Column We admire rebels, but our saints are grandmas
By JEANNETTE BATZ
Packing for the womens retreat
was easy: a sweatshirt, a bottle of wine, Mint Milano cookies and 12 books on
mystics. I even brought a Hildegarde of Bingen CD. Then, grudgingly, I tossed
in the pages on Joan of Arc my husband had photocopied for me from
Butlers Lives of the Saints.
When wed planned this overnight sojourn to Trout Lodge
(the YMCA of the Ozarks, a tagline I thought our priest made up to
be funny, until I saw it on the rustic-but-smooth-sanded wood sign) wed
chosen the theme of women saints. Wed even come up with three categories:
First, those who had rebelled against societys prescribed roles (Id
been drafted to report on St. Joan of Arc, despite or perhaps because of my
aversion to her militarism). Second, those who had reached sainthood working
within the system (nurses and moms and sweet timid maidens). And finally, those
who had transcended gender roles altogether (my mystics).
Friday evening, one car pool van after another crunched onto the
gravel in front of our log cabin dormitory. We ate, built a fire and set to
work. Furtively glancing at my photocopies, I gave a lively account of St. Joan
of Arcs eerie visions, brilliant military strategies, subsequent failures
(conveniently blamed on the king) and tragic immolation.
Paying short shrift to the second category, we moved to mystics
and talked about Julian of Norwich and Hildegarde, defending them from one very
practical retreatants objection that they didnt do anything.
(She should have done St. Joan.)
Can you have a living mystic, murmured Carol as midnight
approached, or is a mystic just a dead contemplative, the way a statesman is a
dead politician? Chuckling, we decided that todays mystics probably
arent even in the church, let alone an anchorage; if they arent
living out in the woods or channeling New Age, theyre incarcerated in a
mental institution. Our conversation swung from rebellion to transcendence,
from androgyny to defiance to sheer genderless heroism. We glowed with pride in
the women who had ripped away the garments of oppression, the women who had
reached through the curtain of space and time.
The next morning, it was time to name saints in our own lives.
And everybody named their grandmother.
Not only did they name their grandmother, but they named her
because of her pecan pie; her warm, constant presence; the way she had quietly
endured such suffering at the hands of her husband; the way she took all the
neighborhoods children under her wing. Eyes bright with tears, people
shamelessly told soppy stories about words of encouragement and small,
deliberate acts of kindness.
Not everyone had chosen her grandmother, of course. Still under
Joans fiery spell, Id found myself naming Temple Grandin, an
autistic designer of livestock facilities, because -- perhaps because of her
disability -- she is entirely honest, incapable of fluid deceptions and
manipulations. Rejection stings her too, yet she lives free of the craven need
for others approval. She speaks her mind and steers by her truth.
But setting aside autistic women who can intuit a nervous
cows field of vision, we didnt have much else. One nurse, one
schoolteacher and a flock of grandmothers. After the last person had spoken, we
looked at each other with an uneasy recognition.
Our saints came from the category wed spurned. They came
from the boringly compliant middle zone, ruled by norms wed grown up
hating.
Was our adulation merely guilt, a pang of conditioned remorse over
our own unbaked cookies? Or did our hearts recognize a valor our heads had been
taught to ignore? The women wed chosen had to work every bit as hard as
the rebels, if they wanted to achieve their goals for their families without
violating the framework. Sharply intelligent strategies had to be masked;
suffering had to be borne in silence. Their inner lives had to develop as
strong and abiding a presence as any mystics visions, even if the
dialogues were more mundane.
In the final analysis, all sainthood is a daily sort of thing; it
touches us because of its sustained holiness, not its temporary brilliance.
Some healings are miracles of prayer; others consist in overboiled chicken
broth or patiently holding the bowl for someone in the throes of
chemotherapy.
Few of us ever meet the more dramatic sort of saint -- or if we
do, we dont recognize her. But we do recognize, with all five senses, our
grandmothers -- their rubber-banded prayer cards, wrinkled aprons, garlicky
smells, long stories, abiding presence. They are too human to interest any
hagiographer. And precisely for that reason, they are the best possible conduit
for the divine.
Jeannette Batz is a staff writer at The Riverfront
Times, an alternative newspaper in St. Louis.
National Catholic Reporter, April 23,
1999
|