Our Lady of the Lost and Found Read online

  I cannot explain why the thought never crossed my mind, not then and not since, that this person might well have been a delusional and possibly dangerous fanatic who had somehow broken into my home and was now about to either murder me or regale me with religious ravings and condemn me to eternal damnation unless I promised to repent. It strikes me now as the ultimate testament to the power of her presence that I had not a doubt in my mind about her reality, not then and not since. I knew from the very beginning that it was really her: Mary, Mother of God, Queen of Heaven, Our Lady of the Angels.

  She was not a vision or an apparition, at least not in the usual sense of these words. She was not a vision any more than seeing the fir tree in my front yard could be said to constitute having a vision of a fir tree. She was not an apparition any more than running into a neighbor at the grocery store by accident would lead me to say I’d seen an apparition of my neighbor at the A&P. She was not a fantastical specter or a figment of my feverish imagination. She was as solid and sturdy as either my neighbor at the grocery store with a cart full of food and the kids clinging to her legs or the fir tree in the front yard dropping needles and cones all over the grass.

  As I wiped off the kitchen table, I tried to remember Plato’s theory of idealism that I had studied at university, the one where he said that the table we see in our everyday reality is simply a form, a shadow of the ideal table which exists somewhere else, on a higher plane of reality to which we mere mortals do not have access. This seemed no more likely to me now than it had then. If there was a place filled with perfect furniture, surely we, who had traveled to the moon and back, would have figured out how to get there by now. I tried to puzzle out how Plato’s theory could be applied to an appearance of the Mother of God.

  As I put the real or not real place mats on the real or not real table, I heard the real or not real toilet flush.

  I could not imagine what Plato would have had to say about this.

  By the time Mary came out of the bathroom, I had toasted and buttered the bread, sliced the tomatoes, and put some black olives in a bowl. The soup was steaming and I was filling two tall glasses with cranberry juice.

  Now Mary was wearing a deep blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of black cotton pants, soft and slightly faded from many washings. Her hair was still tied back and damp dark curls framed her freshly scrubbed face. She wore silver hoop earrings and a silver and turquoise necklace. She was in her bare feet, with her runners in her hand. Her feet, I noticed, were very small.

  —I’ll just leave these here for now, she said, setting her shoes, her purse, and her suitcase down near the kitchen doorway.

  I was taking plates and bowls from the cupboard, cutlery from the drawer.

  —Here, let me do that, she said, and took them from me.

  As she set them on the table, I could smell her perfume, a mix of lavender and musk.

  —That’s a lovely fragrance you’re wearing, I said, bringing the pot of soup to the table and filling the bowls.

  —Yes, it’s new, she said. Everyone expects me to smell like roses all the time but quite frankly, I get a little tired of it. Left to my own devices, I like a change once in a while.

  —These dishes are lovely, she said, patting a plate.

  The dishes were new too. For years I had made do with mismatched bits and pieces: traditional floral gold-rimmed dinner plates donated by my mother when I left home, chunky yellow bread and butter plates, striped pink and green soup bowls, and miscellaneous saucers, cups, and mugs picked up at flea markets and garage sales along the way. When I received the advance for my latest book, I splurged and bought myself these new dishes, four matching place settings in a pattern called Mexican Blue. Each piece is white in the middle with a wide border of intense cobalt blue. I especially like the bowls, which are of the new larger, more shallow style. I think they are more attractive than regular bowls.

  I garnished the soup with cubes of sharp cheddar cheese and put the sandwiches on the plates. The green soup, the orange cheese, the brown bread, the red cranberry juice, the blue and white dishes: it all looked good enough to paint. I wished I had a bouquet of fresh flowers to put in the center of the table.

  We sat down. Mary bowed her head and said what I assumed was a small grace, a quick prayer of thanksgiving. I could see her lips moving but I could not hear the words.

  We made small talk while we ate.

  First we talked about food, nutrition, how complicated it was these days, always striving for more fiber, less fat, how frustrating it was when every week there was something else they had decided was bad for you, usually something you loved. We laughed about how we were always making, and then breaking, resolutions to eat more salad, less salt, more fruit, less sugar, and no more potato chips, doughnuts, or French fries ever again. Not surprisingly, she said she did not smoke or drink, except for a tiny glass of red wine now and again.

  She admired the kitchen which I had repainted and redecorated in the fall when I took a month off between drafts of my new novel. I needed to put some distance between myself and my words before I could go back to the manuscript with a fresh and objective eye for the final draft. I had painted the kitchen walls a soft buttery yellow with white trim. I had sewn new curtains for the front and side windows, also matching place mats and pot holders. The pots and pans, previously stashed any which way in a lower cupboard, now hung from a cast-iron rack on the wall beside the stove. Much as I loved the look of this new arrangement, it meant I had to dust them regularly, something I had not done in a while.

  —If I had known you were coming, I would have cleaned those pots, I said.

  —No need, Mary said. Don’t worry. Everything looks wonderful to me.

  —I’m glad you like it, I said.

  Then she asked after my family. She said she was happy to hear that my brother had received another promotion, that my sister and her husband were enjoying their new restaurant venture, that my oldest nephew was doing so well in his last year of high school. She was glad that my parents were making the most of their retirement and that the problem my father had had with his prostate turned out to be a false alarm.

  Then she congratulated me on the recent completion and sale of my latest book. She said she was sure it would be my best yet, even better than the others which, by the way, she had absolutely loved. I was so flattered I blushed.

  She did not volunteer any information about herself and I did not ask many questions beyond those directly involving lunch.

  —Would you like some more soup? I asked when her bowl was nearly empty.

  —Are you not fond of black olives? I asked when I offered them and she declined.

  —No, she said regretfully. I’m afraid black olives are one of those things I’ve just never acquired a taste for.

  Having been interviewed ineptly a few times myself, I am not one to interrogate another. I have been asked all kinds of questions for which I have no answers. Once, an earnest doe-eyed young woman writing an article for her university newspaper asked me, in all sincerity and with innocent expectation of a coherent answer: What is the meaning of life?

  At which point I guffawed in a most unintelligent manner and spewed my mouthful of coffee all over her, embarrassing us both and bringing the interview to an abrupt end.

  As far as less ponderous inquiries go, it has been my experience that if you ask people too many questions too soon, they have a tendency to clam up and say nothing. But if you just let them talk, eventually they will tell you everything you want or need to know.

  —Would you like fruit salad or some chocolate wafers for dessert? I asked Mary now.

  But we both decided we were too full to eat another bite. I pushed back my chair and stood up to clear the table. As I reached across for Mary’s empty plate, she put her hand on my wrist.

  —Never mind that just now, she said. I’ll do it. You sit down and relax. I’ll wash up these dishes and make us some coffee. Then we need to talk some
more. I think it’s time I got to the point. I think it’s time I told you what I want from you.

  Both her hand and her voice were warm but firm.

  I did as I was told.

  I sat back down and I waited.

  Images

  Before that Monday in April when the Virgin Mary turned up in my living room and stayed for lunch, I knew no more or less about her, I presume, than the average person living in a largely Christian country in the western world during the last part of the twentieth century. Much of what I knew (or thought I knew) about Mary was a kind of a priori knowledge, an image of her that I seemed to have always had, a picture I had acquired through no concrete or conscious means, as if it were contained in the very air I breathed, the water I drank.

  My scant factual knowledge of Mary began with what I remembered from Sunday school at Saint Matthew’s United. This was mostly Christmas and Easter stories, carols and hymns.

  I knew that Mary and her husband Joseph had traveled from Nazareth to Bethlehem to be counted and taxed by the Roman emperor, Caesar Augustus. Being very pregnant at the time, Mary made the journey riding on a donkey. I knew that Joseph was not the baby’s father, that it was God who had made Mary pregnant. In those days, I did not know or even wonder exactly how this had been accomplished. I knew that an angel named Gabriel had appeared to Mary back in Nazareth. And the angel said unto her, Fear not, Mary: for thou hast found favour with God…The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee: therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God. In those days, I had never heard the phrase “Immaculate Conception.”

  When Joseph and Mary finally got to Bethlehem, there was no room at the inn so they had to stay in a stable with the cows. There Mary gave birth to the baby Jesus on a bed of straw. Because they had no cradle, they had to put him in the manger, which was actually a feeding trough for the animals.

  Meanwhile, some shepherds tending their flocks in a field near Bethlehem were visited by an angel. Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. So the shepherds went to the stable and looked with wonder upon Jesus in the manger.

  Three wise men, who had been guided by a brilliant star in the sky, also traveled to the stable, riding on camels, bringing the new baby gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. I was never told exactly what myrrh and frankincense were, and I could not imagine why a baby would want them.

  Then Joseph had a dream in which God warned him that King Herod was looking for the baby in order to kill him. So they fled to Egypt and stayed there until King Herod died and it was safe to return home to Nazareth.

  After that we heard all about the life of Jesus, his parables, his miracles, his disciples, but not much more about his mother. There was the time when twelve-year-old Jesus was missing in Jerusalem for three days and was then finally found by Joseph and Mary, talking in the temple with the learned men. Mary knew then that her son was different. There was the Marriage at Cana when Jesus, then about thirty years old, performed his first miracle. At Mary’s suggestion but apparently with some reluctance, he turned six pots of water into wine.

  Mary appeared again when Jesus was nailed to the cross at Calvary, a word I always got mixed up with cavalry. The Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, giving in to the demands of an angry mob, had sentenced Jesus to death by crucifixion for proclaiming himself the Messiah, Son of God. Three crosses were erected at Calvary that day. Jesus, wearing a crown of thorns, was on the middle one with a convicted thief on either side. Iron spikes were driven through Jesus’ hands and feet. Over his head a sign was hung that said INRI, an abbreviation of the Latin words for Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews. Mary was there crying at the foot of the cross while her son suffered and died.

  And it was about the sixth hour, and there was a darkness over all the earth until the ninth hour. And the sun was darkened, and the veil of the temple was rent in the midst. And when Jesus had cried with a loud voice, he said, Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit: and having said thus, he gave up the ghost.

  I did not understand why this day was called Good Friday. It did not seem very good to me.

  There were many pictures of Jesus and Mary in the Bible storybooks we read in Sunday school and more on the walls of the basement room where we met while the grown-ups listened to the sermon upstairs.

  Jesus was portrayed either as a very sweet baby or as a tall, slender man with long brown hair, dark eyes, and a brown beard. Sometimes his hair was wavy and thick, sometimes stringy and limp. Sometimes his cheeks were rosy, sometimes pale. In all of these pictures, his face was noble and kind. He was often surrounded by small children and he always looked to be about thirty years old.

  All the images of Mary involved the Nativity. She was shown in various poses beside the manger, always in blue, always pale and beautiful, always smiling calmly down at her precious newborn son sleeping on his bed of straw. In these scenes there was also always Joseph looking proud, the shepherds and the wise men looking amazed, the barnyard animals looking unconcerned, and the wondrous star glowing jubilantly in the high night sky.

  At Saint Matthew’s United we never prayed to Mary, but only directly to God himself:

  Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.

  I did not know much about sin in those days. I thought trespassing was when you went onto somebody else’s property when you weren’t supposed to and so I was very careful never to do that.

  The summer that I turned eight, the whole Sunday school class memorized the Twenty-third Psalm: The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. We memorized one verse a week so that after six weeks we could recite the whole thing in unison: Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. Mary did not figure into this exercise.

  On the Christmas card we received each year from my converted cousin, Sarah, there was always a picture of Mary holding the baby Jesus. The one I remember most clearly had a pale blue background with a fancy gold border. In the middle was a drawing of Mary wearing a blue shawl and a bright pink dress. She seemed to be wearing mascara and lipstick. She cradled the baby in her arms, gazing sweetly down upon him. He was wrapped in a green receiving blanket and looked just like the Gerber baby. Below the picture, in gold script, it said: Behold, thou shalt bring forth a son. Inside it said: Wishing you a blessèd Christmas and a holy New Year.

  All the other cards we got had reindeer and elves, puppies and birds, snowmen and tin soldiers, old-fashioned winter scenes with bridges and horses. And Santa Claus, of course, in all his traditional incarnations: making his list and checking it twice, filling his sack, flying through the sky in his big red sleigh, tumbling down the chimney, filling up the stockings, sitting in his undershirt and suspenders having hot chocolate and cookies with plump Mrs. Claus. The Virgin Mary was nowhere in sight.

  After a few years, the pictures of Mary and Jesus on my cousin’s cards were replaced by color photographs of Sarah and her husband and their growing family, all of them dressed in their best clothes, standing stiffly in front of a shiny silver tree with a twinkling red star on top.

  When I was in university I had several Catholic friends. From them I pieced together more information about Mary, information which confirmed my impression that she played a far more important role in Catholicism than she ever had at Saint Matthew’s United.

  Some of the Catholic girls had laminated holy cards propped up on their night tables or taped to the wall ab
ove their beds and desks. Many of these cards featured images of Mary with long brown hair, parted in the middle, hanging straight to her shoulders where it rested in gentle waves. In these pictures, her flawless skin was very pale and luminous, her nose was dainty, her eyes were dark, and her lips were full and pink. Sometimes she was smiling faintly. Sometimes she looked very sad, as if she knew too much, as if she already knew what was going to happen in the end. She wore a white shawl over her hair and either a floor-length, long-sleeved flowing blue dress or a long blue cloak worn like a kimono over a plain white gown. Her small feet were bare. Her delicate hands were drawn in various expressive poses: pressed together in prayer, or outstretched at her sides, open and expectant, or with the right hand held palm up at her side and the left resting on her chest over her heart. Sometimes she was holding the baby Jesus in her arms. As in the images of Jesus that I remembered from Sunday school, in these pictures Mary, too, always looked young, forever no more than thirty years old.

  I learned about the Immaculate Conception which I knew was celebrated on December 8 because it was marked on the calendar I’d hung on my wall. I learned that it doesn’t refer to the conception of Jesus at all but to Mary herself having been conceived exempt from original sin. This cleared up the question of how the Conception could be celebrated only seventeen days before the birth of Jesus.

  There was one girl who always wore a slightly tarnished medal on a silver chain. When I asked her about it, she told me how in 1830 the Virgin Mary had appeared to a young nun, Catherine Labouré, in the chapel of the Daughters of Charity convent in Paris. Mary was standing on a globe with a green serpent twined around her feet. Her hands were outstretched at her sides, emitting brilliant rays of light. Then an oval frame appeared around her. Written on it were the words O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to you. Then Catherine saw a large letter M on the reverse side surrounded by twelve stars. On top of it was a large cross and below were two hearts, one pierced by a sword and the other circled with thorns. Mary told Catherine to have a medal struck bearing these images. Catherine did as she was told. In 1832, 1,500 medals were cast and sold. Now mass-produced by the millions, this is called the Miraculous Medal.