When I was a boy, I spent several weeks every summer surrounded by these religious images. They’re still there, right where my grandmother left them, in the spare bedroom of her house, where I took these photos last weekend. I thought of these images yesterday, while attending the funeral of a friend who died too young from cancer. It was a beautiful, and touching, service. Everyone was eloquent in their remembrances and tributes. And yet, after the last of these, when we all joined in the Lord’s Prayer, we used the archaic English formula: “Our Father, who art in heaving, hallowed be thy name…” Why do we do that? It’s as if the language of everyday life isn’t important enough for prayer. These stilted prayers are like the religious artifacts in my grandmother’s bedroom. Curios from an ancient past. These days, I don’t need statues to remind me that saints exist. I know they exist by the absence in my heart: my grandmother, my father… and now my friend. While I feebly struggle, they in glory shine.
Monday, February 29, 2016
For All the Saints
I posted this on Instagram on the rarest of dates, February 29, to tuck this away in a remote crevice of time...