Saint Therese Windows

Today there is no where else to sit

in this packed church

except a chair

in the front of the south transept

facing the Saint Teresa 

stained glass window

My gaze set upon her

unable to discern 

if this is the Spanish mystic

whose finger on display

I had once refused to see in Ávila

or Therese of Lisieux,

The Little Flower,

her youthful, understanding smile

The Holy Face of Christ.

Surrounding this mysterious Teresa,

translucent panes

reveal late summer leaves dancing

in green waves of tranquility.

So different from the day my anxious heart beat so fast

as I stole a relic of the Little Flower 

from my dead grandma’s belongings.

It was left in an open box 

in her bedroom.

My aunts had cleaned out all her drawers,

then gathered in the kitchen

their voices echoing 

between the lime green walls 

of the living room

devoid of furniture and the paintings 

that had hung there all my life.

I was the youngest granddaughter

age eleven

no one even noticed me there

peering at that cardboard box

so scared

I would not have enough 

to remember her by

I had to ask for everything –

a rosary

wine glasses for when I grew up

clear and shallow

etched with little flowers.

So the relic

so small like me

I quickly snatched

from the clutter of the box,

briefly glancing at the tiny flat pentagon

that fit into my palm

like a short, fat necktie

into which the Saint Therese relic was sewn.

Someone had painstakingly embellished

with the tiniest of paint strokes

black letters spelling,

“Relic of the Little Flower.”

Its soft golden cord 

hung a few seconds 

from my chipped nail polish fingers

until I silently slid

this sacred object 

into the frayed right pocket

of my torn blue jeans,

worn to white on the edges.

Probably the smallest piece 

of St. Therese’s clothes

now cradled 

inside mine

sandwiched between two pieces of paper

the color of grocery bags

then lined with golden foil paper

and covered in clear plastic

that was zigzag stitched in white thread.

The tiniest of holes cut out

a window

to reveal the white fabric with raised dots

that was once her blouse?

the collar of her dress?

her flowing Carmelite habit

white as snow 

on the day of her clothing ceremony?

or lace made by her mother’s hands

before breast cancer stole her away too?

The same artisan hands

whose brush strokes so delicately labeled

“Relic of the Little Flower”

on one side 

of this simple reliquary 

had traced “Relic” 

in faint gold paint

on the other side,

framing the tiny window

where the miraculous cloth

was visible,

Above this, the tiny oval portrait

of Saint Therese

Her Holy Veiled Face

serene against sepia tones

surrounded by the same golden foil

cut unevenly by human hands.

Four decades I have carried this Saint

without noticing

through university dorm rooms, apartments,

pisos and homes

across oceans and continents

that my eleven year old heart

could never have imagined.

No one ever knew

I lifted the reliquary out of that cardboard box

or that its soft golden cord still hangs

from the golden plated latch

of my jewelry box

just as I never knew

I would find this Saint

smiling upon me today 

from the rich reds and greens

of this stained glass window,

which has gone unnoticed by me for years.

I close my eyes

inhale her calming love,

the smoke of incense,

the shared suffering

of losing our matriarchs.

She has been with me

all of this time.

My anxious heart 

still wildly beating

remembering Grandma  

my stolen miracle.