RemembeRED: An Old World Saint in the New World

            This is a late posting for the RemembeRED prompt from the Red Dress Club. This week’s assignment was to write about a class trip, so it’s only appropriate that this be a day late like most of my college assignments. I very rarely write about religion, so there are new waters for me to dive into.

An Old World Saint in a New World

            I was trying to follow along at Saturday afternoon mass as my children squirmed in the pew beside me. I have been told by a number of my fellow parishioners that my boys are well behaved during mass. It’s kind of them to lie like that. By the end, my patience is gone and I don’t always catch what Father Larry or Father Jim has to say during the announcements. But this week there was an announcement that got my attention. 

“I have very exciting news,” said Father Larry. “Blessed Brother André Bissette of the Order of The Holy Cross will be canonized in October.” He went on to tell the parishioners about Brother André.

            I’m not the strictest Catholic in the world, but saints are one of the things I like best about my faith. The idea that someone Up There can run interference for us with the Man in charge appeals to me. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think we need to have that go-between. When I talk to God, I address my remarks directly to Him. But it’s nice to have an otherworldly advocate who has your back. And Brother André (now Saint André) and I go way back.

            In my senior year, my college choir took a trip to Montreal to sing in two basilicas. My roommates and I drove my little black Honda Prelude from Poughkeepsie to Canada with the sunroof open as we sang The Indigo Girls songs at the top of our lungs. There wasn’t enough room in the bus for the entire choir, so the director allowed us to take my car.

            We danced in nightclubs, found out that beer was cheaper than Diet Coke, discovered we didn’t like French food, got lost in a sketchy part of town, and serenaded some hockey players in the hotel elevator (they didn’t believe we were singers and we felt obliged to prove it). And of course, we sang with the choir. We sang pieces by Handel and Fauré at masses at St. Patrick’s Basilica and St. Joseph’s Oratory.

St. Joseph’s began as a humble wooden chapel built by Brother Andre who raised the money by offering students inexpensive haircuts. Today it is a grand copper-domed building—the third largest of its kind in the world. I was awed by the piles of crutches and canes left behind by those whose cures are attributed to Brother Andre’s miracles. I knew shrines like this existed, but I never expected to see one so close to home. There were places to pray for St. Joseph’s intervention for various things. I paused to light a candle at a sign that read St. Joseph patron des mourants (patron of the dying) for a friend with cancer.

We continued on to the choir loft of the Crypt church—smaller than the main chapel it seats an impressive 1,000 people. After we sang we began to look for the exit. A kindly security guard spotted us, conspicuous in our purple iridescent taffeta choir gowns (think of the ugliest bridesmaid dress you’ve ever seen and add a little more ugly and a little less flattering). “Would you ladies like to see Brother André’s heart?” he asked us.

“Sure,” we said. We really wanted to get back to the hotel, take off our gowns and find some more cheap beer, but he seemed so enthusiastic. I assumed the guard was speaking metaphorically. Perhaps we’d see an exhibit about Brother André’s miracles. The guard showed us a glass box behind a metal grate with the letters RIP sculpted on the top.  Inside was a human heart—Brother André’s heart preserved as a relic. We didn’t really know what to say as the guard looked at us expectantly. I think one of us mumbled, “Thanks for showing us this.” He asked us to sign a petition for Brother André’s canonization.

I thought about that signature when Fr. Larry told us Brother André had become a saint. I reflected on having a great time with great friends and singing beautiful music. My life had changed so much. No longer a student and now a wife and mother. I am in touch with my roommates through the miracle of Facebook. When I got home that afternoon I opened my laptop and wrote them a message, “Do you remember Brother André…”

High Five!

            Last week I wrote a post about reading the ER report about an injury my son James sustained when he was eleven months old. I had picked up the report in preparation of an appointment we made with specialist to look at his hand. This past Friday James and I ventured into Boston for our appointment at Children’s Hospital to see if anything could be done to correct the damage that was done to his fifth finger.

            First of all, you may have heard of Children’s Hospital—people come from all over the world to be treated there. Believe the hype. Everyone we spoke to—from the lady who sold us breakfast, to the parking garage cashier, to the two physicians, to the x-ray technician, was kind, friendly, patient and professional. Most importantly, they’re all used to working with kids. If James asked a question, he was treated with as much respect as any adult. 

X-ray from Wikepedia. Posted by Jason Hickey

            I thought the ER doctors had missed something when he was seen back in 2005. James’ fifth finger is very crooked. I always assumed it was a break that didn’t heal properly. It turns out that wasn’t quite the case. Look at the x-ray (it's not James' x-ray). See those little bones in between the three main finger bones (or phalanges)? Those are called growth plates. In a child of 11 months those plates are made of cartilage so they don’t show up on an x-ray. Apparently, James’s growth plate was pushed out from between his phalanges. Since the growth plate is still connected to nerve endings and blood vessels it has continued to grow and formed into bone. That’s why his finger appears to be crooked. Instead of being between two of his phalanges, it’s off to the side. Fortunately, since he was so young the finger has compensated for the displaced growth plate and the joint functions pretty well without it. 

            The doctor recommended day surgery to remove the growth plate. James will wear a cast for a couple of weeks and have physical therapy afterward. We can have it done before school starts in the fall. I’m very relieved. I was sure his finger would need to be broken, re-set, and in a cast for six weeks of so. Once in a while, I LOVE being wrong.

            I’ve been parenting these little boys for nine years now and I know being in a cast for the last two weeks of summer is going to be brutal. But at least he’ll be ready for school in the fall. Besides, James thinks it’s really “cool” to be wearing a cast. He and Owen have already discussed what Owen can draw on it. Boys!

Red Writing Hood: The Letter

      This week's assignment from the Red Dress Club was to write a piece of "flash fiction"--300 words or less using the word LIFE for inspiration. I'm revisiting the story of Michaela, a young widow I've been writing about. You can read previous pieces by clicking on the page above marked The Story of Michaela.

 The Letter

 Michaela tossed the bills on the desk, dropped the junk mail in the recycling bin, and opened the last piece of mail. It was a handwritten letter on inexpensive stationary with a return address she didn’t recognize. A baby picture fell out when she opened the envelope.

Dear Mrs. Russell,

            I was sad to hear about Mr. Russell’s passing last year. I wanted to write back then but I didn’t know what to say. He was the best teacher I ever had. Most teachers passed me along from one grade to the next—whether I deserved it or not. I was one of those kids who always did just enough to get by. My parents worked two jobs so they were too busy and tired to make sure I was doing my work.

            Mr. Russell was different. He wouldn’t accept second-rate work. He knew I could do better. He made me believe if I worked harder I could make something of myself. I was a c-minus student as a freshman. By senior year I had a b-plus average. That wouldn’t have happened without Mr. Russell pushing me.

            Three years ago I earned my teaching license and a classroom of my own. Once in a while I hear Mr. Russell’s words coming out of my mouth and I know I’m doing something right.

Last week my wife and I had our first child. I thought about giving him the middle name Peter. But it just didn’t sound right since your husband was always Mr. Russell to me. We named our son Joseph Russell Alves. I hope you don’t mind.

Sincerely,

Joe Alves

  

Wordless Wednesday: Tech Support

The boys have discovered that our friends have MUCH cooler gadgets than my husband and I have. They've been conspiring to figure out how long it will take to save up for an IPad, IPhone or IPod Touch with their allowances... all to feed their new need to play Angry Birds and Plants vs. Zombies. Sorry kids, you aren't getting one before Mommy!

RemembeRED: Twelve

            My son James injured his hand when he was eleven months old. Two of his fingers were crushed when the small table he used to pull himself up, fell down on him. We were fortunate that a plastic surgeon was on call at the time and stitched up his ring finger. His fifth finger was also injured but wasn’t given much attention because the ring finger was so severely lacerated.

These days however, that fifth finger is giving him some trouble. Writing is difficult for him and he is self-conscious of the way the finger looks. During a fever dream this winter, he screamed and cried while trying desperately to “fix” his fingers in his sleep. The next morning I asked his pediatrician to recommend an orthopedic surgeon to look at his hand.

This Friday we have an appointment at Boston Children’s Hospital. In preparation for that visit, I picked up the records of his original ER visit from our local hospital. I made the mistake of reading the report in the parking lot of the hospital. So many details of that day are crystal clear in my mind, but that clinical report written in black and white chilled me. As scary as the whole experience was at the time, I don’t think I realized just how serious his injury was until today. I didn’t really understand why they didn’t pay any attention to the lesser injury. Until I read the report, I had never heard the term “partial amputation” used in regard to my son.

I didn’t watch the doctor stitch (I had passed out while watching my husband’s hand being stitched in the ER a few years before and I didn’t want to repeat the incident). I focused on trying to console James, as he lay restrained and screaming. I rubbed his arm and shoulder and whispered, “It’s going to be okay.” His eyes kept rolling back into his head and I thought he would pass out. There were moments I prayed he would. The surgeon was unfazed and just kept working. It took twelve stitches to repair James’ finger. Today was the first time I realized how many stitches went into my baby’s tiny hand.

This post is a response to the RemembeRED promt from The Red Dress Club which asked us to fill in the blanks: “The first time I ____________ -ed after  _____________-ing.” I loved the idea of this prompt and I really wanted to write something funny. I searched my brain to think of something to write about and came up with nothing. Then today, I found myself crying in the parking lot of the hospital thinking about James’ hand. It isn’t funny and it’s rushed, but it’s from the heart.

This was taken a couple of weeks after the accident.
I keep a copy in my wallet to make me laugh when I need it.