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May 30, 2006
Another Found Saint
I have a cherished collection of saints. Some are really not saints, at least not officially. Just some different versions of women and men in some sort of pose that caught my attention, enough for me to bring them home and carefully place them just so on a shelf.
I invision all of them comparing notes when I leave the room, perhaps just giving each other a little of their own personal stories. Not so much of why they were made, but who they lived with previously, and how was life in that environment.
Or, maybe they are just hoping I will finally clean the dust from all around where they stand.
Today, I was in a favorite resale shop when I noticed him. He was made long enough ago.... probably in the 40’s or 50’s. I picked him up a few times, only to leave him there and walk around the shop, trying to forget him, only to find that he still called to me.
I believe he is St. Joseph. I don’t pretend to know my saints, as I am not Catholic, or for that matter, part of any organized religion. I think he was the saint that protected children. I remember that brand of aspirin, or the children’s hospital I seem to recall in my home town, with his same name.
He carries a small child, who seems to be about 2 years of age and is looking as if he is asleep in the secure arms of this robed, noble being. There is also a small cross that is held in the tiny hand of this little one.
In the resale shop, there was a label on him that said he was made of chalk. I have never heard of this sort of thing. He looks like a strong, solid plaster to me, with faded ceramic fired colors from all the years he has existed. There are also a few flowers tucked in his right arm. His delicate feet are bare and show partially from under the flowing robes.
What struck me immediately, was how beaten this statue was. I knew it had been done on purpose. I turned him around to see gauges on his back as well as in his gentle face and hands. His head had been broken off, but someone saw the need to glue it back on. They even tried to paint a flesh color where the break occurred, probably showing so much of the white chalk.
Did someone anguish over a prayer that didn’t seem to be answered? Perhaps a sick child who succumbed to an illness? Some sad mother or father feeling cheated by God? How we suffer these moments. How very hard it is to loose someone we love so much. This small, well made saint, took the beating from one who had no other way to express what was felt. He did not complain. He simply boar the wounds of the living.
Perhaps I am not even close to knowing what really happened, but I knew he needed a home and some tenderness, even still.
Posted by kay at May 30, 2006 10:25 PM