Faith…
Faith.... often a female’s name, or a word used to describe a “firm belief in something for which there is no proof!” I am unabashedly Catholic, was raised that way from my earliest memory and have photos, far older than I, to remind me that both my families of origin actively practiced these same religious ideals way before I entered this world! It’s fascinating to me how faith works, and how different groups of people have such varying ways of exercising whatever it is that Faith looks like to them! I don’t, and would never judge, another person’s brand of faith. Truth be told, the only faith I’d ever dare to discuss, much less write about, is my own, and even now I’m not positive I can do justice to that deeply embedded, and vital part of my soul?
“DIOS BENDIGA CADA RINCON DE ESTA CASA,” TRANSLATES TO “GOD BLESS EVERY CORNER OF THIS HOUSE.” ~ A TREASURED FAMILY HEIRLOOM, NEEDLEPOINTED BY MY GRANDMOTHER, PASSED ON TO MY MOM AND A HOUSEWARMING GIFT FROM MOM UPON THE OCCASION OF HER FIRST VISIT TO MY KID’S AND MY NEW HOME…RANCHO VALIENTE.
Because, there’s no church service to be attended publicly yesterday, Easter Sunday, (following the widespread fear and deadly devastation Covid-19 has caused,) I watched the live stream of Cardinal Timothy Dolan saying the Easter Mass from St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York. St. Patrick’s is truly one of those vast and magical places you just have to experience in person, but to see it yesterday, with only a tiny assemblage of Priests, and the sole, female Soprano, celebrating such a revered holiday in near solitude, made me recall the times I’ve been totally overcome with an inexplicable feeling of grace. It’s something I can only describe as utter devotion and blind faith in a power far greater than my own humble understanding can adequately convey! Catholicism is a religion that weaves a pattern of rituals, symbols, and ceremony throughout its tenets, and I feel so incredibly blessed to have been gifted, and/or left some beautiful and treasured religious symbols from various members and generations of my family that have gone before me! From a tattered and worn book that my Grandfather gave me the day I left for college, with various mentions of his favorite verses quoted in his own handwriting and dotted throughout the pages; to the collection of exquisitely embroidered handkerchiefs and beautiful Rosaries left to me by my Grandmother, that were kept draped from the hand of an Infant Jesus of Prague statue which adorned a marble pedestal in the home of those same Grandparents, I’m grateful for them all. My Maternal Grandparent’s, Ma and Pa, gifted me the beautiful, antique French “prie dieu” which once anchored their homes and now graces my own, stirring memories of treasured childhood experiences and the gift of Faith, which I feel privileged to have received. So too, the framed “blessing” which I mentioned earlier and my Grandmother needlepointed to gift my parents as a housewarming gift upon their move to Rancho Santa Fe, and which my Mom subsequently gifted me when I created my kid’s and my sanctuary at Rancho Valiente. It did then, and will forever, hold its rightful place of honor in my home’s entry, reading...”Dios Bendiga Cada Rincon De Esta Casa,” or God bless every corner of this house! That love of our Catholic faith and heritage remains firmly rooted in my heart, mind and home. These objects not only hold a place in my heart, but they trigger certain memories marking unmistakable instances of divine intervention and the ceremonial rituals, which will never cease to command my utmost respect, even if I don’t completely understand every nuance of religious preachings.
MY GRANDPARENT’S ANTIQUE “PRIE-DIEU,” NOW MINE, AND DISPLAYED IN THE LIVING ROOM OF RANCHO VALIENTE!
Sunday Mass was an integral part of my upbringing. My parents, the four of us girls, dressed in our matching Florence Eiseman dresses with bows in our hair, white tights, and black “Mary Janes” would meet my Grandparents for Mass, followed by brunch at either the La Valencia or La Jolla Country Club! It was a given, non-negotiable ritual....period. That is, unless we were at a horse show, in which case my Mother would take us to daily Mass the following Monday morning before dropping us at school, but mark my words.....we did not “just skip” Mass, EVER! When my parents divorced, and my Mom remarried “Valdez,” a.k.a. George, her “Portogee Cowboy” (his own description) we moved from our Rancho Santa Fe home to a tiny horse ranch in Santa Ynez, where Mom bought property and a quaint-ranch home, then built George’s dream barn, and a place for him to continue his business of training horses! My Mom was straight-up crazy, head-over-heels in love with that man.....and he was legitimately a good guy, but he was also not a big fan of attending Mass. George (decades before Maren Morris was born, much less sang her song, “My Church”) explained that “his church was everywhere…not limited to a space within walls, and was most often found on the back of a horse.” So, our long-standing ritual moving forward was “shy” one attendee, but nonetheless, Sunday Mass continued! We had lived in Santa Ynez for only a few months, when Easter Sunday rolled around, and the crowd of parishioners in Old Mission Santa Ines that particular Sunday was huge...standing room only! Everything was proceeding as normal until the Priest made his way down the center aisle with the beautifully engraved, silver vessel containing incense in his hands, waving it slowly and methodically back and forth among the crowd. I inhaled one very deep whiff of the over-powering scent from the incense and passed the, “you know what” out..... into the, thankfully, solid and strong arms of one of the sons of some of Mom and George’s new friends! I’m not sure who was more embarrassed by all the talk and giggling glances the next day at school… poor Jack, with the strong arms, or me? One might think that a single, mortifying, experience like that could have instilled a fairly shy, fourteen year old, high school Freshman, with a strong distaste for Sunday Mass, or church altogether.....but no, that wasn’t the case. To this very day, Sunday Mass, Catholicism and my faith represents a part of my soul and my identity, even. It’s hard to explain but undeniable! Years later when I had my own family, with two children five years apart in age, I continued the traditions of my Catholic upbringing. My children were baptized and received every Sacrament which followed (thus far), and we also attended weekly Sunday Mass. My children’s father, Al didn’t subscribe to the same thought process I had been raised with? Similar to the feelings held by George, my Stepdad…Al did not feel church attendance was important, unless it was one of our children’s Christenings, or a wedding of one of my relatives or one of his friends. Otherwise, the chances of getting him inside the walls of a church on Sunday, or any other day were slim to none! I even requested once that maybe “Sunday Church” could be my birthday gift that year? Still no! But, I wasn’t always without a man’s company at Church. During the years we lived at Sea Island, and with Al’s intense presence, involvement, planning and redesign of the The Cloister Resort, etc… we became friends with a very extensive group of elegant, educated, interesting, and MUCH, MUCH OLDER people. Many of the wives in these older couples had taken me under their wings, allowed me into their coveted luncheon circles, and were legitimately welcoming me into a part of their southern culture! As the years passed, two of my dearest lunch Ladies, who had become much closer friends than I would have, originally, imagined and whose husbands were respected friends of Al’s too, developed health restrictions and issues that prevented them from going to all the functions that might be otherwise required in the morning hours...like funerals! Their social circle, in general, was getting smaller in size and that meant the occasion of funerals was increasing. Jewell, in particular, my favorite friend from that part of my life, had very little use for, or desire to attend, many social functions....certainly few which required she leave the comfort, and safety, of her home before noon! Because Mac, (Jewell’s husband, the source of Al’s initial introduction to Sea Island, a total dynamo, and one of Al’s most respected role-models) was still a very active, and vital part of the community, he was not only asked, but eager to attend far more occasions than Jewell could manage! When it was a business lunch, board meeting, or the like, then Al would usually accompany Mac, but if it were a funeral, or any other religious gathering, I was “tapped” as Mac’s date. It got to the point, where I was the chosen companion for two to three of these particularly dear men, to any one of the several funeral and religious services that were, unfortunately, becoming more commonplace. I’m not sure whether it’s odd or not, but I felt honored to be chosen for that role. The reverence and tradition that those Southern services inspire and represent, touched a part of me that had felt “wanting” for a long time.
It was just a few years later, when Al served me with divorce papers in Georgia, meaning that my children and I could not leave the county, without his permission. Rather than go through the process in our home state of California (far more lenient and favorable to women) Al chose to relegate our kids and me to some kind of fishbowl existence, with the bulk of Sea Island and St. Simons watching us squirm in what had once been a place of comfort, but was newly more like a prison. It was then that my faith was kickstarted into “overdrive!” It may sound a bit nutty to many, but the power of faith and prayer to me is absolutely INVINCIBLE! I used to go to the little chapel behind St.William’s main church building on St. Simon’s Island, every morning after dropping my children (then 16 and 11) at school, and say a Novena, “asking and thanking God in advance, for touching Al’s heart with understanding, and the humanity to change the trajectory our lives seemed to have taken!” Just three months later, still separated but with the formal divorce action “on hold,” Al flew home to California on the Monday following Thanksgiving, to see his doctor regarding some chest pain he had been experiencing. He called me two days later, on Wednesday evening, to say he was being checked into Santa Barbara’s Cottage Hospital for emergency, open-heart surgery. “Would I please pack up the kids and our things, and fly home to be with him,” he requested? I already, always, felt that my faith was solid, but no other single example delivered the impact of that particular call, and its message quite so directly nor overwhelmingly powerful! There is more faith and more to this story ahead…
MY SPECIAL COLLECTION OF CROSSES, BLESSINGS AND MILAGROS, WHICH ADORNED AN ENTIRE WALL OF MY RANCHO VALIENTE RANCH HOME. IT WILL PROBABLY ALWAYS REMAIN MY FAVORITE “GALLERY WALL.”
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