Looking for Sanctuary

Greetings, ladies and germs. (Old time TV comedians said that.) Here’s this week’s offering. Go ahead and read ! ! !

Sanctuary

The little old lady was pacing back and forth in front of the church. At times through the afternoon and evening, she had been seen inside, in the nave, praying or resting, or both.

I remember it like it was yesterday. We came out after dark, along with some other people.

The little woman walked toward us, carrying a large and apparently heavy purse tenuously on her stooped shoulder.

In a trembling voice, she asked, “Can you give me a ride?” Sure, we said. Where to? “A mobile court over that way,” she said, gesturing to the southeast.

I wanted to be sure of where I was going, and with whom, but the more questions I asked, the more vague the answers became.

Cautious and evasive, she would only say her name was Mary. She wouldn’t admit to where she lived, wouldn’t give a last name.

Eventually, she decided she didn’t need a ride anywhere. “They might not want me there,” she pleaded.

This old woman wasn’t dressed for the outdoors. The temperature was dropping fast. So we all made an unspoken commitment to see it through.

Once we had determined the woman’s life could well be in danger, we could hardly just get in our cars and drive off. I was anxious to get home to my meal, to mi comida, but it certainly wasn’t going to taste good if I left there without some sort of resolution.

One person in our little rescue group knew how to get in touch with the police without the urgency implied by dialing “9-1-1.” We followed the wandering woman at a distance, being about as inconspicuous as a herd of four zebras.

The woman began making a huge circle, several blocks around – and we realized she was trying to lose us while getting back to the church.

Eventually, a kind Greeley policeman showed up and took over. Assured of the old lady’s safety – for one night anyway – we quickly said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.

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Nowadays, the church is locked at night, and the security system is actually pretty good. What was the draw, then for this woman? A shelter designed for persons like her would have made more sense.

But she wasn’t looking for that kind of shelter. The statement about a mobile home court “over there” was probably a ruse. She really wanted to be at the church, and we were thwarting her.

While puttering in the gardens, I’ve watched people as they go by St. Peter in downtown Greeley. Many, many will look up at the crosses atop the roof and make the sign.

There is a certain magnetism to the place. I see the little old man on a bicycle, a little old lady pulling a grocery cart. I see a punk -looking youth with his hat on backwards and attitude written all over his face.

What they have in common is that they take notice of the church, making the sign of the cross and kissing the fingers, saying hello as it were, to the Lord inside, in the Tabernacle, in the Sanctuary.

Most of these passersby don’t visit inside, most of them don’t attend Mass. But neither do they neglect that little salute.

A priest would probably explain that people are drawn to the Real Presence of the Lord in the tabernacle. I agree, but it isn’t that simple.

Almost ten years ago, Laura and I were drawn to St. Peter; we were even given a street map, compass directions, as it were. What we found there was inclusion, acceptance, friendship, love – and the Blessed Sacrament, all in that marvelous hundred-year-old building.

We didn’t fully understand our longing for St. Peter’s Church at first, but we came to know that the Holy Spirit was He who had given us direction.

True enough, the little old lady may have been as mad as a hatter. For sure, something was drastically wrong. She was drawn to the church for sanctuary of one sort or another.

Perhaps, because we paid some small attention to her need, she found it.

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When we got home, we shut off the car and got out, just in time to hear seven (count ‘em, seven) gunshots nearby, probably from an automatic pistol of large caliber.

Chilling. There was no report the next day of neighborhood violence. But someone certainly held a weapon of mass destruction, and the inclination to fire it seven times. Chilling.

(Note: “Mad as a hatter” means insane. “Mad” is used in the sense of crazy, not angry. In days of yore, a “hatter” was a person who made and serviced fine headwear. As part of this process, hatters used mercury on the tip of a brush – wetting the brush on the tongue. Mercury poisoning can cause insane behavior. Hence, “mad as a hatter.”)

Chloroform

Grampa Hodge went down to Deason Drug in Fort Lupton and bought a half-pint of chloroform in a brown glass bottle. I remember the skull and crossbones on the label.

Once back at the farm, Grampa caught one of the many yard cats. This particular cat had been injured in a fight, and maggots had taken up residence in her little body.

Grampa took the cat, the chloroform and a rag into the house. At the bottom of the basement stairs, he poured the chemical into the rag and held the rag over the nose and mouth of the kitty.

“What are you doing, Grampa?” two little boys asked.

“I am putting her to sleep,” he said, grumpily. Indeed, she soon slept soundly. Grampa took the little body outside and brusquely sent us away when we tried to follow. “Go away. Leave me alone.”

Grampa headed off alone to bury the cat, now out of its misery. Only time in my recollection that I saw tears come to that hard old grandfather’s eye.

The silent treatment

Perhaps someone you know gives you the silent treatment. Perhaps you use the device yourself.

Dad was a master. Aside from outright red-faced rage, the silent treatment was his best method of manipulation. Control.

Supper would be ready, and we’d be waiting for Dad. Eventually we’d hear him stomping and blowing – stomping the mud from his shoes after the walk from the bus garage, and repeatedly exhaling audibly, a proven sign of that rage.

He’d go to his bedroom to take off his outdoor clothing, then to the bathroom to wash up. Mom and my brother and I would wait at the kitchen table for his arrival.

During all of this, from the stomping and blowing to the arrival at table, he would be wordless.

We didn’t have the custom of saying grace, so when Dad sat down and began serving himself, we did the same. But no one said anything. Dad didn’t talk, so the rest of us didn’t have much to say either.

This could go on for weeks, perhaps even months. Meals weren’t a happy time for our family. “Terror” would be a good word to describe our emotional condition.

Dad was never pleased with me from those days in the late 1950’s until his death in 1998. So naturally, while we were receiving the “silent treatment” I assumed it was my fault.

I wanted to comb my hair like Elvis so I could “be cool” and “get girls.” I wanted to lower my car for the same reasons. So I presumed the silent treatment was my punishment for continuing to have those ambitions – ambitions he forbade.

Nowadays, I realize I was only one of Dad’s problems in those early times. But with the “silent treatment,” one couldn’t know that, could one?

Ask yourself if you’re using the silent treatment or if you’re on the receiving end of it. It is a particularly nasty behavior, so if you’re doing that, cut it out.

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Word of the week: Vulgate. It’s from Latin, vulgatus, meaning common, usual, with the verb form vulgare, to make common.

Though it’s also the root of “vulgar,” the Vulgate is not vulgar. It is the Latin version of the Bible, translated from the Greek, Aramaic and Hebrew by St. Jerome in the fourth century. It served as the authorized version of the Roman Catholic Church.

Next week’s word: Interlude.

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