Hail
Mary Full
of grace The
Lord is with thee Blessed
art thou amongst women And
blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus
The
words glowed in the night air, tiny sparks dancing behind my three
year-old eyelids. It was light and dark all at once. It was shivering
and it was heat. The scent of burning wax; my mother’s worry
lines joining hands; a small wooden cross and a small wooden man with
arms spread out in welcome.
The
seeds flew — fell — and took root in the rich soil of my
messy hair.
The
sower, worry lines relaxing in the candlelight, opened her eyes and
smiled.
Our
Lady of Lourdes Grotto
The
sign stands tall and proud at the foot of the staircase. Clutched in
one hand is a tourist map. In the other: a candle, bought from one of
the children who fill the streets with shrieks of laughter.
The
Filipino sunlight is honey pouring into the cracks. Sweet
suffocation; humidity presses in on all sides, a mask of cotton wool.
One
hundred steps lay ahead of me. I begin to climb.
Hail
Mary Full
of grace The
Lord is with thee...
“Prayer
hands, prayer hands, everyone!” cried my teacher. “In a
straight line!”
Thirty
little steeples bobbed up and down on the way to the school liturgy.
Thirty little steeples filed through the double doors and broke
momentarily to settle into the back row.
Twenty-nine
little steeples turned towards the altar; the clumsy rubble of my own
bouncing across the floor as I twisted and turned, peering through a
sea of shoulders, catching only glimpses.
The
rubble echoed. Instantly, a sharp “sit still!” rapped
across my knuckles. It yanked me by the collar back into my seat.
Face burning, I sat still and watched the corner of the lectern for
the designated sixty minutes.
The
hiss
reaches my ears before I see it, unfurling against the stone steps
and tugging at my shoes.
I
greet him with my camera lens — one, two, three! His back forms
a perfect V, fur bristling —
I
leap back just in time, and continue to climb.
Hail
Mary, Full
of grace The
Lord is with thee...
“Yeah,
Father, I guess I’m mean to my friends sometimes,”:
halting, red-faced syllables. I met his eyes, and instead of hatred,
I saw kindness. Instead of disgust, I saw forgiveness.
This,
for a girl whose galloping tongue had brought poor “brace-faced”
Angelina to tears? This, for a girl whose cold shoulder had frozen
the buck-toothed Barry “Beaver” Johnson to the locker
room floor for thirteen consecutive lunchtimes? His
kindness was disconcerting. I grasped the forgiveness in clammy palms
and let it slide onto the carpet. I trembled under his gaze. I looked
away.
“Now
go back to class and say the Hail Mary ten times, hm?”
The
honey is crystallising. It falls in shards between the trees,
piercing the view of the city; now obscured by a sweaty blanket of
leaves.
It’s
pretty high up. I raise my camera, realise I will capture only
foliage.
It
is light and dark at the same time. It is shivering heat. The shards
worm their way into my skull, and for a moment, I wonder why I’m
here.
Hail
Mary, Full
of grace The
Lord is with thee...
The
words were sand in my mouth.
They
tasted like ash, coated my throat, coughing, spluttering. The
remnants of my faith dissipated in my old T-shirt encrusted,
abandoned schoolwork-lined garden of Gethsemane.
The
doctors called it depression.
My parents called it a
phase.
I called it being
really tired of how bad our society is, I’m stressed, the ice
caps are melting, I’m a horrible person, I hate that I don’t
look like all the other girls and I don’t get it — didn’t
I do everything right?
I
scrunched them into a little ball. I wielded thorns and brambles and
watched the sower’s work be strangled with righteous fury.
My
God, my God, why have you abandoned me?
Fifteen
steps more.
Fourteen
steps more.
Thirteen
steps more...
A
drop of sweat trickles down my nose — dissolving into the air
along with the honking ebb and flow, the chittering streets, the
sticky, smoky breath of the city below.
I
can’t go on! I can’t. My mind wanders to the ice-cold
comfort of my hotel room — with a horrified jolt, I realise I’m
too far up to quit now. Behind me lies an exhausting trek down the
side of the mountain. Before me lies an equally exhausting (steeper,
but shorter) trek up the side of the mountain.
Twelve
steps more...
Hail
Mary Full
of grace The
Lord is with thee...
The
words were murmured by the women around me, floating softly down and
settling into the pews. It was day seven of Novena. Gone were the
rusty Easter/Christmas-goers glancing nervously around, knees
flapping as they wondered when to stand, kneel, sit, kneel. Gone were
the nose-upturned couples sliding empty envelopes into the collection
trays. The devout survivors (and, in my case, the yawning children of
those survivors) now populated the church, prayers clutched to their
chests like strange, glowing hearts.
Mass
complete, the food was laid out, wrapped in napkins, shared.
A
lady handed me a slice of apple pie. As she moved away to the next
yawning child, a strange, glowing heart peeked out from underneath
the crust. I teased it out with my fork. It tasted like cinnamon and
butter and brown sugar. It tasted like love. I clutched it to my
chest. In its light, I saw was an open paddock gate; a small wooden
man with arms stretched out in welcome; a promise.
Traces,
traces.
Jesus’
hand was outstretched by my classmate, helping me up after spilling
my textbooks at the classroom door.
Jesus’
voice shouted words of encouragement as my best friends cheered me on
at the school sports carnival.
Jesus
stood tall and proud at the foot of a stone staircase and sold me a
candle, now clutched in one hand — a tourist map in the other.
Three
steps more.
Two
steps more.
One
step more —
Baguio
city comes alive far below.
Heaving.
Living.
I
let my candle kiss the flame of another, watch it drip slowly and
form another mountain in the candle-tray’s waxy geography. I
raise my head and meet her eyes.
Serene.
Welcoming.
The
words emblazoned at her crown read Tota
Pulchra Es Maria
Mary
is all beautiful
I
kneel.
Hail
Mary Full
of grace The
Lord is with thee Blessed
art thou amongst women And
blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus
Holy
Mary Mother
of God Pray
for us sinners now And
at the hour of our death
Somewhere
far away, there is music.
Amen.
In
a humble chapel buried in the crook of south-east Asia, I find God.
I
am a high-school student living in Australia. I enjoy writing as a
hobby and am especially interested in poetry. In the future, I hope
to continue my education in university studying for a career in
medicine.
