Week 13’s theme for the 52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks Challenge is “Light a Candle.” My mother-in-law very kindly remembered my grandfather this past year during our Hanukkah celebration. Both sides of our family shared some Thanksgivings together, and she recalled how my grandfather always said a prayer, and what a beautiful tradition it was. I was caught off guard. Grampy Phil, a devout Catholic, prayed all the time, at every holiday, and I never gave it much thought. I think many of us in the family, especially the grandchildren (most of whom didn’t attend church growing up) viewed Grampy’s prayers as something we had to get through before the fun part of the holiday started, like the food, and depending on the holiday either opening Christmas presents or going on an Easter egg hunt. What my mother-in-law said got me thinking about the simplicity and beauty in Grampy’s prayers. He was so earnest in his beliefs, and he offered us a moment of quiet to pause and reflect.
When I remember family Christmases at my grandparents’ house, my mind goes to the Christmas prayer, or rather about my cousin Donnie and the Christmas prayer. Before we were allowed to dig into our food, Grampy Phil had all the grandchildren gather around the table and hold hands while he prayed and lit the Advent wreath. No one in the family has the prayer written down, and I don’t remember the words, but I do remember the ceremony behind it. In the center of the wreath was a birthday cake for Jesus, which to be honest, I always found a bit odd. Stranger still, we never actually ate the yucky-looking, shriveled, brown cake. It was like Jesus had his own little gross cake all to himself, which he wouldn’t share with anyone else. Aunt Marie spent the weeks leading up to Christmas making an elaborate Christmas dessert tray, which looked much tastier than Jesus’s birthday cake, so none of us ever complained. I asked my mom yesterday what was up with that cake, and she laughed, and said, “It was fruitcake! It’s gross -- no one liked it!”
Anyway, back to Donnie and the prayer. Donnie got me in trouble every year! He muttered things under his breath while my grandfather was either so genuinely caught up in his prayer that he was oblivious to what Donnie was doing, or he was aware but resolutely ignoring the behavior. Donnie didn’t even have to say anything. A nudge with his elbow and a devilish grin was all it took to leave me snorting and choking back giggles. Immediately I’d hear one of those dreaded mom yell-whispers, “Julie!” and I’d turn and see her shooting fire out of her eyes, doing that little headshake/clenched-jaw/flashing-eyes combo that’s the universal non-verbal parent sign for, “So help me God, if you don’t stop embarrassing me this second, I’m going to kill you!” Donnie never once got in trouble for making me laugh. And even though I knew I’d get in trouble, every year I sought him out, held his hand, and waited for the fun to begin because it was totally worth it. He was the only cousin older than me on the Laviolet side, and I loved him, admired him, and considered him the single funniest person in the history of the universe.
After my grandfather finished his prayer and lit the Advent wreath, he sent all the grandchildren running off with long, lit matches to light the rest of the candles spread throughout the room. Try to picture this. Our celebrations were always 30+ people in a fairly cramped room full of furniture, knick-knacks, wrapped gifts, decorations, and in the 80’s big hair stiff with loads of extremely flammable hairspray. Add to that 5-10 children wildly careening around the room holding flaming wooden sticks in front of us like magic wands. Either it was another sign of Grampy’s strong faith in God that nothing terrible would happen or he assumed the adult-to-child ration was enough to prevent catastrophe. The house never did catch on fire, and I remember fondly the excitement we all felt. Afterall, our parents wouldn’t let us play with fire, but it was Jesus’s birthday and Grampy’s house. If he gave us permission to light things on fire, there wasn’t a damn thing our parents could do about.
Our Easter celebration was only slightly smaller than Christmas, and marginally more subdued. My grandparents hosted until I was ten or eleven, and then the party moved to my Uncle Gary and Aunt Martha’s house. At their house, tables were set up in two rooms for the meal, and to the great annoyance of my cousin Joanne and me, Donnie was invited to leave the kids’ table and join the adults. I no longer had my partner in crime, and felt the entire situation was grossly unfair. Within a few years, I came to the conclusion that the kids’ table was where all the fun was at and remained there long after some of my younger cousins moved on.
Grampy always recited an Easter prayer as well, but it was much shorter, and he didn’t let us loose to light candles. Before we ate, he’d pray:
He is risen….Alleluia
Happy Easter
Ashes to ashes….dust to dust
Rising with Christ…we will live forever
May this Easter water (raises Easter water)
“The living water”
Refresh and renew our life…
May this Easter candle (raises Easter candle)
“The light of the world”
Shine upon us,
All the days of our life.
Amen
Since my grandfather’s passing, one of my uncles reads the Easter prayer, keeping the tradition alive for the family.
My grandfather wasn’t one to push his religious views on others. He valued all religions, believing that they shared more similarities than differences. Leading these holiday prayers surrounded by the people he loved was probably the most important and meaningful part of the celebration for him. While he enjoyed his prayers and fervently believed the words he spoke, I also think he found the pageantry and ritual behind them familiar and comforting. The physical act of lighting candles and holding up holy water helped him connect his physical world with his spiritual one. Most of us, especially those of us who never shared his deep faith, took those prayers for granted as just something Grampy did during the holidays, but my mother-in-law is right. There’s a simple beauty in witnessing someone truly devout yet unassuming about it pray. At the heart of it was the pure gratitude he felt for the blessings in his life, and he considered his biggest blessing his family. If we live by his example and take these moments of prayer to consciously reflect on our gratitude, it matters less which God, if any, we pray to, and more that we appreciate what we have and that we’re sharing a holiday with people we love.
留言