More miracles occurred upon invoking his intercession. A pagan man who was imprisoned vowed to be Baptized into the Faith if the holy actions of St. Wenceslas were true. His shackles immediately fell off and he could never be bound again by the guards. Upon his release from jail he kept his promise, was baptized, and lived many years studying the Faith. A blind and crippled woman prayed at the spot of his martyrdom and asked to be cured and immediately she was able to see and use her arms again. A man from the Frankish Kingdom who was lame was told in a dream to visit St. Vitus’ Church in Prague. Praying in that church he was healed and gave thanks to St. Wenceslas for his intercession.

The Holy Roman Emperor Otto the Great posthumously granted Wenceslas the title of King.

An altar has been devoted to him in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome since the beginning of the 14th century. The chronicler Cosmas of Prague, writing in about the year 1119, stated: But his deeds I think you know better than I could tell you; for, as is read in his Passion, no one doubts that, rising every night from his noble bed, with bare feet and only one chamberlain, he went

around to God’s churches and gave alms generously to widows, orphans, those in prison and afflicted by every difficulty, so much so that he was considered, not a prince, but the father of all the wretched.

Centuries later that legend was claimed as a fact

by Pope Pius II who was Pontiff from A.D. 14581464.

The hymn “Svatý Václave” (St. Wenceslas) or “St. Wenceslas Chorale” is one of the oldest known historical Czech songs. Its origins are found in the 12th century and it is still one of the most popular religious songs to this day in that country. In 1918, in the beginning of the Czechoslovak state, the song was discussed as one of the possible choices for the national anthem.

His Feast Day of September 28 is a national holiday in the Czech Republic. Hundreds of churches were built and dedicated to him throughout central Europe and there are at least four dedicated to him in the United States. Much artwork depicting him can be found in the Czech Republic and elsewhere. Coins and money with his image and likeness have been minted for centuries in his native land and he was invoked by his people for centuries against invasion and occupation by foreign powers up until the end of Communist control of Czechoslovakia in 1989.

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(PHOTO CREDIT: Kmenicka) Cardinal Miloslav Vlk with skull of Saint Wenceslas during a procession on September 28, 2006

Wenceslas Square has been a rallying and gathering point for many years and it showcases a statue of St. Wenceslas on horseback. It was fitting and altogether appropriate that after the Czech Republic and Slovakia split into two countries the first President of the Czech Republic was a man named after St. Wenceslas, the playwright and author Vaclav Havel.

Now, how did St. Wenceslas become associated with the Christmas season even though his Feast Day is on September 28? In the year 1853 a carol was published by John Mason Neale which told the story of St. Wenceslas helping to gather firewood for the poor on the day after Christmas, St. Stephen's Feast Day. This carol may have been a translation of a poem by the Czech poet Václav Alois Svoboda.

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There is an old legend concerning King St. Wenceslas. It is said that at a future time, when his people face the ultimate danger, he will rise from the dead and lead an army of knights that currently repose in Blanik, a mountain in the Czech Republic. He will claim the sword of Bruncvik and drive out the enemies of the Czechs. Peace will then reign. (The Germans have a similar legend about Charlemagne, as do other people with kings of their past: Arthur of Britain, Rodrigo of Spain, and the Byzantine Emperor Constantine XI, among others).

Every Catholic parent should tell their children the story of Good King Wenceslas – so that when they see someone’s footprints in the snow, they think of him. King St. Wenceslas, ora pro nobis!

Good King Wenceslas

Good King Wenceslas looked out on the feast of Stephen, when the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even.

Brightly shown the moon that night, though the frost was cruel, when a poor man came in sight, gathering winter fuel.

Hither, page, and stand by me.

If thou know it telling: yonder peasant, who is he?

Where and what his dwelling?

Sire, he lives a good league hence, underneath the mountain, right against the forest fence

by Saint Agnes fountain.

Christmas Carol-Villancico

Bring me flesh, and bring me wine.

Bring me pine logs hither.

Thou and I will see him dine when we bear them thither.

Page and monarch, forth they went, forth they went together through the rude wind's wild lament and the bitter weather.

Sire, the night is darker now, and the wind blows stronger.

Fails my heart, I know not how I can go no longer.

Mark my footsteps good, my page, tread thou in them boldly: Thou shalt find the winter's rage freeze thy blood less coldly.

In his master's step he trod, where the snow lay dented.

Heat was in the very sod which the saint had printed.

Therefore, Christian men, be sure, wealth or rank possessing, ye who now will bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing.

Traditional Choir

Morton Gould and his Orchestra

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Merrimack, NH | Rome, Italy 154 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

One of the greatest problems of our time is that many are schooled but few are educated. —St. Thomas More

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R.

AMAZING PARISHES coming in REGINA’S next issue!

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REGINA’S Christmas Fiction Section

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A Regina Films Classic

Charles Dickens’

‘A Christmas Carol’ An old miser who makes excuses for his uncaring nature learns real compassion when 3 ghosts visit him on Christmas Eve.

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Regina Writer and Photographer Michael Durnan reads Charles Dickens’s ‘A Christmas Carol’ in this delightful classic for all ages. A Catholic Primary School Teacher in his native England for the past 27 years, he now works as a Supply Teacher and a Film and TV Support Artist, often in films and BBC TV costume dramas.

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Meet Lucy, a smart teenager with a bad attitude. She’s Irish, she’s Catholic and she’s stuck in a girls’ school. She’s also got polio and a boatload of bad memories. The year is 1928. The place is Sydney, Australia.

This Christmas, REGINA is delighted to introduce you to Lucy and her world in this exclusive excerpt from the amazing new novel by author Annette Young. We promise, you will not want to put this down!

- Chapter 12 The next day, however, I was confined to bed.

‘I can do it myself,’ I informed Mrs Murphy with a sneeze as I pulled myself up on my crutches. ‘I’m not needing your help.’

‘And I suppose you’re not needing my help to empty your commode either now?’ Mrs Murphy replied.

I scowled at her and edged back to my bed. Mrs Murphy became busy with my sheets and coverlet.

‘Did you not hear what I said? I told you, I’m not needing your help!’

Mrs Murphy paid no attention whatsoever. The moment I sat on my bed she took my crutches from me and placed them against the wall. ‘’Tis too far you put them,’ I complained.

Mrs Murphy handed my crutches back and I repositioned them half an inch closer to my bed. ‘I told you I could do it,’ I remarked as I set them in their place.

‘Every night I do as much without the like of yourself to fuss.’

At least Mrs Murphy had the decency to let me sort my legs into bed. I reached

over to pull the covers but they had been pulled too far back. So I had to put up with Mrs Murphy fussing over my bedding.

‘And did you get wet all on your own?’ she questioned while she smoothed and tucked the sheet and blankets. ‘Did anyone help you take a dip in the sea? You didn’t mind a bit of help then, did you?’

Mrs Murphy then launched an assault on my pillows, pommelling them into shape and verbally pommelling me in the process. ‘Madness! That’s what it is. To even think of it, in your condition, going into the water and getting soaked. Why, it’s April already! What’s more you put sand and salt through your boots and leg irons and didn’t they cost a pretty penny? As if your dear father hasn’t enough on his plate without spending hours cleaning them up. The things you do when you’re out of his sight! I’d like to know what company you’re keeping in that school.

Wild young things! That’s what they must be.’

They were wild. They were wild and fun. There we all sat with waves washing Regina Magazine 161

round our toes, our knees and occasionally up to our waists. We swished our hands in the water. We splashed. We splashed each other and laughed and wet our hair. Pim carried me pick a back up the sand and let me fall on the picnic rug. We put another rug over my callipers, and by arranging picnic items and placing a hat on top, made it look as if someone was having a rest, with their boots sticking out from underneath. Never before had I laughed at my leg braces. We all laughed and licked ice cream and lay in the sun.

But then the boys’ shuttlecock landed in our midst.

‘You’d be that much happier if you offered your sufferings for the Holy Souls instead of hosting a pity party,’ continued Mrs Murphy.

‘You should take more advantage and use your sickness as a time of reparation, it being Holy Week and all.’

‘Reparation? Reparation?’ I repeated, even more irate. ‘And why should I be always saying sorry to God? Why, for Heaven’s sake does God not say sorry to myself now?’

‘Mercy!’ Mrs Murphy exclaimed.

‘Well, if God sent the polio, He’s not apologised for it. Not to my knowledge He hasn’t. ’Tis God should be making reparation, not myself.’

‘Proud as Lucifer, that’s what you are!’

‘Will you not shut your gob you ugly old cow!’

‘Well! I—’ There was a knock at the door and Mrs Murphy trudged off to answer it. I listened for the visitor who was brought in without a word.

‘Hope I haven’t come at a bad time,’ Pim remarked with a glance in Mrs Murphy’s direction. ‘You sick?’

‘I am,’ I replied, crossing my arms. ‘I’m sick of Mrs Murphy, I’m sick of you and I’m sick of everyone!’

‘You’re sick of yourself more like.’

‘Listen, if you come here to sport—’

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Pim groaned. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still brooding over what happened yesterday.’

I kept my arms crossed and glared at her.

‘Honestly, Lucy!’

‘You don’t understand, do you?’ I protested.

‘Oh, I understand all right. You wanted to get up with Della and me and play shuttlecock and talk with those boys and you couldn’t or, more likely, you wouldn’t. So you got angry and spent the rest of the afternoon sulking.

You wouldn’t even do any more practice— you sat moping on the verandah instead!’

‘But yous all went off with them boys and left me behind!’

‘No,’ Pim admonished, wagging her finger at me as if I were a naughty child. ‘No you are not going to make me or Della or anyone else feel guilty for something you could have changed.

You left yourself behind. You could have made things happen differently.’

‘And how would that be?’ I furiously interjected.

‘You could have watched us play. You could have dragged yourself over. You dragged yourself to the water all right.’

‘Aye, I did. All the way, and what’s more across sand it was. And I was tired. I’m still tired.

Look at yourself: you’re strong and able with legs like a pair of hams. You’ve no idea what it’s like to pull the dead weight of your body like that, do you now?’

Pim reddened, but she was not going to relent. ‘Anyway, if you hadn’t bitten his head off when he offered you some help up, I reckon Ambrose O’Connor – he was the one who came to get the shuttlecock – he would have sat and chatted with you. He wanted to, but you, you—!

What did you do? Get your fur up and spit like a cat at a dog.’

‘He was looking at my legs!’ I shouted.

‘So what?’ Pim shouted back. ‘All right, you’ve got legs like a newborn foal. You’ve got one

Regina Christmas Fiction ‘Reparation? Reparation?’

I repeated, even more irate. ‘And why should I be always saying sorry to God? Why, for Heaven’s sake does God not say sorry to myself now?’

‘Mercy!’ Mrs Murphy exclaimed. foot smaller than the other. One leg’s shorter than the other. Your feet hang. You can’t wiggle your toes. You’ve got one hell of a scar running down your left leg and two on your right. I looked at your legs, too. So what? Why be rude to someone who only wanted to be friendly?’

I looked down at the covers and bit my lip hard to stop the blush I could feel sweeping over my face. It didn’t work so I squeezed my eyes shut.

‘Listen, Lucy,’ Pim’s tone softened and I felt her hand lean on one of my legs. I could not move my leg away. ‘Listen. I didn’t come all the way here to get caught up in some wretched argument about your precious polio.’

‘Get off my leg! Let you not talk about that for I’m fed up with it!’

‘For Pete’s sake, I said I wasn’t going to talk about it! I came to ask you something. Do you want to know what it is or not?’

I shrugged my shoulders and looked over at the fireplace.

‘Fine,’ Pim stood up. ‘Then I’ll go.’

The prospect of being left alone again was, at this point, unbearable.

‘Don’t, Pim. Will you not stay a little more?’

‘And argue with you? No thank you.’

‘Please?’

‘Oh, so you do want to know?’ Pim leant

against the doorpost and folded her arms.

I nodded. If that meant more of her company and less of Mrs Murphy’s, so be it. But I was not at all prepared for what she had to say.

‘I’m going to the country for a few days after Easter to stay with my Aunt Rose and Uncle Ted,’ Pim explained as she sat on my bed again.

‘Rose wrote the other day to ask if I wanted to bring a friend. I don’t usually, but I thought you might like to come.’

‘Myself?’ I sent a wary glance in her direction for I had not left Pim’s house in the best of moods. Pim smiled at the reaction she had caused.

‘Same as the maths test when all you could think about was that decimal point in the wrong place,’ she remarked. ‘Apart from the shuttlecock we had good fun on the beach, didn’t we?’

‘Aye, we did.’ The thought of the water made me smile again.

‘And the morning’s rehearsal was terrific.’

‘Indeed it was.’

‘So would you like to come to the country?’ she asked.

‘Myself? How can I? What am I going to do?

I can’t!’ I lamented. ‘I can’t walk! I can’t ride a pony! I can’t— And I’ll never be allowed! Not after yesterday! You should have heard my da when he found out—’ Regina Magazine 163

Regina Christmas Fiction ‘Calm down and forget about your legs for a minute will you? Mum’s written a letter to your folks. Would you like to come?’ ********* Whatever Pim’s mother had written in that letter to my father worked a miracle. Daid and I met Pim, Benny her brother and Mrs Connolly under the big clock at Central Railway Station. Pim’s mother was determined to have a few words with my father and pulled him aside. Stooping slightly, with one hand on his chin, he listened to all she had to say, which seemed to have something to do with my polio. When he did chance to speak, Mrs Connolly had difficulty in hearing him. This forced him to bend a little more and raise his voice, something he never ever did.

We loaded our compartment. ’Cello, viola, bags, chrysanthemums picked from our front garden and a basket packed with a Connolly style lunch were placed inside, and Daid double-checked everything to make sure all was safe. He gave me his blessing and smiled in a rather worried way. Waving a last farewell, he carefully closed the door behind him.

The train passed through Strathfield. I bid a silent good-bye to all I had known of the world for the last few years and sighed as the train pulled across that private boundary. Pim became busy with our meal and the two of us dined upon an abundance of sandwiches, fruit and chocolate, and washed it all down with tea packed in a thermos.

Pim pulled out her knitting.

‘You’re knitting something, Pimmy Connolly?’

‘Certainly looks that way.’

‘What is it you’re knitting?’

‘Footy scarf. For Bertie. Bertie goes for the Shoremen. Gotta get it finished.’

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‘A long scarf it is.’

Pim nodded and clicked away.

‘You got brothers?’ she asked.

I shook my head.

‘Sisters?’

‘Only myself.’

‘Crikey.’

I pulled out Amusements in Mathematics and began another puzzle.

‘Say, do you normally read like that?’

‘I do.’

‘You’ll ruin your eyes if you’re not careful.’

‘You’ve a right to know I see perfectly well up close.’

Pim clicked and clicked away. The afternoon sun made itself at home, stretched out its legs and, hushed by a chugged lullaby, nodded its head against my shoulder. Dudeney disappeared down celadon hills, a blanket of darkness descended and dim forms steamed far, far into the distance…

‘Wake up, sleepy-head! We’re here and we’ve gotta to get out quick smart. Station Master’s holding the train for you.’

Pim pulled two bags along with her and bashed her way down the corridor. A yell brought in a broad man – taller than Daid – clad in jodhpurs, long boots and an old, tweed jacket. He ducked his head as he entered, held out a huge, sausage fingered hand, introduced himself as Mr Pearse and ducked out again with my ’cello. Pim returned full of vigour, grabbed her viola, stuffed her knitting in the basket and pummelled me outside. A splash of crispy freshness welcomed me to Moss Vale.

‘Have a good trip?’ asked Mr Pearse.

‘Fine, Uncle Ted. By the way, this is Lucy.’

‘Bit slow, Pim, we’ve already met. You forgotten something?’ Mr Pearse made a cursory glance of the luggage he had loaded into the buggy.

‘No. What?’

‘Kitchen sink?’

‘Go on, Uncle Ted.’ Our remaining items were loaded. Pim, after lavishing attention on the horse, sprang up and encouraged me to do the same. But I could not climb up. Her uncle lit his pipe and took advantage of that operation to assess my predicament.

‘Just a minute,’ he mumbled as he put his pipe in his mouth. Then he walked back down to the station.

With the assistance of a step stool borrowed from the station master, he helped me over to a surprised Pim, jumped up, clicked the reins and we set off at an easy trot.

‘You’re from the Emerald Isle I hear, Lucy.’

‘I am, Mr Pearse.’

‘Then you should find yourself quite at home.

I imagine it’s not as lush as you’re used to but we had some rain ordered before you came.

Hope it’s to your liking.’

It was. Oh it was! We clopped away through the township and out into a wide green world wrapped with sunshine and tied with ribboned hedges. Hidden inside were rare treasures: cottages with chimney smoke, horses in paddocks, thickets, roads of stone, tall pines and leaves of flame and gold. And an old wooden bridge and elm-lined drive undid the strings of the most beautiful parcel of all.

It was laced with lavender, rough-hewn and Georgian. There were rose bushes too, and an amiable clump of cypresses conversing in a corner. Small paned windows blinked shyly in the sunlight, and the front porch with its modest pediment, smart straight columns and double door introduced itself with friendly formality.

The door opened. A little boy with feathery blonde hair scrambled down the steps and

ran up the path. Pim leapt out and ran towards him, picked him up, swung him round, tickled him and smothered the him with loud blowy kisses. Two more children romped out and were soon tossed and tickled and kissed to their hearts’ content.

‘Lucy, you able to climb down by yourself?’ It was Mr Pearse.

The step was too low.

‘Never mind. I’ll lift you off. There you go.’

He set me down and passed me my crutches before calling Pim and the children to help him with our things. He was met by a host of eager hands which tugged our luggage inside. Taking custody of my ’cello, Mr Pearse invited me to follow. We were barely halfway down the path when Pim gave a whoop of delight.

‘Aunty Rose!’

And she dumped her viola and ran and hugged the tall, sandy-haired woman who had come out onto the porch. Warm exchanges followed before Pim brought her to me and beamed an introduction. Pim’s aunt did not seem to mind my callipers and crutches. There was an affectionate embrace and I found myself the recipient of two kisses, one on either cheek.

‘Lucy! Welcome! I’m glad you could come. I’m Mrs Pearse. You’ve had a long trip.’

I nodded and endeavoured to say something about the flowers I now handed her. Unfortunately they had arrived in a somewhat wilted state despite Daid’s efforts to wrap them well.

‘Why, they’re lovely! And they’ll revive once we put them in water. You’ll see. They’re home grown, aren’t they? What a pretty garden you must have!’ remarked Mrs Pearse as she escorted me down the path. Before I even realised it, she was helping me with the front steps. ‘Pim,’ she continued. ‘Your room’s ready.

I’ll let you show Lucy where it is. Have a wash

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Regina Christmas Fiction and come and get some tea. I’ll get a vase right away.’

Pim’s aunt left with the flowers; and her uncle, after storing my ’cello in a safe place, wandered back to see to the horse and cart. Pim bounded up the stairs, yelling out for me to follow.

One look at those stairs and I knew I was not going to get up the way I would have liked.

Fortunately no one was around. I lowered myself onto the second step and began to pull myself up backwards.

A door was wrenched open, an impatient call to hurry followed and Pim thundered down again.

‘What the dickens are you doing?’ she stopped in her tracks I could not look at her and felt all too acutely the painful presence of that old torture: that slow, studied stare. Why did she have to come out then? I heard Della’s voice inside and I tried to smile but to no avail. No smile could rise above the nervous paralysis that had seized my heart. I continued to climb in silence.

‘I’ve never seen you go up stairs like this,’ she squatted next to me and moved up in the same way.

‘You haven’t, but these are steep steps and this is the way I climb steep steps.’

Once at the top, she helped me onto my crutches, pushed me into the bathroom and ordered me to tidy myself.

A pot of tea and a plate of hot scones with jam and fresh cream awaited us at the kitchen table. Pim and her aunt exchanged family news in a manner which seemed, from its intimate jollity, more sisterly than anything else. As always with Pim, there was an explanation.

Aunt Rose was Mrs Connolly’s youngest sister and had been raised with the Connolly family since she was a baby. ‘In fact, she didn’t really become my aunt till after the War,’ remarked Pim. Aunt Rose laughed in agreement and of166 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

fered more scones.

‘There time for a ride before tea?’ Pim asked as she finished her fourth scone.

‘Just a short one, Pim,’ replied Aunt Rose.

‘C’mon Lucy, I’ll show you around,’ Pim rose from the table and took another scone.

Aunt Rose watched me reach for my crutches.

I coloured and muttered a tentative ‘Excuse me’, and followed Pim out of the kitchen.

Pim pulled a couple of apples from a barrel and took me out the back door.

‘You’ll need this,’ she said as she passed me one.

‘But ’twas a plateful of scones I’ve eaten already,’ I replied.

‘Not for you, silly, for Jezebel. She always likes an apple before she goes for a ride.’

‘Your horse is it?

‘Nah, Captain Thunderbolt’s mine. Couldn’t bring him to Mosman so I keep him here.

You’re riding Jezebel.’

I halted. ‘Myself, you’re saying?’

‘Of course,’ Pim answered. ‘Don’t know how else I’m going to show you around.’

‘But—!’ I protested.

‘Your calliper things?’ said Pim. ‘Take ’em off.’

‘How can I?’ I began to panic. ‘What about my boots? ’Tis a spanner I’ll need for to take my boots off my callipers. I’ve not a spanner in my pocket!’

‘Don’t worry, Lucy,’ Pim confidently replied as she continued to walk towards the stables.

‘Hughie’ll have a spanner. Hey! Hughie!’ she called.

A young man with a well-baked face came out as we neared the stables.

‘Pim!’ he called back as he leant against the doorpost. ‘Thought I heard you. How’re you going?’

‘Great. Got a spanner on you? Lucy here needs a spanner to get her leg braces off.’

Such was my introduction. Hughie knelt down and studied my boots and callipers as if he were examining a fetlock. Had I been an able bodied horse, I would have kicked him or at least given him a good whisk with my tail.

‘Should have something that’ll do the job,’ he remarked as he inspected the calliper.

‘Why did you have to do that now?’ I complained to Pim as Hughie ambled inside to find the tool.

‘You and your polio,’ Pim sighed. ‘Didn’t matter to Hughie. You could tell him the sky was falling and he’d work out how to fix it. He’s that sort of bloke. Look, you go plonk yourself on those bales of hay over there and get your braces off. I’ll saddle up.’

Hughie reappeared with a spanner.

‘This do?’ he asked as he passed it to me.

I took it and fitted it over the nut of the calliper. ‘Aye,’ I whispered.

‘Beaut. I’ll saddle Jezzie for you.’

Pim and Hughie conversed in their lazy drawl while they prepared the horses and brought them to where I was sitting. Soon I came face to face with Jezebel, a stately old mare whose name was a humorous mismatch for what was undoubtedly a placid temperament. She let me pat her and I pulled the apple from my pocket and fed it to her.

‘You lead her out,’ said Hughie. ‘That way she’ll know who’s riding her. You can mount her from the fence. You’re tall enough and you look strong enough. Reckon you can pull yourself up?’

Somehow, with a bit of a push from Pim, I managed to climb the fence in question and somehow, with more pushing and pulling and tugging and fumbling, I was able to climb on top of the poor mare which did not flinch, despite the clumsy operation. I gasped in pain as I stretched my right leg over the saddle.

‘You all right?’ asked Pim as she mounted her

horse.

I nodded, still not quite recovered.

‘Wanna get down?’

I shook my head.

Hughie, meanwhile, fitted my boots in the stirrups and passed me the reins.

‘You’re sitting well,’ he observed. ‘Give her a flick when you’re ready,’ he said. ‘She’ll know what to do.’

And off we set.

‘Crikey!’ exclaimed Pim with a smile as she looked across at me. ‘You know how to ride!

How did you know to hold the reins like that?’ ‘’Twas my Uncail Eachan, my Daid’s eldest brother, taught me.’

‘In Ireland?’

‘Aye, it was.’

‘Did you have a horse of your own?’

‘I did. ’Twas a white pony called Peigeasus.

My uncle taught me to ride her bareback, you know, and without using my hands. Not a chance there’d be of doing that now with my legs all gammy.’

‘Well, you’re doing all right. And don’t worry.

I’m not going to make you rise to a trot. How do you like it?’

We rode across a paddock and up a small hill.

From our knoll, Pim pointed out the neighbouring farms, the boundaries of her Uncle’s property, some kangaroos bounding towards the creek, the Goulburn road and the direction of the town, and I feasted for an age upon that rich, verdant meal with its piquant sauce of chill air, its flavour enhanced by the golden liqueur of the setting sun. ********* But I paid for my pleasure. The horse-riding expedition left my thighs so badly bruised that I could not put the callipers on when I dismounted. There was nothing I could do Regina Magazine 167

to make the pain go away. To make matters worse, the night turned cold and frosty. I fell asleep from exhaustion, and when I woke the next morning, the result was what I dreaded most: stiff, frozen, aching legs.

I could not move.

And there was no Daid to help me: no Daid to warm and ease my limbs, no Daid to tell how much it hurt, no Daid make everything right again. There was not even a Mrs Murphy.

Pim’s bed was already made. She was nowhere in the room. There was no noise to indicate that she might be upstairs, either, and it was always easy to tell where Pim was. I laid my glasses aside and sucked my pillow.

A distant clatter of hooves, a bold push of the front door and a loud query as to my whereabouts confirmed her presence. Her heavy thud up the stairs was soon heard, the door was thrust open and a sponge was thrown in my face.

‘Wakey, wakey! Rise and shine! Sun’s up!’

Pim pulled off my bedclothes. Too occupied with removing the sponge to resist, I let her do as she pleased.

‘Up we get!’

I tightened my hold on my pillow and closed my eyes. Suddenly, savagely, my feet were wrenched.

‘Mo Dhia! Cuir stop leis! Cuir—’ ‘What the devil’s the matter with you?’ Pim stopped dragging me off. My feet were thrown back on the bed and Pim thumped down beside me. I buried my head in the pillow.

One foot was raised. I winced. It was lowered again. A hand pressed the other.

‘Blimey! They’re blue with cold, Lucy. I’m getting Aunt Rose. She used to be a nurse. She’ll know what to do.’

Out she dashed before I could protest, trumpeting my predicament as she went.

That was news indeed. Pim’s aunt may have 168 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

been a kindly soul but she was a nurse. And I knew that no matter how kind they were, nurses could inflict a great deal of pain: especially the ones who knew what to do. I stopped sucking my pillow for fear I would get into trouble if I was discovered. Nurses did not like pillows being sucked. There I lay, listening in dread for voices and footsteps. Sure enough I heard them, faint murmurs and thuds which became more distinct as they approached, to the point that words could be heard. Pim was describing my blue legs to her nurse-aunt.

The door opened.

‘Lucy,’ Aunt Rose came and sat beside me. I could not move away. She placed her hand on my shoulder. Her hand was soft and warm.

‘You’re not well. Are you in pain? Did you sleep at all?’ My back was slowly rubbed, round and round, and my hair was gathered and smoothed. ‘Now let’s have a look at those legs.’ I clutched at what I had managed to salvage of the blanket. I did not want her to see my legs and feet in their weak, raw state. I did not want her to touch them. ‘Show me,’ she persevered. ‘Don’t be frightened. I’ll try not to hurt you, darling.’

Usually when people said that, torture was sure to follow. I prepared myself for the worst.

The blanket was coaxed away from my fingers.

Aunt Rose’s hands wended their way over my spindly lower limbs and nursed and stroked my dropped feet.

‘Pim,’ she whispered. ‘Go and get me a good jug of warm water, a few towels and a sponge, Uncle Ted’s goanna oil and some sulphur. Emily will show you where to find everything.

And do it quietly.’

The door was banged shut before that last word was uttered. Still stroking my feet, Aunt Rose continued.

‘It was a cold night last night. Did you have enough blankets? I’ll get an eiderdown out for

Regina Christmas Fiction “Somehow, with a bit of a push from Pim, I managed to climb the fence in question and somehow, with more pushing and pulling and tugging and fumbling, I was able to climb on top of the poor mare which did not flinch, despite the clumsy operation. I gasped in pain as I stretched my right leg over the saddle.” you. It’s nice and light and it should keep you warm as toast. In the meantime, we’re going to have to try and get you on your pins again.

We can’t have you spoiling your holiday with your legs all stiff. What a shame that would be. We’ll have an easy day today, though: a good massage, a nice hot breakfast, a little rest and maybe a short trip in the cart this afternoon. Somehow I don’t think we’ll be doing any riding today,’ she laughed a little. That was as close as I came to a scolding. ‘It’s a lovely morning outside – very cool at the moment, but it’ll warm up. Emily and Jack will be eager to play with you so you needn’t be shy of them. They’re very keen to make friends and they would love to show you their pets. Ah! That sounds like Pim.’ Aunt Rose opened the door for her niece who entered carrying a tray of supplies. Pim watched while her aunt sponged my legs.

‘I noticed you play the ’cello. Have you been learning long?’

She talked about music while she worked. They had recently bought a player piano which was a favourite entertainment, and she listed some of the rolls they had and sang a few tunes to see if I recognised them.

‘My, your legs are looking better already and I need to make your breakfast. Lucy, the most important thing is to keep warm. Sprinkle some sulphur in your socks. Put on a couple of layers – you’ll feel cosier that way. When you’re ready, put your braces on and come and get something to eat. Pim will stay to help you.’

‘Did I hurt you before?’ Pim took charge.

‘Aye.’ ‘I’m sorry. I forgot. What do you need?’

Upon my request, she threw socks, stockings and clothes in my direction.

‘You want help with those leg braces?’ she asked.

I sighed at the callipers which had been placed out of my reach near the wardrobe.

‘What’s up?’

‘I don’t want to wear them for ’tis too heavy they be and I’m bruised right where they do up.’

‘You don’t have to wear them, do you?

You are on holiday, you know.’

‘But I can barely walk without them.’

‘And by the look of you, I don’t think you can walk with them either. Don’t worry, Lucy, we’ll look after you.’

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“Usually when people said that, torture was sure to follow. I prepared myself for the worst. The blanket was coaxed away from my fingers. Aunt Rose’s hands wended their way over my spindly lower limbs and nursed and stroked my dropped feet.”

‘But what about the stairs?’ I asked. ‘I cannot get down the stairs, Pim.’ ‘Never mind the stairs,’ Pim replied. ‘I’ll get Ted. You finish getting ready and wait there.’

There was no chance to object. Pim dashed down and charged outside sending the news of my difficulties to the four winds. In due time there was movement back on the staircase, a knock on the door and Mr Pearse entered with his niece at his heels.

‘Gotta bit of a problem here? You’ll be right.

We’ll carry you down. Ready?’

He deftly scooped me up and took me from the room. As we departed, I cast an anxious look after my crutches which had been left abandoned next to my bed.

Down to the dining room we went.

‘Well done!’ welcomed Aunt Rose as I was lowered into my chair. ‘Right on time. I’ve just put the tea on the table.’

She returned to the kitchen and came out with a plate.

‘Here you are, Lucy,’ she said gently as she laid my breakfast before me. ‘A nice, hot breakfast.

Enjoy it!’

With an affectionate hug of my shoulders, she left me to my meal. Try as I might, however, I could not touch it. There on the plate sat a plump potato cake coated with oats, cooked on the griddle and cut into four. And there were two goodly rashers of bacon with large, ruddy 170 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

heads and well-streaked tails. My soul swelled with the waves of salt tinged memories that crashed hard upon the rocks of my heart. All the ugly, unsightly, uncomely things of seven years past broke and splintered and scattered their debris across its shore. And deep beneath the waters was a face that looked up and smiled at me – the face of a fiery-haired fairy with eyes of glistening green, a fairy who had once filled our home and hearth with laughter and love – and who now lay cold and dead in a deep dark grave in Galway.

14 ‘Lucy? You awake?’

The voice was all wrong. It was friendly enough, but it should have been light and crisp with a pretty Scots lilt.

I shivered and pulled the rug closer to my chin. The rug was wrong, too. It was knitted in bright coloured squares. Where was Mam’s cashmere that she used to coddle me on a winter’s afternoon? Where was my red flannel blanket?

‘Lucy? You all right?’

‘Who— who are you?’ I made an effort to speak in English.

‘It’s Pim, silly. You know, Pim from school.

Pim who plays the viola. Pim who took you riding yesterday. Philomena?’

‘Why do you be here?’ I asked.

‘What do you mean?’ she replied. ‘Where do

Regina Christmas Fiction

you think you are? Heaven?’

All the green began to make sense. ‘For a minute I thought I was Home again is all,’ I sighed.

And before I could stop them, I felt the tears well in my eyes.

‘I don’t believe it!’ said Pim. ‘We’ve already bailed out the dining room, you cried so much. You’ll flood the garden too if you’re not careful. Crikey.’

She wrapped her strong arms about me.

‘I thought you’d gone stark raving mad,’ she continued. ‘You sat at the table, staring at your bacon, with tears streaming down your face and none of us could make sense of a word you said. In fact, it took us a while to get anything out of you that sounded like the King’s English. Then you held on to Aunt Rose for dear life and wouldn’t let go until you fell asleep. You’ve been asleep ever since.’

‘Asleep? Arrah!’ I muttered. ‘And what time is it now?’ ‘’Bout four-ish. Just a minute.’

Pim excused herself and left me puzzling over the sinister deadness that seemed to trouble my legs. I leant over and tried to rub some life into them.

There were voices. I looked up but I could only make out the blurred forms of two figures coming towards me.

‘Lucy, darling, it’s Mrs Pearse,’ began Pim’s aunt as she sat. She took my hand and guided my fingers around what turned out to be a pair of eyeglasses.

‘I’m short-sighted, you know,’ I murmured as I peered at the black frames. ‘Mam says I’m short-sighted, like my Da.’ I put them on but they did not help much. Salt had crusted over the lenses and they were greatly in need of cleaning.

‘Dear me,’ remarked Aunt Rose, ‘they’re not much good, are they? I’ll go and wash them

for you. And what about something to eat?

You must be hungry.’

She left me with Pim who had sat down at the far end of the wicker settee.

‘Pim,’ I whispered. ‘I cannot move my legs.’

‘Have you gone that barmy?’ she replied.

‘Lucy, you had polio. Your boots and crutches are down here.’

It was reminder enough. Memories torrented in – of falling, of long months in a plaster coffin, of endless days with my legs fixed in splints, of being unable to move or do a thing for myself – and with them, another wash of tears.

‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Aunt Rose. ‘Pim, would you mind taking the tray?’ I felt myself cradled in Aunt Rose’s arms. ‘You’ve had a very sad time,’ she said as she stroked my hair. ‘Well, darling, you can cry all you like, provided you don’t miss any more meals. Will you do that for me?’

Somehow I managed to laugh, sniff and sob simultaneously.

‘Good,’ replied Aunt Rose. ‘Now Lucy, hold on to me and I’ll sit you up and fix your pillows.’

She made her final comforting touches, smoothing out the rug and wiping my eyes with her handkerchief. ‘Your specs are nice and clean now. Put them on and have something to eat.’

Aunt Rose placed before me a bowl of Colcannon.

‘Here we go again,’ said Pim as she watched more tears fall.

I sniffed and wiped them away.

‘Another favourite?’ observed Aunt Rose.

‘Aye,’ I replied.

‘Then honour your dear mother’s memory and eat it all up. What would she say if she saw you push it away?’

I wiped my eyes and reluctantly began to eat.

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Then I realised I was very hungry.

‘Good?’

‘Aye.’ And she continued to sit by me, her warm, freckled face with its wide-spaced, hazel eyes content to follow the passage of every mouthful.

‘Do you look like your mother, Lucy?’ she asked as I finished.

I shook my head.

‘Spitting image of her dad she is,’ commented Pim. ‘Do you remember her?’

‘She was like a Botticelli, only real,’ I closed my eyes and pictured Mam’s face before me.

‘Mam had soft hair – spun from silk of the finest copper-gold – and skin like alabaster and emeralds for eyes. They used to laugh, her eyes. You’d look at her and she’d laugh them at you, and her mouth would twitch before it smiled and while you talked as well.’

‘Like you do?’

‘I do that now?’

‘You’re doing it right this very moment,’ smiled Aunt Rose. ‘Save that your eyes are not laughing quite as much as I imagine they might.’

‘Aye, well she was always scolding and teasing and laughing and telling all in one breath was Mam. But she was gentle, too, and of an evening when I’d snuggle close to her by the fire or when she put me to bed, she’d listen to all my sayings and doings and we’d read together – she loved poetry my Mam did – and we’d say a prayer for this and that.’

‘You have lovely memories of her, Lucy.’

‘Aye. Only— well, that’s all they are,’ I sighed.

‘Memories.’

‘No,’ corrected Aunt Rose, ‘they’re more than mere memories. They’re your memories.

They’re part of you, and you are part of your mother, darling. How lucky you are to have those memories! Now, it’s getting chilly and I need to check the roast. Pim, can you find out 172 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

from Ted when he plans to be in?’

Pim strode off towards the sheds. Aunt Rose, meanwhile, picked up my boots and fitted them on my feet.

‘Aunt Rose?’ I asked.

‘What is it, Lucy?’ she answered with a smile.

‘Would it be putting you out if I called you Aunt Rose?’

‘Not at all, Lucy.’

‘You see, you’re as close as I’ve come to a real mother in years. I’d forgotten what it was like.’

Aunt Rose gave me another hug and passed me my crutches. Together we walked back to the house.

‘Did your mother nurse you through the polio, Lucy?’

I shook my head. ‘’Twas the nuns did. Mam died before that. The polio happened around Easter time and Mam died before Christmas the previous year. During the Troubles it was she died.’

A concerned look passed over Aunt Rose’s face. ‘The Troubles? In Ireland you mean? Was she killed, Lucy?’

I nodded slowly. ‘Aye, she was.’ And then I spoke of something I had never spoken of before. ‘’Twas the Goddam Black and Tans shot Mam.’ Aunt Rose opened the back door and studied me very carefully.

‘You didn’t see it happen did you, darling?’

Again I looked into her trusting face and nodded.

This time, however, there were no more tears left to cry. ‘’Twas the day I got my glasses,’ I began. The delicate smell of roast lamb and rosemary wafted through the kitchen. Aunt Rose bade me continue while she tended to the meal.

Her youngest little one, Angus, ran in and she gave him a hug hello. He helped her collect some potatoes, piling them into her apron.

Regina Christmas Fiction

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Regina Magazine 173

These they brought to the table. Aunt Rose put her son on her lap, passed me a knife, took up another for herself and we began to peel. ‘’Twas a half day from school that day, it being the feast of the Immaculate Conception, you know,’ I resumed as I peeled. Somehow, peeling potatoes helped the words come out.

‘I walked home for lunch and then Mam and I we walked to the occulist for to collect my speclaí. After that we had a pot of tea and some apple cake at Mrs O’Malley’s tea shop.

That was when Mam told me we were going to have another baby. She was so happy about it, you know. Then Mam decided to show me how bright and beautiful the world looked now I could see properly, so we visited all our favourite places. To the Claddagh we walked, and we stopped on the bridge to watch the swans on the river. We made a visit to the Blessed Sacrament at St Mary’s church, which has fine mosaics of fish in the sanctuary, and I said a prayer for the new baby and counted the fish. After that, we set off for home. ’Twas getting colder, so we stopped for to buy some chestnuts. We were near the college when we heard the lorries. That was when Mam remembered the curfew. Well, we kept close to the wall and one lorry rolled by. Full of soldiers it was and they shouted things at us that didn’t sound very nice. Mam blessed herself and pushed me behind her. Another lorry drove past. Then some shots were fired. A soldier on the truck fell down as they fired shots from that truck. Mam dropped the chestnuts and fell back on top of myself. I remember her looking up at me and trying to smile or tell me something, and then it was as if the world stopped still. Not a word I said for a long time after that. Not for months did I speak.’

I raised my glasses and studied the potato to make sure I had not missed any skin or eyes. I took up another potato, and in an effort 174 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

to stop my hand from shaking, began again to peel.

‘You know, I’ve never told anyone how it happened,’ I said as I looked across at Aunt Rose.

Now it was Aunt Rose whose eyes had become wet.

‘Not even your father?’ Aunt Rose kissed and stroked the top of Angus’ head.

‘Not even my Daid.’

‘And so your father has looked after you all these years?’

‘Aye.’ ‘All by himself?’ Aunt Rose queried in a very puzzled way.

‘Aye. After I fell sick there was talk of putting me in a home but my Daid wouldn’t hear of that. He did everything for me when I came out of hospital. I used to beg him to make my legs work again, so he’d rub them the way my Uncail Eachann used to do to the horses and he’d wrap them in the warmest, softest wool he could find. Every morning he’d do it, and again at noon when he came for lunch, and then some more before I went to sleep at night. He wore himself out with it. Some mornings I’d wake up and find him asleep in a chair next to my bed, still in his clothes. But he got me walking again. He found me some crutches and taught me to use them. And then he helped me walk without them. He’s never given up on me, Aunt Rose.’

‘But he couldn’t have done all that alone, Lucy.

Doesn’t anyone else help out?’ ‘’Tis an old cow comes to help from time to time,’ I admitted, reluctant to disclose that piece of information.

‘Oh. And does the old cow have a name?’ Aunt Rose arched her brows. ‘Is it Buttercup?’ ‘’Tis Mrs Murphy,’ I smiled. Buttercup was hardly the name to give Mrs Murphy. ‘And she doses me on martyrs, miracles and castor oil every chance she gets.’

‘I see,’ mused Aunt Rose with a knowing smile.

Regina Christmas Fiction ‘Well, I’m sure she tries her best.’

‘Well, ’tis a poor best,’ I mourned. ‘And it’s not the same as having a real mother.’

‘No it isn’t,’ Aunt Rose agreed. ‘But I gather you haven’t been the best of patients either?’

How did Aunt Rose know that?

‘It’s not easy to nurse someone whose sorrow is greater than their sickness, darling,’ she observed. ‘You can help their ailments but many a time you cannot help their hearts. And there are times when it seems you can do nothing right. I was in a war, too, you know.’

‘You were?’

‘I was twenty-two and I went to France to do my bit for the boys on the front. I nursed. I had to tend young men with the most horrific injuries. Some had lost their sight, others had lost limbs, still others were badly burned and all were terribly disturbed by what had happened. I did what I could – we all did – but mostly it was the girlfriend who remained true, the wife who was strong and faithful, the family that stood by that really brought them through.

‘I remember there was one such fellow,’ Aunt Rose took up another potato, ‘a trooper who’d been thrown from his horse. The poor lad had lost both his legs and things were looking pretty bleak for one arm. He was in tremendous pain and we had to keep him heavily sedated. But he was so very gallant – deeply courageous – particularly given his injuries.

We used to call him Romeo because when he was conscious he was always talking about going home to his Juliet,’ she smiled. ‘It was the one thing that mattered to him. I wrote her in the end: one of those difficult letters breaking the news and offering encouragement. She took the trouble to write and thank me. It was a lovely letter, and the look on that trooper’s face when I read him her reply, assuring him she would keep the home fires burning, was a joy to behold. I always hoped it worked out

for Romeo and Juliet. For others, unfortunately, such loving support wasn’t there at all, poor fellows, and it was very hard indeed,’ she sighed, ‘for everyone.’

‘Aye,’ I agreed. ‘I’ve given Mrs Murphy a rough time, you know. Would you believe that when I was in a wheelchair I used to prefer wetting my pants to having her help me? And that was all because I wanted Mam. It upset my Da when I did that. But I’m telling you that if it ever occurred to Mrs Murphy to make fatai cakes, then things might have been a little different.’

‘I dare say,’ Aunt Rose’s eyes twinkled. ‘And what if there had been no Mrs Murphy?’

While I had often wished that the cat had eaten Mrs Murphy and the Devil eaten the cat, I had never considered the implications as seriously as I did now. I bit my lip in thought.

‘We’d better get those potatoes on or they’ll never be done in time,’ Aunt Rose interrupted my speculations.

Angus gave a shout when Pim galloped in with Jack on her back and Emily prancing alongside her shouting for her turn. It was the children’s tea time. But before the kitchen was turned into a corral, Aunt Rose intervened with firm indications that there were to be no horsy hands at the table. Contention arose over this for Aunt Rose and Jack had very different standards regarding cleanliness. Oblivious to dirty fingernails and patches overlooked, Jack insisted his hands were clean. His mother was not going to be contradicted and gave him marching directions under my supervision to make sure he did the job properly before he took his tea. While Aunt Rose, Pim and I prepared the rest of the vegetables, Emily and Jack chatted about their day around the farm. Squeals of delight followed when Pim galloped them upstairs and saw to baths and bed.

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Regina Christmas Fiction

“I did what I could – we all did – but mostly it was the girlfriend who remained true, the wife who was strong and faithful, the family that stood by that really brought them through.”

During my long sleep, the Pearse family apparently had taken the initiative to move all my things down to the parlour. There I went, to find that the room had been transformed into a very charming albeit makeshift bedroom, with clean white sheets, a pretty quilt and piles of pillows on the day-bed. On the little table beside it was a vase of flowers and a lamp. Amusements in Mathematics had even been found and placed beside the vase, ready for me to read. I also noticed my nightgown neatly folded and tucked under the pillows, and my callipers propped against the end of the bed.

I did my best to dress for dinner, found ribbons and pins for my hair, re-braided it and tried to put it up.

Whoever had been responsible for arranging the room had decided that I could do with some literature, for another book lay underneath my Dudeney. I picked up what turned out to be Pride and Prejudice, read the first two lines and dismissed it with a sneer.

Pim appeared.

‘Hey look at you,’ she said. ‘Nice hair.’

‘And you really think that now?’

176 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

I asked as I returned my glasses to my nose.

Pim had thrown on a velvet frock in place of her jodhpurs.

‘Of course. A bit old-fashioned, but nice.

C’mon. Dinner’s ready.’

Uncle Ted and Hughie, scrubbed up and ready to dine, rose from their chairs when we entered. Aunt Rose had prepared a splendid roast and it was followed by treacle pudding.

Conversation flowed around the Easter Show, the polo and the farm; around the children’s escapades and family memories. Then we gathered round the player piano and sang song after song from Gilbert and Sullivan.

But there were other songs which were had that night: songs which had no sound; songs which were sung with the eyes and heart. Aunt Rose had a special message for everyone, but when she sang, she sang for Uncle Ted, and when he sang, he sang for her. Hughie and Pim sang as they shared the pedals on the pianola, and I sang my own songs for the mother and father and home I had loved so much.

A child of the Sixties, she hiked the Way of St James alone.

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178 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

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Regina Magazine 179

180 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

The

Try-on Wife

After 15 years, they were breaking up. And it was Christmastime.

I

stood in the spacious bedroom of the brick Mc Mansion, admiring my surroundings.

The expensive furniture. The adjoining ‘master bath’ with every imaginable luxury, all in marble. The carefully-matched carpets and silk drapes — not too girly, but elegant, sober and respectable.

Just the kind of place that a successful St. Louis businessman might lay his head every night. And well he might, it seemed. He had earned every penny, as they say.

Regina Magazine 181

The ‘Try-On’ Wife Drew would continue to sleep there, too. It was my sister who was moving out.

She was nineteen when she began working for Drew as a secretary. He was five years older, a fledgling builder in a real estate market poised on the brink of expansion. A year later, they’d moved in together, and proceeded to build a spectacularly successful business.

Megan is very pretty – slender, blonde, sweet-natured, she takes after my mother’s side of the family. I take after our dad – darkhaired, solid, hard-working. Mom tried to warn her about living together, but Megan wouldn’t hear a word of it.

Truth be told, we laughed about this in private. Bitter laughter, really. After all, our parents divorced when we were kids, so neither of them really had the right to say anything about our life choices.

As for Dad, he knew better. Never said a word.

I stood at the window, looking at Megan’s brand-new Volvo SUV outside, gleaming in the winter sunlight. This was Megan’s ‘consolation prize,’ for her non-divorce.

“Pretty nice, right?” she asked, her voice heavy with the unaccustomed irony. She was packing, her matching Coach luggage overflowing with the loot of her 15-year relationship. A dozen expensive handbags lay on her bed.

I picked one up, a $2000 beauty – all creamy beige luxury.

Megan snorted. “That was for Christmas last year. About the same time he started dating Gabriella.” She turned away from me then, but I thought I saw a tear gleaming in her eye.

I sighed.

Gabriella was pregnant. That happens pretty fast when you’re 23 years old, especially if you’ve been having sex regularly with some else’s boyfriend. Like Megan, Gabriella is a delicate blond. Unlike my sister, Gabriella 182 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

hasn’t been on the Pill for 15 years.

So, Drew and Gabriella will be married in a local mega-church next Saturday. Gabriella is barely showing, so her dewy youth will be resplendent in her strapless gown – a feast for the eyes of the 500 invited guests. Their wedding photos would be taken against ‘a stunning backdrop of brilliantly-lighted holiday trees,’ too.

We knew this because Drew had inadvertently forwarded Gabriella’s breathless e-mail to my sister, in the chaos which had immediately ensued after his own email announcing his upcoming nuptials to his live-in girlfriend, my hapless sister.

This was uncharacteristic of the careful, business-like Drew. But he was so giddy with joy these days that Drew was making mistakes.

This morning on the way out, he’d forgotten himself for a moment with Megan.

Would it be okay, he’d asked, if Gabriella’s gown could be delivered to the Mc Mansion that day?

My sister, normally the accommodating type, had drawn the line there.

No, she told Drew. Not until she moved out.

“Can you believe they’re going to use my dressing room as a nursery?” Megan said suddenly. I stood in the doorway of her pearwood-lined, ultimate luxury statement. The hushed lighting softly illuminated the thick carpet, now heaped with a messy pile of designer shoes.

To be honest, I was awash in a sea of gut-wrenching emotions, myself. Rage at Drew for his callousness. Pity for Megan in her helplessness. Indignation at how this was how it had to be.

And something else, too. Something even more uncomfortable.

On the way over in her Volvo, Megan had said something uncharacteristically big-sister like.

Regina Magazine 183

“You don’t think this can happen to you, right?” she’d said, backing out of my condo driveway.

I was taken aback. Far more street-wise, I’d made sure I got my degree in finance. At 29, I had a good job and a stable relationship with Brendan. We were talking about moving in together, in fact. Though now obviously wasn’t the right time to discuss this with Megan.

“I was a ‘try-on’ wife, you know,” she’d continued quietly, as the beautiful car swept through the suburban streets decorated for Christmas. “Drew is a conservative guy. He wasn’t sure he could handle a wife and kids, so he used me to see whether he could do that.”

“And now he is. All ready, that is,” I replied bitterly. I hated conservative rich guys.

Brendan wasn’t like that. He was a regular guy, proudly wearing his scruffy beard to his night job in a cubicle – answering IT questions for idiot baby-boomers.

“I thought about leaving him when I was your age,” she said simply. “I really wanted kids. And he didn’t.”

“That sure has changed,” I snapped. Drew was positively glowing with pride when he’d stopped by the Mc Mansion.

How could a man change so much? It wouldn’t have been so bad for Megan now if she did have kids. At least she would have something, now, besides a pile of luxury goods.

“You know,” Megan said quietly, “I know three other women who this has happened to.”

Three other women stupid enough to become a rich man’s plaything, I thought. As if reading my thoughts, she smiled sadly and looked at me.

“They didn’t even get a Volvo. Two of them 184 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

had to pay for the movers themselves. All of them are in their mid-thirties…”

“You can have kids until you’re fifty now,” I said stoutly. “You have time.”

Megan smiled sadly. “I’m thirty-six years old.

The chances that I will find a man who wants kids in the next couple of years are pretty slim.”

“So, you don’t need a man,” I retorted. “You can get pregnant without one.”

Megan didn’t say anything. We drove in silence for a few minutes. When she finally spoke, her voice was choked with emotion.

“Listen to me. I am in no shape to have kids on my own. I’ve been on the Pill for 15 years.

It would take me months of hormone therapy to get pregnant now. I am a secretary looking for a job in a bad economy. A secretary that’s moving back in with her divorced mother.

Get real. This sucks.”

“I know it does,” I said soothingly, trying to head her off at the pass. “You’re just upset now.”

“No,” Megan replied sharply. “This is about you, too. Don’t tell me you’re not thinking of moving in with Brendan.”

“Brendan’s different,” I said shortly. The conversation was going in the wrong direction for me.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“You don’t know.”

“Mind your own business.”

Her breath drew in sharply at the rebuke. I was instantly apologetic.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t want to talk about Brendan now.”

She’d sighed, then, and said no more, as we pulled into the driveway of the Mc Mansion.

The front door was beautifully decorated, by Megan, of course, who never failed to make a fuss over the holidays.

The ‘Try-On’ Wife

“The hushed lighting softly illuminated the thick carpet, now heaped with a messy pile of designer shoes.”

Five stressful hours later, my sister burst into the library, where I was packing books.

“You think you can’t get him unless you let him move in with you, right?” Megan said suddenly, her arms full of linens.

“No,” I said reflexively. Though, of course she was right.

“And you think you’re better than me because you went to college, too.”

“No!” I replied heatedly. But Megan was too far gone to listen. She dropped the linens on the polished wooden floor. Her face was red.

“You think that because you and Brendan are ‘equals’ that none of this can happen to you. You think I’m just a dumb blond who got used by a rich guy. You think your college degree will protect you. Well, let me tell you something, little sister. Your job can disappear like that. Your man can, too. And you will be just like me. Middle-aged. Alone. No

kids. Nothing.”

Mascaraed tears were coursing down her face, but Megan didn’t care. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“You think you’re above all this, right? Smarter than me?”

I didn’t quite know what to say. Of course, she was right. I gulped, and took the plunge.

“So what should I do? Wait until he asks me to marry him? We’ve been together for a year…” “… and if he hasn’t asked, then he’s not gonna just because you are living together! TRUST ME! I KNOW THIS!” I looked at Megan, surrounded by the detritus of her life. It was true. The tears came to me, unbidden.

“What the hell am I SUPPOSED TO DO?” I shouted suddenly.

The question hung in the air between us.

Regina Magazine 185

The ‘Try-On’ Wife Megan shook her head slowly. She sighed heavily.

“Listen, I know exactly how you feel. You think somehow your love will be different.

That everything will work out. And you keep taking the Pill, because it’s the responsible thing to do. And you work, and you hope... lemme tell you. It’s NO GOOD. And Brendan is no different than Drew. They get married when they get to a point when they feel like they can support a family. IF they get to that point,” she looked at me meaningfully.

“Brendan works for a living!” I said hotly.

“Yes. But does he earn enough to support you and a baby?”

“No, but I’m not expecting him to.”

“So, you think that you’ll do it all, right?

You’ll get pregnant when Brendan comes around to the idea. You’ll take the hormones.

Endure the pregnancy. Have the baby. Then you’ll go out and support the baby – and maybe Brendan too, right?”

I knew she was right. But I really didn’t want to admit it. I stood there glaring at her defiantly, tears coursing down my own cheeks.

“Listen,” she began, more kindly. “I know you’re scared. You’re at a make-or-break point with Brendan now, right?”

“Y-yes,” I said, miserably.

“You think it’s time to get to the next stage, right?”

“He does, too,” I said helplessly. “It’s his idea.

He says we can save money. And be together.”

“Right. This way he doesn’t have to worry about you going out on him. And his rent bill goes down by half.”

I looked down, ashamed. Brendan had said almost these exact words.

“Plus, you’ll probably do his laundry, right?” she laughed humorlessly. “Look, I’m not saying Brendan is a bad guy. I’m saying he’s 186 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

a baby. And he doesn’t want to step up to the plate.”

“H-his parents are divorced, too,” I mumbled.

Megan let out a sudden peal of laughter.

Shocked, I gaped at her.

“Everybody’s parents are divorced!” she exclaimed, her eyes twinkling with merriment.

“That’s no excuse for not growing up.”

Later, as we drove slowly through the dark, snowy streets, Christmas lights sparkling at every door, I found myself wondering aloud how many unhappy couples lived behind the facades of these Mc Mansions.

“Who knows?” Megan shrugged, carelessly.

“What are you going to do now?” I asked, curious.

“Now?” she echoed, sighing. “I’m going back to Mom’s. Back to where I started when I was nineteen years old. And I’m going to Mass.”

“Ch-church?!” I spluttered, taken aback.

“W-why?”

“Because I want to. I’ve started going to a Latin Mass, downtown.”

“In downtown St Louis?” This was not normal for my suburban sister. I would’ve bet she could count the number of times she’d been downtown by herself on one hand. “Why there?”

“Because it’s beautiful,” she sighed. “And right now, I need some beauty in my life.”

I thought about that. I could understand how she was feeling. The ugliness of the stripmalled road we had turned onto suddenly seemed oppressive.

“Why don’t you come with me?” she said quietly. “We could go, for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. Bring Mom, too.”

Maybe I will. Though Brendan probably won’t want to come.

But maybe I will, anyway.

“Studying online has been an excellent choice for me. It has enabled me to have flexible hours to complete the set readings and activities and the opportunity to regularly meet in a virtual learning audio sessions with other students.

The lecturers ensure that students are on track and are extremely supportive.”

—Linda Perrett, Assistant Principal (Secondary) St Joseph’s School, Stanthorpe, QLD “JPII Online Courses are wellorganised, well-scaffolded and well-supported, enabling all those undertaking the course to access the material at their level of understanding and build on it…

Not only do the courses help you in building up your own knowledge, but you come away from each session with practical ideas and numerous teaching resources ready to trial in the classroom with your students.”

—Luke Burton, Deputy Principal and Religious Education Leader, St Mary’s Primary School, Mansfield, VIC

The John Paul II Institute for Marriage and Family, Melbourne, offers an online Religious Education Graduate Certificate.

This course employs a sacramental approach to learning with an emphasis on the practical. Students attend weekly online discussions and have access to a wide range of age-appropriate resources provided electronically for classroom and catechetical use.

International students welcome.

www.jp2institute.org

Regina Magazine 187

R

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188 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

Regina Magazine 189

Regina’s Christmas Fiction

Merry Christmas,

Catholic Girl ~ This is my fourth Christmas as a divorcee.

F

our Christmases ago, my so-called husband left me with a broken-down house, a five year old Chevy van, a basement full of water and an utterly empty bank account. Plus a frightened seven year old, and a very angry teenaged girl.

When he threatened us, I made several trips to the police station to beg for help. Finally, one cop took pity on my terror. He solemnly advised me to change our locks and to keep the outside lights on.

Also, never, ever, to let my ex back in the house.

“If he, ah, does something you don’t like once he’s inside,” he told me, burly arms crossed in front of him.

His warm brown eyes were sympathetic. “Then our hands are tied. Because you let him in. You understand my meaning?”

I swallowed the tears welling up in my eyes, hating my weakness. Yes, I nodded soundlessly. I understood. Despite the fact that I was a highly educated professional, I understood. My husband, an alcoholic, a vain actor and a cowardly sociopath, was a man. He could hurt me, even rape me. I understood that.

Officer Donzella looked concerned, and handed me his card. “You call us if he shows up again, okay?

We’ll be watching the house.”

I didn’t have to, thank the Lord. My ex disappeared as soon as the divorce was final.

190 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

“He just dove into the bottle and disappeared, right?” said my best friend Jan. Which is about right, I suppose. After all those years of marriage to a raging alcoholic, I was just about finished, myself.

That was four years ago.

Today, my basement is dry. Our house is repaired.

We own a sensible, un-sexy car. After 18 months without health insurance, with great relief I began work as a bank manager. I continue to moonlight on weekends as an SAT tutor.

I have a very Catholic housekeeper. She cleans and cooks, and makes sure the kids are taken care of, closely guarded. Nancy is in a Catholic girls’ high school. David is in a small Catholic grammar school.

My nightmare, hard to shake off, is that he will kidnap them.

I work seven days a week to maintain this life. After a year on Paxil, I now control my stress and anxiety with exercise. I sleep soundly at night; we have two dogs who bark at the least provocation, and they have slept quietly by our sides for about two years now.

Nancy has been accepted at a very good university for next year. David is a happy-go-lucky 11 year old. I have righted the ship.

My best ally in all of this has been my Catholicism.

This may seem surprising to some; our parish was

Regina Magazine 191

Regina’s Chistmas Fiction the center of a national scandal when our priest and his boyfriend the wedding planner were arrested for stealing $1.4 million. Many people lost their faith in the wake of that scandal, among others.

I did not. My faith was not dependent on our suburban parish; in fact, I had years before begun to attend a Latin Mass in a small chapel at a nearby nunnery.

It was the Gregorian chant that attracted me. But it was the sound Catholic orthodoxy of the brilliant priest that kept me returning, week after week. There, my kids learned to sit still during Mass. Soon, they learned the thrill of the Sacred. And finally, safe in the arms of Mother Church, I could let down my hair and cry for hours in the little chapel. The Sisters understood. Occasionally, I would be aware of the rustle of their habits as they genuflected in the chapel to visit their Lord.

So you can imagine my surprise last week when Officer Donzella – sans police uniform – knelt in the pew opposite us on the first Sunday in Advent. Of course my kids had no idea who he was, but afterwards at the coffee and doughnut hour, I approached him.

“Hello!” I began, all smiles. I wondered if he would know me.

He stood drinking coffee in his pressed khakis, looked at me blankly for a moment, then blinked suddenly in recognition.

“Well, hello!” he said, smiling back. David – now an altar boy — was distracted by the doughnuts and his Sunday playmates. Nancy was swallowed up in a group of laughing, homeschooled teenagers.

“I’m surprised to find you here!” Officer Donzella blurted out, then looked abashed.

I laughed merrily.

“Why?” “Well, ah, you didn’t seem like the Catholic type to me,” he said, truthful, but reddening.

“No?” “Well, maybe ‘Catholic.’ But not actually Catholic, if you know what I mean. What’s it called? ‘Catholic In Name Only’?”

I let out a peal of laughter.

“I’m pretty Catholic,” I replied wryly.

We both laughed.

“Yeah?” he said, and I noticed his eyes were twinkling.

192 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

“Yeah,” I said straightforwardly. “Actually. So what are you doing here?”

“I live here. Always have,” he said, and then said grimly, “But I had enough of that business at the parish…”

“No kidding,” I agreed, and waited.

“Somebody told me the nuns have Mass here,” he said. “About the music…”

“The chant?” I supplied.

“Beautiful,” he shook his head, a little dazed. “Outta this world.”

“Yes, it is,” I ventured. There was a short silence.

“So, no more trouble from your ex?” he asked tentatively. “I mean, it was a few years ago…”

“No more trouble,” I said, and knocked on the wooden table next to me. He chuckled again. I noticed that his eyes wrinkled, and wondered how old he was.

Somewhere around my age, I decided. Early 40s.

“These your kids?” he asked, indicating Nancy and David, now bearing down on us, dressed to leave.

The after-Mass crowd had dispersed.

“Yes,” I said shortly, suddenly shy. Then I recovered myself, quickly shook his hand, and turned to go. He did not try to stop me.

Jan was unimpressed.

“He’s a cop,” she intoned. “They are all nuts.”

“Oh come on, he goes to the Latin Mass.”

“Great. So he’s a religious nut,” she said. “Even better.”

I resisted.

“I like him. He’s the first guy I have liked in years.”

“Yeah? So what’s his story? Does he have kids?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, listen, just be careful,” she said. “Go have yourself a little fun.”

“I don’t want to have a little fun,” I said, somewhat piqued. “I want to get married.”

I couldn’t believe I actually said it.

Jan eyed me uneasily.

“Really? After all you’ve been through? Why?” “I don’t actually know, except that it has something to do with the way a life ought to be lived.”

“Ought to be lived? Sounds awfully judgmental to me.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what I am,” I countered, chuckling. “Call me ‘judgmental.’”

I surveyed myself critically in the mirror before leaving the house tonight. I am still slender, and

somewhat stylish, in a muted kind of way. My shoulder-length brown hair is attractively cut. My face is unlined, except for the deep furrow the stress of recent years has worn across my forehead.

I sighed and wrapped a warm red shawl around over my ankle-length black woolen coat. It would be cold tonight at the lighting of the town’s Christmas tree.

As David and I walked by the police cars stationed at the edge of the crowd, I suddenly heard a voice call out.

“Hey!” Donzella detached himself from his fellow cops.

He was imposing in his policeman’s winter coat, his weapon on his belt. As I looked up at him, our breath fogged the frosty air.

“Will you be at Mass at the convent on Sunday?”

“Uh, yes. Yes, we will.”

“Me, too.”

We eyed each other awkwardly.

“Okay, so we’ll see you there!” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. David tugged on my arm, and I turned to go.

“That’s Trevor’s dad,” he stage-whispered as we walked away. “Trevor Donzella, in my class.”

My heart constricted.

“Yeah?” I replied, crestfallen. The Christmas lights around me suddenly seemed garish, and I shivered in the cold.

“Yeah,” echoed David, “Gotta go!” He patted me solicitously on the arm, and took off to join his friends at the base of the tree.

“Um, listen, would you like to have coffee or something afterwards?”

I sighed, and turned around. Officer Donzella was standing behind me.

“Listen, I’m not sure.”

His face fell. When he spoke, his voice was hurt.

“Oh sure, I understand. It’s okay.”

“I’m not sure you do understand.”

“Y-you have plans. It’s okay.”

“No, I don’t. But I also don’t know anything about you.”

His face softened, and he grinned.

“I’m a cop. A Catholic cop.”

“Right,” I smiled in spite of myself, then shook my head. “But that’s not what I mean.”

His face grew hard.

“You don’t date cops?” He said. The words fell like stones between us.

“No,” I returned, with some annoyance. “I don’t date married men.”

“Married? What makes you think I’m married?”

“My son goes to school with your son.”

“Okay, I’m divorced. Like you, right?”

“I’m divorced, yes. But I wasn’t married in the Church.”

Regina Magazine 193

“ So you will have coffee with me after Mass at the convent?”

He nodded.

“Does all this really matter to you? I mean, I just asked you for coffee.”

I sighed.

“You asked me if I was Catholic. The answer is yes. It matters to me.”

“Okay, so I was married in the Church. We had one child. She left me for another guy. Now we’re divorced. It’s a mess, like everybody’s life is, these days.”

“Right. And you are going to Mass?”

“Yeah, I felt like Trevor needed to go to Mass. So when I don’t have him, I go anyway.”

“Why?” “Why?” he echoed, puzzled. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Because Mass is where you’ll find a nice girl?”

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he held my eyes steadily.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s what I want. Though that is not my main reason for going to Mass.”

I nodded. To my intense annoyance, my heart was beating wildly.

“What did you mean when you asked me if I was Catholic?”

He chuckled.

“I didn’t think someone like yourself, uh, would be. I mean, with following the rules and everything.”

I didn’t understand.

“Following what rules?”

He took a deep breath.

“You’re a professional woman. Professional women don’t believe in the Church’s rules about, well, stuff.”

Before I could answer, he added in a flat tone, “and they don’t date cops.”

194 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

He snickered, then, without humor and turned to look at the multicolored lights of the Tree.

“What are you talking about, the rules?” I was incredulous. “You mean the rules about sex before marriage? Well, you’re wrong. That’s exactly how Catholic I am. I don’t date married men, and I don’t have sex before marriage.”

I was way louder than I meant to be. People were looking at us as they passed. His face was unreadable, but I thought I detected a glint of humor in his eyes.

“Would you date a cop with an annulment? Without having sex before marriage?”

There was another silence. Then I lifted my chin and smiled gently up at him.

“I would be honored to date a cop. With an annulment. Under the usual conditions.”

The grin spread across his honest face, lighting up his eyes as it went.

“OKAY, then! So you will have coffee with me after Mass at the convent?”

I smiled broadly. “Yes, but only at the convent…”

“Until I have an annulment?”

“Yes.” “Even if it takes months and months?”

“Yes.” Pure joy lit his face. Or maybe it was the tears in my eyes that made it seem so. In any case, we stood there on the pavement under the Christmas lights, grinning at each other like fools.

“Merry Christmas, Catholic girl,” he whispered, gazing down seriously into my eyes.

“Merry Christmas,” I replied, and turned to intercept David. “See you at Holy Mass.”

I wrapped my red shawl tighter around me, and together with my son, headed for home.

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196 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

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She Lost Her Purity Ring at Christmas Living in ‘The Graveyard of Hearts’

By Beverly De Soto

200 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

M

y name, in case it’s important to anyone, is Grace. I just turned 30 years old, and I have lost my Purity Ring.

What, you would like to know, is a ‘Purity Ring?’

Well, you wouldn’t ask this if you were brought up as I was, in an Evangelical Christian family. We spent a lot of time at church, and when I was 16 I took part in a little ceremony wherein my sister and I pledged our purity to God, publicly. Yes, I stood up in roomful of other girls and pledged my virginity to the Lord, until the time might come when I would find the husband that Jesus intended for me.

That was almost half my lifetime ago. Today, I and my fellow Purity Ring wearers live in what I call ‘a graveyard of hearts.’ We prayed earnestly for a husband. We worked hard at honing our domestic skills.

We sought each other’s advice and solace when, one after another, the men we loved chose other girls. Or simply wandered away. Or whatever.

What must God be thinking? I know it’s not my place to question the Almighty, but what, actually?

Is. He. Thinking?

My sister Heather does not have my problem.

Oh, she is man-less, too. But she has Jaden, my 8 year old nephew, a product of her ‘relationship’ with a fellow student at the state university she attended briefly before becoming pregnant. Jaden’s dad told her to ‘get rid of it’ – a singularly monstrous response, if I do say so myself.

But to my sister’s credit, she did not. Unsurprisingly, Jaden’s ‘dad’ disappeared immediately.

My sister has not lived happily ever after, in case that’s what you’re thinking. She’s got a job that doesn’t pay much, so she lives with my folks. She goes to a different church, though, where the coffee is better and ‘people aren’t so judgmental,’ as she likes to say these days, in a particularly severe tone of

voice. I think she’s talking about the fact that she is quite fat now. Or maybe it’s the tattoos.

So, if you’re thinking that I am jealous of my sister, think again. Exasperated, maybe. But not envious.

Sometimes she doesn’t come home until very late at night, my mom tells me, worriedly. Apparently, my sister’s Purity Ring is lost somewhere, possibly permanently.

This is not to say my life is any great shakes. My Master’s Degree in Library Science earns me about $125 more per week than my sister makes working the baggage counter at the airport. (To be fair, Heather doesn’t have student loans to pay off.)

I have a completely different attitude towards my job, though. I am proud of being a librarian. My dream was always to combine being a librarian with being a wife and mother. I know this is politically-incorrect, but my faith in the Lord allowed me to hold this dream, even when most of my friends from college have shrugged it off. In fact, I would say that my Purity Ring has allowed me to keep this dream alive.

Every time I looked down at my hand, that simple silver ring on my right hand was a reminder of the vow I made as a teenager.

And now I have lost it.

I should be clear. By the time I lost my Purity Ring, I had also lost faith in the idyll of Romance that I held for so long. Call me ‘jaded,’ but what I have seen of my friends’ lives has made me quite cynical.

There’s beautiful Rose, who married fat little Jason, who of course is very rich. Then there’s successful Jessica, who moved in with Spencer a few years ago.

She tries to act like the fact that he hasn’t asked her to marry him doesn’t matter. Oh, and how could I forget my BFF Christian? She has divorced Tim, whom she says is ‘boring.’ (She decided this after she went off the Pill to try and get pregnant, strangely.

Regina Magazine 201

She Lost Her Purity Ring at Christmas Now she’s dating a married man.)

By the time I lost my Purity Ring, I had also lost faith in the idyll of Romance that I held for so long.

Call me ‘jaded,’ but what I have seen of my friends’ lives has made me quite cynical.

So where is God in all this, anyway? My friends and my sister have all screwed up their lives, as far as I can see. And I am now without my Purity Ring.

The strangest thing is, I don’t know where I left it.

Did I take it off to wash my hands someplace? I honestly can’t recall.

To tell the truth, I can’t even recall what my ‘purity’ actually was. I haven’t had sex. Haven’t allowed myself to get sucked into the maelstrom of emotions and betrayals that everyone else has. The few men that got close enough simply disappeared once they learned about my purity vow. It seems they didn’t value my purity.

Did I, for that matter?

All I knew is that it was December, again. And I was, once again, alone — with my purity.

So two weeks before Christmas I did something highly uncharacteristic. I went out to a bar. (Yes, with Christian, who is normally alone on weekends, as her ‘significant other’ is of course otherwise engaged.)

We took turns talking about our troubles, drank Cosmopolitans, and – again uncharacteristically — wound up talking with some guys at the bar. One of them was a good-looking and intelligent house painter.

Dominick was of medium height, in his middle thirties, with a shock of unruly brown hair. He wore a clean shirt under a black pea coat, and he had an engaging grin.

Unfortunately, maybe because it was Christmas, before long our conversation turned to God. Now, I don’t spend a whole lot of time in bars. So maybe that is why I let the conversation get steered in this direction.

He was, it turned out, a Catholic. But he was warm, and funny. And he seemed to be intrigued by my Christianity.

At first, I thought that he might be good for Heather.

Unlike most of the guys she ‘dates,’ Dominick is a successful house painter, with a couple of offices in two cities. He specializes in corporate work, he told me. Also, his friend announced with a wicked grin 202 Regina Magazine | Christmas Special

that Dominick’s live-in girlfriend had moved out, so that he was a ‘free man,’ available to date.

“Actually,” Dominick sighed to me quietly, once the laughter died down and Christian and the other guys went back to their own conversation. “She moved out about a year ago. I have had plenty of time to think.”

And then I forgot all about Heather. I don’t know what came over me. I just blurted it out.

“I’m sworn to keep my virginity until I get married.”

I couldn’t believe it. I don’t think he could, either. We just looked at each other.

“Well,” he began carefully. “That’s interesting.”

But he didn’t look away, like he was looking for an escape route. In fact, he cocked his head and regarded me with interest.

“So you don’t feel like you have to take a guy for a ‘test drive’ first?”

Now it was my turn to be shocked.

“N-no.”

He nodded carefully.

“I’ve been going to a Latin Mass. Do you know what that is?”

I shook my head, slowly.

“Never heard of it.”

“Yeah, well, it’s made a big, ah, difference in how I see things.”

I didn’t know what to say. That’s when he read my mind.

“You don’t think a house painter is on your level, do you?”

It must have been the Cosmopolitans. In vino veritas.

“Um, it’s not that.”

He saw right through me, and laughed like it was a great joke. Through my embarrassment, I liked the way his eyes crinkled. He had a manly laugh.

“Honestly, it’s not that!” I protested, feeling stupid.

“Young lady, I am a house painter with a master’s degree in philosophy,” he declared suddenly, and drained his beer glass. He placed the empty glass carefully on the bar.

“Really?” I said. It came out in a squeak.

We both laughed, then.

“Okay, so now we have discussed sex, religion and social class,” he said, grinning. “I’d say that’s not bad for a few minutes at the bar.”

Between the Cosmopolitans and the conversation, I was feeling a little light-headed, so I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room. When I came back, Dominick was waiting alone, for me.

“The others went to shoot pool,” he said, pulling up a bar stool next to him. I sat down, somewhat primly.

“I don’t want you to think that I announce my, uh, convictions to every stranger I meet, “ I began.

This made Dominick laugh again.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, piqued.

He looked contrite.

“I just want to say something,” he said.

His eyes were hazel and kind.

I waited.

“I’m really glad there are women in the world like you, still,” he said gravely, looking with great seriousness into my eyes. “I actually thought there weren’t any, any more. I want you to know that I respect you.”

I took a deep breath, and swallowed hard, suddenly aware that ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ was playing in the background.

“Do you know what a ‘sacramental marriage’ is?” he asked me.

So, that was Friday night. Dominick invited me to his church for Sunday Mass. When I arrived, he was waiting for me, shivering in a suit and tie in the snowy morning air. He stood somewhat self-con

sciously, waiting, as I ascended the steps of this incredibly beautiful 19th Century architectural gem in a run-down neighborhood that I have, frankly, never dared to enter.

Inside was a riot of gilding and color like I have never seen before. Saints glowed from stained glass windows. The pews were filled with Catholics – lots of young people, and families with many children.

Many of the women wore lace mantillas.

By then, I had noticed that my Purity Ring was gone.

Somehow, inexplicably, ever since the night I met Dominick, it was no longer on my right ring finger.

And my Purity Ring has not re-appeared, either.

I can’t understand it, at all.

But I don’t miss it too much, really.

Perhaps it has served its purpose.

As I now have a man who prizes my purity.

And my immortal soul.

Photo Credit: Yume Delegato

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Consecration

By Beverly De Soto

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n

Article By: Patrick Michael Clark Photo Credits: Library of Congress

T

hey were tearing down the last of the scaffolding from the towers that rose above the overgrown park. For three years Davey and Connor had watched the workmen climb the ladders and catwalks that surrounded the face of the new cathedral. Each day it grew taller, until the it looked as though it would swallow the rows of houses and trees along the streets that flanked its massive walls. Now the years of scraping, hammering, and waiting were at an end.

“You think the Pope’s gonna come to town then?” Davey asked his friend.

“Course not, ya dumb twit,” Connor replied. He always thought himself to be the more sensible one, “It’s just gonna be Bishop Van what’s gonna open it.”

“You think we’ll get to go to the openin?”

“If ya got the money for a ticket.”

They dodged a trolley as they crossed the street.

“I’m guessin’ all the rich folks are gonna ride to Mass now,” Davey observed.

The electric streetcars were the proudest thing the city had next to its statue of General Lee. Now the Irish of Richmond would have something to be proud of, even if they thought their bishop a sour Belgian who didn’t like them very much.

Of course these venerable institutions were of little concern to Davey or Connor, both just having turned thirteen that earlier in the summer. The streetcars were simple enough, they could usually get away with jumping fare and riding for a couple blocks before having to rush off, but most of the jumping they actually did was to get out of the way when one of the trolleys came flying down Gamble’s Hill.

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General Lee was another matter. Although there always seemed to be a revival preacher slamming the Catholics for worshiping the Virgin Mary or some such thing, the old Protestant city kept it’s own communion of saints and heavenly hosts. Of course the greatest of these was Lee himself, who sat astride his horse atop a Monument Avenue pedestal, looking southward for all eternity.

The graying veterans with walking sticks and their sons in stiff collars paid Lee and his lieutenants homage every Decoration Day, that solemn April festival when the city would wrap itself in the Stars and Bars. Last year Davey ventured to ask his Grandad Fergus if he had ever seen General Lee. The ancient man had worked in one of the city’s iron foundries during the war and lost an arm in a rolling machine a year afterword. Now he kept court on the porch, where he would sit in all weathers

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with a less than decent cigar and yesterday’s newspaper.

“I never saw the man hisself, but his boys tried to burn down the foundry when they was leavin’ the city in sixty-five. So we went an’ stood with our rifles at the gate to stop them from torchin’ the works. The grey coats sawed us with our rifles and didn’t even thry, they just made for the western road out of the town,” Grandad Fergus told him.

“Why were they gonna do that?” asked Davey.

“Aye, they didn’t want the Yankees to use it against them. But the shootin’ was finished a week lather. Would’ve ruined all that fer nothin.”

The Irish didn’t venerate the sainted Lee as did their Protestant neighbors. It wasn’t a matter of being poor; there were poor whites south of the river that turned out for every

veterans’ parade. There were even a few old Irishmen living up at the Soldier’s Home, but Davey and his friends paid them little notice.

The withered men mostly played dominos and attended their comrades’ funerals.

Davey’s people were still a people apart.

For the grown folk it was in their trades, laboring in the tobacco factories and flour mills along the river. Such was Davey’s father, whose education consisted of some rough grammar school and the Catechism, and who returned to the house on Gamble’s Hill each night world-weary and smelling of the warehouse.

For the children it was in their schooling. The parish church, the parish school, and their parish cohorts, were the formation for the sons of St. Peter’s Cathedral on Grace Street and Sacred Heart Church on Floyd Avenue, with Davey and Connor proudly counted among the former. To those temples their

fathers gave a portion of their wages and their mothers gave hours of needlework and silent bead-counting.

The announcement itself came at the end of October, on the last Sunday of the month. Davey watched Father O’Reilly climb into the marble pulpit that rose above the sanctuary at St. Peter’s, the vicar always combed his oiled hair straight back until it would glow in the light of the gaudy stained glass.

“The boys of the parish school have been asked by Bishop Van de Vyver to help serve the Consecration Mass for the new Cathedral on Thanksgiving Day,” Father O’Reilly projected over the heads that stuck up from the crowded pews, “I know we’ve all been eagerly awaiting the opening, and I’m sure the magnificent edifice will be filled to bursting come the day.”

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Consecration

Davey remembered when they laid the cornerstone three years ago. Bishop Van had acted abominably and gotten the boys from Sacred Heart to serve the ceremony on their own. But he had a chance this time.

“I can’t be guaranteeing anything,” the priest said, folding up his heavy gold vestments back in the sacristy, “It’s up to the Bishop in the end. He’ll be deciding this week I suppose. ”

“I served Mass for him before,” Davey offered.

“Still you’ve also got the boys over at Sacred Heart to think about. The Bishop wants the parishes to cooperate. If you ask me I’d say that’s a creative way of doing penance.”

The priest locked the cabinet with his great ring of keys and Davey went outside to meet his family.

“Ah we never had any fine cathedrals back in Ireland,” Grandad Fergus said over his shaving bowl later that day. Davey held the cracked mirror up so the old man could scrape his withered face, “When John Bull come over he went an’ gave ‘em to the Protestan’ church. We’ve some big churches now, but not back when we was livin’ in Connemara.”

Grandad Fergus wiped his razor and pitched the dirty water into the street. The two sat and the old man lit a half-smoked cigar. It was early evening and the sounds of the last trains at the Chesapeake & Ohio depot could be heard pulling out of the station, the weathered colors of the houses along the street changing in the fading sunlight.

“I suppose this means we’re Americans now,” Grandad Fergus said.

“‘Cause of the new cathedral?” Davey asked.

“Aye,” the old man puffed his cigar, “We made a propher place for the Almighty and a propher place fer ourselves. That must suffice fer something.”

On Monday the boys from St. Peter’s Academy filled the yard to take their lunch. The

school was near the center of town two blocks up from the church, the once-stately brick made dull by soot and the stone entrance worn down by time.

Many things had changed since the great clock at city hall had rung in the century. The smoke and din of a city had overtaken the quiet neighborhood that had been there when the Xaverian Brothers first arrived to take charge of the school. Outside the boys could hear the carriages and streetcars rolling along the pavement, joined by with constant sounds of men and beasts at work.

There were a little over two hundred students at the Academy, and even though they took their lunch in shifts, the small court would always be packed and noisy. Davey found Connor on his usual stoop by a side door. Connor ate peanuts for lunch every day and he would always grind the shells into the dust of the yard.

“Are you tryin’ to serve the Mass on Thanksgiving Day?” Davey asked.

“Nah,” Connor replied, “You know how early you got to get up?”

“Father O’Reilly said you’d have get up at four ‘cause it’s gonna start at six.”

“Ya see? I’m not gonna waste my day off from school doin’ that.”

“It wouldn’t be wastin’ it,” Davey said.

Connor scoffed a bit and cracked a shell between his fingers.

“It’s the same thing day in and day out.

Dunno why ya like it so much.”

“I just feel like it’s important,” Davey countered.

There was silence for a moment and Connor looked about to see if anyone was within earshot.

“I’m not lookin’ to waste my time servin’ at the Mass, but them Sacred Heart boys already think they gotta claim to the place,” he chewed a peanut, “There’s a brawl comin’ up and we gotta get ready.”

“Where?” Davey asked.

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Consecration “Monroe’s Park. It’s on the edge of their territory. We’ll get word in a couple days.”

The school bell rang and the crowd of boys began heading inside.

“We’ll give ‘em what fer. I know I can count on ya, Davey,” Connor said rising from his spot, brushing the crumbs off his shirt.

“Yeah, course,” Davey said.

When the last school bell on Friday afternoon came the St. Peter’s boys crossed town and tramped up Grace Street to the park, the looming towers of the cathedral growing taller ahead of them. The twelve of them were stoic as they came to the chosen place. They had been festering all week, waiting to get at their rivals for real or imagined offences.

“You sure we gotta do this?” Davey asked his friend.

“Course we do. You wanna be there on Thanksgiving Day, right?” Connor replied.

Of course he did. If it had to be done, then it would be done.

They reached that jungle of a park and stood in something of a line, the cathedral staring down at them. In the shadow of the great church was Colonel Wickham’s statue, a proud bronze figure in a Confederate uniform. One of the Sacred Heart kids was leaning on the base of the monument, shaving a stick down to nothing with a penknife. Tipping his head up he locked eyes with Connor.

“You gonna say somethin’ then?” the kid asked.

“Aye,” Connor said, “You tell your friends to shove off, Jimmy Tyrone.”

Davey quickly spied around the park.

Other boys, with their school ties tucked into their white shirts, were making their way towards the statue. There was soon a crowd of them behind their captain, who was still jousting with Connor.

“We got first rights to the big church,” Jimmy Tyrone said.

“Says who?” Connor snapped.

“Says Bishop Van, and the angels, and the saints.”

At that Davey felt something bristle past the side of his head. The piece of paving brick struck Jimmy Tyrone on the forehead, and two seconds later he was grappling with Connor.

Then as if someone had called the dance, the boys each found a partner to grapple with.

Davey got a couple hits in before a round Sacred Heart boy with sandy hair placed his head between the concrete gutter and a puddle of city water. From this position he could see Connor tearing into Jimmy Tyrone and the rest of his companions throwing themselves into the upside-down brawl.

“Hell and damnation!” a man’s voice thundered from somewhere above the noise and bloodletting. The sandy-haired kid let go of Davey’s head and he was able to pull himself up from the muddy gravel.

“Get off him Connor McCracken!”

Davey looked up and could see Father O’Reilly pulling Connor away from his opponent. The black-robed priest towered over the bloodied kids. He was livid.

“What was it you were fighting and clawing at each other about?” he demanded, hauling Connor to his feet.

“They was here to ambush us!” Connor stammered, “It was them that started it.”

“Well it don’t matter who started it, I’m going to finish it.”

Davey sat outside one of the confessionals in the new cathedral. The St. Peter’s boys were together, with the Sacred Heart crew keeping to themselves a couple pews back. Fr. O’Reilly was dispensing justice from inside the box.

It was vast place on the inside. High above them was the plaster ceiling, unpainted and carefully patterned, held up by giant marble columns. At the far end of the long sanctuary the crucifix atop high altar rose to face the assembled, a gilded Christ expiring with his arms outstretched. The windows were darkening with the coming of evening.

Davey sat there for some time. His bruised and muddy comrades were muttering to each other Regina Magazine 213

Consecration and cursing the boys sitting behind them. After looking at the ceiling for a while he became dizzy and shut his eyes. That seemed to make the time slide along faster. Soon it was his turn.

He went into the confessional and heard the familiar voice.

“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”

Davey took a second to gather his thoughts.

He was surprised at how quiet it was inside his head.

“Whenever you’re ready then,” Fr. O’Reilly said.

He had been in the box last week, though it now seemed like an eternity ago. After explaining that in so many words he just said what came to mind.

“I rode a lectric streetcar without payin’ the other day. I looked too long at Lily McLeod when she was out hangin’ up her ma’s laundry I got to thinkin’ nasty thoughts about her. Then I got into a fight with one of the kids from Sacred Heart outside the church here and I slugged him a couple times.”

“Why did you do these things?” the priest asked.

“Cause I didn’t want to walk home in the rain.

And I didn’t mean to think about Lily like that or anythin, it just happened.”

“And the last one then?” questioned the priest.

“I wanted to serve the Mass on Thanksgiving mornin.”

“And did you think that tearing and kicking at the boys from Sacred Heart was going to be helping in your cause?”

Davey was silent. The priest went on.

“Sometimes we can do the wrong thing for the right reason. I could throw by body away, could have myself burned thinking I’d become a martyr, but if I haven’t got charity in my own heart it’s useless.”

“Was I tryin’ to be a martyr, Father?” asked Davey.

“You look like one enough.”

The priest gave him absolution and some Our Fathers. When he was finished with the prayers Davey stepped through the great doors of the cathedral and walked back to Gamble’s Hill alone.

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That coming week Davey was on the list to serve Mass at St. Peter’s before school. It was the seven o’clock and there were always a couple folks from the neighborhood in the pews, though the men of the parish would already be at work.

After putting on his cassock Davey went to light the candles and set up the altar, the church still dark in the early hours of the morning. Returning to the sacristy he went pale when he saw the figure in the room preparing for Mass.

“Good morning,” said Bishop Van in his high Belgian accent.

Davey was terrified, but managed a “hello” and waited by the door as the Bishop put on his heavy green vestments. He prayed that he wouldn’t be questioned about last Friday, but just as they were about to go into the sanctuary Bishop Van turned to him.

“They say you led the charge at the Battle of Monroe Park.”

Davey was silent. The Bishop looked at him blankly.

“Well, I’m sure you had your own reasons for that,” Bishop Van said as he went to ring the small bell in the doorway. Davey could hear the congregation rising from the pews.

“Lead on then.” ******* It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving, before sunrise on the twenty-sixth of November 1906, Bishop Van de Vyver, along with Archbishop Gibbons from Baltimore, the Papal delegation from Rome, a dozen other bishops, and almost every priest in the state gathered for the consecration. They processed to the cathedral and began the ancient ceremonies, taking five hours to complete the rites and rituals. At eleven o’clock the Solemn Mass began and the organ thundered for the packed congregation.

As the line of robed clergy and servers made their way to the high altar, Davey tried to focus.

He didn’t want to trip with everyone watching.

“The modern philosophers say that they do not like the idea of everlasting punishment in the other world. Let them rest content.

They have created everlasting punishment in this world.”

—G.K. CHESTERTON

Call toll-free 800-343-2425 or book online at www.chesterton.org.

Use coupon code REGINAFREE at checkout.

FREE BOOK WITH MEMBERSHIP

Join the American Chesterton Society today and receive a free copy of St. Thomas Aquinas. Membership entitles you to 20% off books and merchandise and 8 issues of GILBERT magazine.

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Our Lady of

Guadalupe In the bleak mid-winter of sorrow, sin, When naught ought blossom on Tepeyac mound Nor bird pick up its fife and merry sing ‘til the barren hill was by Mary crowned.

Gold-gowned and round with child, the virgin ark Bearing the true priest-king for people lost In old world’s end ‘fore Old World’s conq’ring barques Birthing iron-clad men and murdering host.

“Fear not,” she says beneath the starlit sky That robed her ‘bout, the moon beneath her feet And Son-lit, gazing down with loving eye On the children she’d come from Heav’n to greet, to bring us joy and hope amid our woes lo! winter bears an impossible rose.

- Jacob Boddicker, SJ

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The Eve of

Christmas Unlooked-for came the Son of David then, Borne in the new Ark of a virgin’s flesh: The Bread of Heaven now in Beth-lehem, Spurned from inn, from home, denied warmth or rest. ‘tis then the Virgin’s labor did begin But not to birth, nay, rather to subdue, To hold back the Messiah there within ‘til a place was found that would yield Him room.

Ah! what agony in her heart she bore: She, the last blockade to our longed-for Lord!

Soon a place was found, and on straw-strewn floor Mary fell, by all but the beasts ignored Save Joseph, who swept aside dung and hay, emptying a trough where his King might lay.

- Jacob Boddicker, SJ (1930’s photo of the Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem)

For Auld Lang Syne

I

n 1788, Scotland’s poet Robert Burns poem set to a tradi hymn. In the 250 years ‘Auld Lang Syne’ has b tionally sung at the con of New Year gathering the world, especially in

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greatest set his itional folk s since, been tradinclusion gs around n En-

glish-speaking countries.

Auld Lang Syne begins by asking whether it is right that old times be forgotten; it is a call to remember long-standing friendships. Deeply nostalgic in tone, it also evokes for those who know the tragedy of a Scotland cut

adrift from her ancient Faith in the fires of the Reformation five long centuries ago. It is fitting then that at the end of 2015, REGINA takes us on a sentimental journey through achingly beautiful Scotland -- for auld lange syne.

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REGINA

Three Sons of Scotland Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?

The story of Scottish civilisation begins fifteen centuries ago, when a group of twelve Christian monks, led

by St. Columba, set sail from Ireland to the wild coast of Scotland. The Ireland they were leaving behind was a land of civilisation, stability and safety.

Scotland was foreign, hostile, unstable and dangerous.

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Should old acquaintance be forgot, and old lang syne?

The monks were led by St Columba, a great man of letters, a writer of hymns who is said to have transcribed over 300 books.

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For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne Columba died on Iona in 597 AD and was buried by his monks in the Abbey he had founded. It was his monks and the generations of religious after who civilized Scotland, eventually building great monasteries and centers of learning throughout the land.

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We’ll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

For 1500 years the Scottish Clans of MacCallum, Malcolm and Robertson have proudly traced their ancestry to the original followers of Columba and his monks – the earliest Christians in Scotland.

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And surely you’ll buy your pint cup! and surely I’ll buy mine!

Scotland was proudly and fiercely Catholic for a thousand years until David Beaton became the Cardinal at ancient St Andrews in the early 16th Century. Beaton lived openly and ostentatiously with his mistress and their many children.

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Beaton had a young student burnt at the stake in the university town, an act which galvanized John Knox, a Catholic priest who watched the horror.

Father John Knox then incited a mob which pillaged the magnificent St Andrew’s Cathedral. The iconoclastic rioting eventually set off a religious conflagration that swept through Scotland.

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And we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

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CARDINAL DAVID BEATON was murdered and his body hung outside the window of his castle by his bedclothes.

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For Auld Lang Syne

SCOTLAND’S MONASTERIES WERE LOOTED and almost completed destroyed, leaving gaunt ruins like this Augustinian convent in St Andrew’s

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We twa hae run about the braes, and pou’d the gowans fine, Today, the cardinal’s castle is a massive ruin on Scotland’s wind-swept eastern shore.

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But we’ve wandered many a weary foot, since auld lang syne Born into a poor cottager’s family – the kind once supported by Scotland’s Catholic monasteries – Robert Burns had a turbulent life.

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REGINA

By the time Burns wrote ‘Auld Lang Syne’ 250 years had passed, and the Catholic Church’s moral hegemony had been wiped out. Burns became a Mason.

Burns’ first child was born to his mother’s servant, while he was embarking on a relationship with Jean Armour, who became pregnant with twins. Burns signed a paper attesting his marriage to Jean, but her father “was in the greatest distress, and fainted away”. They were eventually married and had nine children, only three of whom survived infancy.

Burns accepted a position as a bookkeeper on a slave plantation in Jamaica.

He had fallen in love with a Mary Campbell and planned to abandon his family and emigrate to Jamaica with her. She died of a fever before this could happen.

Burns never could raise the money for his dreamt-of passage to Jamaica, though he had several mistresses afterwards, at least one of whom bore him a child.

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And we’ll take a right good-will draught On the morning of 21 July 1796, Burns died in Dumfries, at the age of 37. The funeral took place on the day that his last son Maxwell was born. His widow appealed for help to support his children through his literary friends, but financial support was many years in coming.

Through his 12 children, Burns has about 600 descendants alive today. Singing Burns’ song on New Year’s Eve very quickly became a Scots custom that soon spread to other parts of the British Isles. As Scots, English, Welsh and Irish emigrated around the world, they took ‘For Auld Lang Syne’ with them.

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For Auld Lang Syne

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