A Blanket for the Baby

The global church will be reading Matthew this Sunday. We are in Cycle A. Thinking about this gospel and reflecting on my own story I realized that my beginning of Advent, though I was not aware, was at the Shrine of St. Therese in Chicago, Illinois. My dad, a Presbyterian, loved St. Therese and most things Catholic. He knew most of the Irish priests in Chicago and skipped pastors and would talk directly to bishops and cardinals. The one who was cardinal at the time was Cardinal Stritch and Daddy called him “Sam.” And, not having a clue that cardinals were special, I called him “uncle Sam” when he came over.

I looked up Cardinal Stritch just now. I am shocked. It seems I’m coming full circle. “Sam” is from NASHVILLE. I sat at my computer a full 15 minutes in disbelief! Cardinal Stritch, the cardinal of my elementary years, “Uncle Sam” from Nashville? God is having a hearty laugh on this one…

Back to my story…

EVERY Sunday afternoon we had the walk to St. Therese. It was not our parish. It was something special. The Shrine is a National Museum now but Mass is still celebrated and this is kept open by the Carmelites. Since my Advent began with them, maybe it is time to tell how that beginning happened. I ask you join with your stories. That is what it means to really have a Bible Study. I remember the story, only through the ritual of retelling that happens in our family.

First, let me tell you I did NOT like the Christmas story. NOT AT ALL!

One Sunday afternoon, my parents told me they had a surprise. Bundled in my new snowsuit, we went outside into a chilling wind blowing off Lake Michigan swirling with thick beautiful snowflakes. The walk was short. Climbing stone steps Daddy opened huge, glossy, wooden doors. Entering the vestibule, Daddy clapped his leather gloves together, put them in his heavy tweed coat and flicked melting snow from his wool derby. Mother stomped her feet on the rubber mat and urged me to do the same.

We walked through mottled colors spreading from stained glass while light from hundreds of vigil lights danced on gray stone walls. Daddy spotted Monsignor McGuire who joined us. They gestured to each other, and carried on in hearty whispers. I spotted lambs first. Closest to my size, these white wooly creatures were forever frozen in time. Glittering gold caught my attention as dozens of angels hung in flight above the stable.

THEN!

I saw the baby! It only had a diaper! If God was so great, and angels were dressed in gold, seemed to me God was pretty stingy with Jesus. That baby must be freezing. I did not like the way this story was going! Bolting from my parents, scrambling around the Communion rail and right to the manger I wrapped the baby in my blanket. Somewhere in the background my mother gasped. When I stood back to survey my work, I was startled. My “blankie” was no longer an appendage to my body. I had given away my dearest treasure and there was no taking it back!

The story goes that the pastor left my “blankie” there, in the splendor of that baroque setting during the whole Christmas and Epiphany season. The kindness of the man who was not terrified that a small worn blanket would ruin the ambiance of the scene has been passed on to me. It remains with me because it is the way I would like to pastor; to take each fragile moment of a person’s story and be able to react to it in a nurturing and caring way.

Pat Pickett, OblSB