Saint Anne, the mother of the BVM*
Not spoken of in gospels, yet her tale
Was penned by later writers and this gem
Of sheer imagination did not fail
To press itself on peasant minds and hearts
For it gave details of the life of she
Who birthed the Savior, showed the sacred arts
That fired God’s mind for the Nativity.
But that’s a tale best told another time.
My soul is bent to other roads than that—
When I explore great matters more sublime.
Right now, theology just leaves me flat.
In Canada, Québec to be precise,
A church was built to honor Saintly Anne,
For if her daughter’s holy, mother twice
So. That’s the logic of the clergyman.
I visited with parents, wife in tow
To this great shrine on Beaupré’s river bank
We thought to see a Mass and then we’d go
And maybe dine on lobster or lamb shank.
But once inside, the people milled about—
Unusual to see them on the move,
Not kneeling in their pews in prayer or doubt
But circling round the walls. The priest approved
Their pilgrimage for he stood on the stair
That led up to the altar. And he blessed
The circling throng with banners in the air
And rosaries held upon each pilgrim’s breast.
Where were they headed? Past an altar tucked
Against a side wall lit with candlelight.
I brightened. We by happenstance had lucked
Upon her feast day, honored on that night.
I motioned for my folks to take my lead.
My wife and I held hands as we fell in
With dozens of the faithful. I concede
I’m not a joiner now; have never been,
But this parade seemed too good to pass up.
It seemed there was a point to this procession—
Some deep longing filled their blessing cup.
The train bucked as the pious in quick succession
Paused before a marble altar, gray
And white, a golden tabernacle set atop
Its linen surface. Pilgrims stopped to pray
A moment, tottered off, the next one stopped,
And on and on the circling crowd processed
Their banners with the Virgin or Saint Anne
Swayed slightly, tassels in the air expressed
Some feeling only long-time practice can
Evoke. No words could ever capture it;
Brushed oil, carved stone give outline — just a sketch
Of what heart strings are plucked. A holy spirit
Strummed within each soul enough to fetch
A good crowd on a summer afternoon.
We finally tiptoed close enough to see
What pilgrims sought to spy, the precious boon
Bestowing healing grace and sanctity.
A metal forearm was ensconced, its gold
Was pierced to show a red and velvet bed
That held a single bone, upright, it’s told
That cradled Blessed Mary’s infant head.
A relic! Of the first class — not a sliver
Of a desk or dresser saints had used
While toiling in the vineyard to deliver
Gospel teachings, some of which defused
The violent from taking vengeance on
An undefended village, or a flood
Diverted, spirit winning over brawn.
Such stories even peasants understood.
Our veneration done, we four departed,
Unsure how our souls’ settled sands had shifted
But like the Virgin, mild and tenderhearted,
We prayed some burden might in time be lifted.
For those connecting causes and effects,
Worship is addition without sums;
But what for some’s a basket of defects,
For others, what true humanness becomes.
Notes: BVM=Blessed Virgin Mary
Image: Mother with child (1934) vintage illustration by Mikulas Galanda. Public domain.