|
St. Anthony Comes Around
Catherine Young
as published in Extra Innings #76
February 2016
I am a fond believer in St. Anthony. You read that right – fond. I love St. Anthony. He has helped me find so many of my lost things.
My mama introduced me to the saint when I was a little girl. A devout Catholic, she could recite the special gifts of each of the saints lovingly painted on our church's ceiling.
Mama may have taught me a particular prayer for St. Anthony, but I don't remember one. Here's my paraphrase of the version I heard in Wisconsin:
St. Anthony, St. Anthony, come around,
______________ has lost her_________ and it must be found.
Please come help without delay,
and bring back ________________'s ______________ today.
Into those blanks often go my name and usually, keys, glasses, checkbook, wallet, or more recently, a phone – all those things we carry in transitions away from home. (Perhaps the lesson is to stay at home.)
*
Recently, the lost item in need of St. Anthony's kindness was a new piece of clothing. A skirt. I don't normally lose clothing in public, but on that day I was part of a costume changing holiday procession at my child's school, and anything could have happened to my clothes. I said my St. Anthony prayer right away, and then I phoned everyplace I had been that day. I even sent an email out to the parents at the school, wondering if the situation sounded indecent. And one week later, the strangest thing happened – I opened my washing machine, and my slate gray skirt was there. Right there. Wet, even. What was odd about it was, I had poured bleach into the machine the day before – so surely my skirt would've gotten wrecked. But thanks to St. Anthony, my skirt and I were reunited intact.
St. Anthony has always come through for me – though sometimes it may take a few years.
*
There was a time when I moved from Madison, Wisconsin to St. Paul, Minnesota for nearly four years and then returned. Before I left, I had lost my glasses. They were my favorites: black wire rim aviator glasses. The triangular lenses were so large I could not see the frame at all. In the mid-1970s I spent nearly a week's earning for what was then known as a finely-jeweled metal frame – no rhinestones, but beautifully made. I had had them for six years, and just before I left for St. Paul, my glasses disappeared. I prayed fervently to St. Anthony. No glasses. In the 1980s, the styles had changed, and I could no longer get wire rims or aviator style. With heavy heart, I purchased a rimless pair with cheap plastic lenses.
Four years later, I returned to Madison, Wisconsin. On the day I arrived, I was standing at a corner on the east side of the city, waiting to cross a busy street. A bright yellow Union Cab pulled right up to me. To my surprise, the driver, a woman, got out, and she called my name.
"Catherine!" I have your glasses. You left them behind at my house a few years ago. Remember?"
Stunned, I stood with the glasses in my hand as the cab raced off.
For those of you who are skeptical about St. Anthony, please consider this:
1. It had been four years since I lost the glasses
2. I did not know this person very well, or remember her, and I didn't know she was a cab driver.
3. The event took place on a street corner on the day I arrived back.
*
My daughter claims that when she says the St. Anthony prayer, she gets a kind of energy, or an idea of where to look. If all the prayer does is to wake up our hearts and brains, I'm all for it. Really, it's astounding how many people know about St. Anthony, and use some form of the prayer. (You readers of Extra Innings might have your own St. Anthony tales.) Even my Jewish friend, Ellen, knows the St. Anthony prayer. Her mother, Shirley, taught it to her through a voicemail message I once heard. The prayer was extremely lovely when spoken with a Yiddish accent.
I believe in saints and helpers of all sizes, shapes, and kinds, and that they come to us in many forms. And definitely, I believe in St. Anthony, who besides lessening our sense of helplessness, gives us hope that all is not really lost.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Catherine Young's writing has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best American Essays. She worked as a national park ranger, farmer, mother, and educator. Her ecopoetry and prose is published in journals nationally and internationally. Rooted in farm life, Catherine lives with her family in Wisconsin. Her writings and podcasts are available at http://catherineyoungwriter.weebly.com/
Catherine Young
as published in Extra Innings #76
February 2016
I am a fond believer in St. Anthony. You read that right – fond. I love St. Anthony. He has helped me find so many of my lost things.
My mama introduced me to the saint when I was a little girl. A devout Catholic, she could recite the special gifts of each of the saints lovingly painted on our church's ceiling.
Mama may have taught me a particular prayer for St. Anthony, but I don't remember one. Here's my paraphrase of the version I heard in Wisconsin:
St. Anthony, St. Anthony, come around,
______________ has lost her_________ and it must be found.
Please come help without delay,
and bring back ________________'s ______________ today.
Into those blanks often go my name and usually, keys, glasses, checkbook, wallet, or more recently, a phone – all those things we carry in transitions away from home. (Perhaps the lesson is to stay at home.)
*
Recently, the lost item in need of St. Anthony's kindness was a new piece of clothing. A skirt. I don't normally lose clothing in public, but on that day I was part of a costume changing holiday procession at my child's school, and anything could have happened to my clothes. I said my St. Anthony prayer right away, and then I phoned everyplace I had been that day. I even sent an email out to the parents at the school, wondering if the situation sounded indecent. And one week later, the strangest thing happened – I opened my washing machine, and my slate gray skirt was there. Right there. Wet, even. What was odd about it was, I had poured bleach into the machine the day before – so surely my skirt would've gotten wrecked. But thanks to St. Anthony, my skirt and I were reunited intact.
St. Anthony has always come through for me – though sometimes it may take a few years.
*
There was a time when I moved from Madison, Wisconsin to St. Paul, Minnesota for nearly four years and then returned. Before I left, I had lost my glasses. They were my favorites: black wire rim aviator glasses. The triangular lenses were so large I could not see the frame at all. In the mid-1970s I spent nearly a week's earning for what was then known as a finely-jeweled metal frame – no rhinestones, but beautifully made. I had had them for six years, and just before I left for St. Paul, my glasses disappeared. I prayed fervently to St. Anthony. No glasses. In the 1980s, the styles had changed, and I could no longer get wire rims or aviator style. With heavy heart, I purchased a rimless pair with cheap plastic lenses.
Four years later, I returned to Madison, Wisconsin. On the day I arrived, I was standing at a corner on the east side of the city, waiting to cross a busy street. A bright yellow Union Cab pulled right up to me. To my surprise, the driver, a woman, got out, and she called my name.
"Catherine!" I have your glasses. You left them behind at my house a few years ago. Remember?"
Stunned, I stood with the glasses in my hand as the cab raced off.
For those of you who are skeptical about St. Anthony, please consider this:
1. It had been four years since I lost the glasses
2. I did not know this person very well, or remember her, and I didn't know she was a cab driver.
3. The event took place on a street corner on the day I arrived back.
*
My daughter claims that when she says the St. Anthony prayer, she gets a kind of energy, or an idea of where to look. If all the prayer does is to wake up our hearts and brains, I'm all for it. Really, it's astounding how many people know about St. Anthony, and use some form of the prayer. (You readers of Extra Innings might have your own St. Anthony tales.) Even my Jewish friend, Ellen, knows the St. Anthony prayer. Her mother, Shirley, taught it to her through a voicemail message I once heard. The prayer was extremely lovely when spoken with a Yiddish accent.
I believe in saints and helpers of all sizes, shapes, and kinds, and that they come to us in many forms. And definitely, I believe in St. Anthony, who besides lessening our sense of helplessness, gives us hope that all is not really lost.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Catherine Young's writing has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best American Essays. She worked as a national park ranger, farmer, mother, and educator. Her ecopoetry and prose is published in journals nationally and internationally. Rooted in farm life, Catherine lives with her family in Wisconsin. Her writings and podcasts are available at http://catherineyoungwriter.weebly.com/
Proudly powered by Weebly