By Luciana Ballesteros
Crimson and golden leaves crunched beneath people’s feet as they trudged through the brisk, sharp air. The skies, once clear and cloudless, were now fogged with white clouds, and the inviting aroma of cinnamon wafted on the autumn breeze. It was November first in New York City, and eight-year-old Elizabeth (known as “Betty” to her closest peers) was ambling home, casting narrow glances at the illuminated pumpkins and remnants of ostentatious Halloween decorations from the night prior. For little Betty, the meander was pleasant and predictable. However, nearing home a sudden, abrupt sound grasped her attention: the toiling of a loud, clanging bell echoing in the cold air. The noise was the roaring reverberation of a church bell, summoning the people to Mass.
“It is not Sunday. Thanksgiving is a month away, and Christmas is two. For what reason could there be a service?” inquired the prim, demure Anglican girl of herself.
Thus, bound by wild curiosity, inquisitive Betty sauntered over to an ornate cathedral, where hanging just above the ethereal, stained rose window, was the deafening, ringing bell, beckoning her to enter the church. While the rest of New York City was absorbed in terrifying festivities, this placid corner of the city was saved, in a certain sense, from the fright and horror.
Elizabeth evidently had walked into a Mass, a jubilant celebration, and an exultation of glee. It was a teeming room with not an empty seat in view, save an unclaimed spot beside an elderly lady in the middle row of pews.
She was stout and meek, with smiling, sparkling eyes, and a pliant demeanor. A sumptuous hat lavished with vibrant, profuse flowers was placed atop her head, heightening the beauty of her lustrous, white tresses. To Elizabeth, a person had never been more compelling than that hat-clad lady.
“What are they here for?” whispered Elizabeth gently to the woman. Being Anglican, Betty was wholly clueless.
“We are here to celebrate all the saints” the lady responded with equal tenderness.
The congregation, singing alongside the poignant, mellifluous choir, erupted in blitheness and jocundity. Elizabeth did not wholly comprehend what these people were rejoicing over, and yet compelled by their unwavering gaiety, she assumed the seat beside the lady and prepared herself for an hour of inexorable mirth and inexplicable occurrences.
“The saints are here, dear, for they too are celebrating,” whispered the lady quietly, with a notable sweetness in her voice. “St. Patrick could be propped up in the vault, and beside him may sit St. Faustina, holding the image of the Divine Mercy near her heart. St. Martha is in the corner sweeping the floor, and St. Lucia could be setting the candles aglow by the altar. Beside her is pure-hearted St. Agnes, cradling a lamb in her arms. St. Augustine of Hippo and St. John the Apostle are seated together, possibly discoursing compositions and literature. Dear, there over by that pew is St. Joan of Arc, donning her blinding armor, and beside her stands St. Catherine of Sienna. St. Nicholas is standing aside St. Valentine as St. Martin de Porres is restoring peace amidst his animals and those of St. Francis, who is chattering gleefully with St. Claire. How vastly diverse these people are, and yet they all share one commendable, undeviating characteristic: their ardent love of the Lord. We gather today to celebrate them, the exalted and estimable saints, who worship and praise the Lord in Heaven after having laudably done so on Earth.” With a wistful sigh she concluded her faithful description of the hallowed individuals.
Perhaps it was a child’s wild imagination overriding Elizabeth’s pragmatic mentality, or the lady’s lucid language which stimulated such an evocative image in the girl’s mind. Or perchance, this illustration was simply a truth uncovered by a vigilant overseer, for every figure from the lady’s vivid account had suddenly yet clearly come into Elizabeth’s view. The glorified souls had an air of solemnity and soberness, and yet there was a certain “aliveness” to those people, like an inexorable flame of joviality setting their hearts ablaze. Wide-eyed and mystified, little Betty gazed around the church in reverent awe, the choir singing gayly, the priest proclaiming the Truth sharply, and the congregation responding emphatically to his fierce remarks.
The Mass proceeded with the church abounding in joy and felicity, the heavenly congregation in harmony with the earthly one. By the turn of the hour, the celebration had concluded. Elizabeth was mildly bewildered at all she had scarcely perceived but, as an unprecedented fact, she was consoled by the extolled saints that were hovering majestically above her. At some pivotal point during that eventful hour, the saints had transformed into a source of comfort and consolation in Betty’s eyes. Through their ardent love of the Lord, they formed a cherished bond that transcended the limitations of time and distance.
“You will join them someday, dear,” assured the docile hat-clad lady softly to the wonderstruck girl.
“That I believe I will,” was her quiet yet confident response, for the road to sainthood is a winding, obscure path, marked by strenuous trials that test even the most faithful followers. However, the actuality is that all who are children of God are called to walk it.
