You can listen to this week’s Devotional here
Author: Nancy Wade
As a child in the 50’s and 60’s, I was raised in a Methodist Church which most of my friends also attended. My parents played bridge with their parents, our Moms exchanged recipes, and we went to week-long church camps every summer. As I grew up, my church formed a protective cocoon around me and I felt comforted by its rituals and routines, the cadence of Sunday services, the familiar hymns of John and Charles Wesley, and the lessons I learned at Vacation Bible School. So entrenched was I in our church that I really didn’t think much about other faith practices.
That all changed in the fourth grade. Suddenly, there was an influx of new kids in my class, boys and girls I had never met. In large Catholic families, parents generally sent their children to private Catholic schools through third grade before transitioning them to public schools. This is when my introduction to a new and different religion began. There were recess conversations about confession and Catechism, strange words that meant nothing to me. They told me about eating only fish on Friday, and about giving up something for Lent.
As a 9-year-old, I had not yet been baptized because my Dad had been raised in the Baptist Church which had a tenet of faith that children should not be baptized until they themselves understood the commitment they were making. When I explained this to my new friends, they were aghast. “What do you mean, you haven’t been baptized?” they would ask, “Don’t you know that if you die before you are baptized, you will go to limbo?” Limbo, according to the online Encyclopedia Brittanica, is “the border place between heaven and hell where dwell those souls who, though not condemned to punishment, are deprived of the joy of eternal existence with God in Heaven.” If this worried me, I cannot say.
I do remember being impressed with how many saints the Catholic Church had. My new friends had memorized many of them: Saint Christopher, Saint Andrew, Saint Peter, Saint Bartholomew, Saint John, Saint Francis; the list went on and on. I could tell how important these beliefs were by the reverence with which my new friends spoke of them. Many of them wore St. Christopher medals in honor of the patron saint of all travelers, apparently one of the more well-known and popular saints.
I was reminded of my grade school Catholic friends a few months ago when I read a post on nextdoor.com. Someone had lost a silver necklace on a walking path and was asking others to keep an eye out for it. One of the respondents wrote, “Pray to St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things.” I wondered at the time about the validity of this advice; after all, what could a prayer to a Catholic saint have to do with finding a lost object?
And then, I misplaced my sewing scissors. Women who sew will understand the importance of a good pair of shears and are often protective of them. I had been working on a baby quilt, fabric spread out across the dining room table, and when I came back to resume the project, my scissors were nowhere to be found. I knew I could not continue until I found those scissors. A few days went by and then a week. My frustration increased.
And then I remembered the advice on nextdoor. What did I have to lose? I Googled St. Anthony to learn about the appropriate prayer. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and prayed the prayer out loud: Dear Saint Anthony, Please come around. Something is lost and it cannot be found. Amen.
A few hours later, straightening up things in a bedroom, I noticed a glimmer of steel poking out from beneath a pile of file folders. With a sigh of relief, I pulled my scissors out of the heap and mentally rejoiced. I could finish my sewing project! And all because of St. Anthony. In that moment, I became a believer.
A few weeks ago, I took my grandsons, ages 13 and 10, out to dinner. The oldest, Brookes, told me that he wanted to buy a new remote control car which he had been saving for. But he had a problem. He had misplaced his wallet. “I’m pretty sure it’s in the house,” he told me, “but until I find it, I can’t buy that car.”
St. Anthony came to mind.
Let me just say that the grandboys are a bit skeptical about my religious beliefs although they have both attended church with me. They are unfamiliar with the world of prayer. But I decided to tell them about Saint Anthony anyway.
I’m pretty sure the younger boy rolled his eyes.
Later, I texted Brookes the words of the prayer, hoping that they might work for him as they had for me.
He called me a few days later. “GeeMee!,” he said. “You won’t believe it! I prayed that prayer and found my wallet. It was behind my dresser on the floor.” Brookes’ excitement was palpable. The joy he felt at this discovery made my heart glad.
And actually, I do believe it. I really do.
