by Mary Pearson
had to have been formed while the Body was in an upright position and floating, with the soles of His feet visible. Lavoie quoted the Scripture, “And when I am lifted up, I will draw all people to myself.” Previously Stacy had heard this passage interpreted as referring to the moment of crucifixion. It made so much more sense as the moment of Resurrection. She realized with a shiver of excitement that twice life had been infused into this same human Body by Someone—Holy Spirit, God the Father…?—and that the Body which had been covered by this Shroud had truly experienced resurrection. The moment was scientifically recorded in the cloth.
When Father Joseph arrived for dinner, Stacy’s mom asked her to take him on a tour of Grandma’s bread factory, while she finished preparing the food and Grandma worked on making the table beautiful. Stacy dutifully ushered him across the street and showed him the production room. Then she gave Father Joseph the tour of the west side Martyr windows. Father saluted the saints individually and as though they were close friends. It had been years since Stacy had really considered these windows or remembered the stories her grandmother had told her when they were first installed in the shop.
“Ah, John the Baptist! How timely to find you here as we approach Christmas.” Father Joseph touched Stacy lightly on the elbow. “Stacy, you will notice our readings during advent include those of John the Baptist—a Voice crying in the wilderness, ‘Prepare the Way of the Lord. Make straight His path!’. Jesus spoke of His cousin, John, as the ‘Elijah’ figure who was foretold to precede the birth of the Messiah. Greetings, dear friend.”
As Stacy led the priest to the next window, he exclaimed, “And of course, St. Steven, the first martyr of our infant church! It was right after Pentecost when the Paraclete descended upon the disciples, who were at the time hiding out, because of fear. And then you, Stephen, filled with the Holy Spirit, spoke bravely to tell everyone this Joyous News. They killed you for it,” Father Joseph kissed his own hand and touched the image of Stephen, “and we, the Church remember your sacrifice on the day after Christmas each year.”
Stacy smiled, realizing that Father was giving his own tour. All she had to do was nod.
“And Polycarp,” he said, approaching the next window, “you were an old man by the time God accepted your sacrifice. All who knew you recognized your holiness. How many years you longed to be allowed to give your life as so many others had. You studied at the foot of St. John, the Evangelist, You were faithful to the truths he taught you, passing them on to young Christians of the second generation. These Christians, such as Justin-Martyr, have left us such a wealth of knowledge and tradition. You,” he touched the image reverently, “are one of my favorites.”
Stacy quietly appreciated the refresher she was getting from her parish priest. “Ah, Joan,” he said, approaching the next window, “how misunderstood you have been, even to our own day. People thought you were insane when you obeyed the Visions and Voices that you heard, but you, a mere girl, were able to lead the French army to victory. Clearly the hand of God was with you, the Maid of Orleans.”
The next window was of the eight north American martyrs. Father Joseph saluted them individually, and from memory: John Brebeuf, Noel Charbonel, Anthony Daniel, Charles Garnier, Issac Joques, Gabriel LaLament, Rene Goupil and Jean de LaLande. Turning to face Stacy, he explained,”I memorized their names when I visited the National Shrine of the North American Martyrs.” He seized her arm and said with intensity, “It was their blood that was the seed of our Church!”
The final window on the west side of the building depicted Maria Goretti. “Maybe,” Father Joseph turned to his tour guide, “you would like to take this one.”
He had certainly picked the right window for her to recap. “Maria Goretti,” Stacy said softly. “When I was at the conference with the rest of my family, there was an actor who portrayed Alessandro, her attacker. Maria died slowly and painfully of wounds she obtained when fighting off his advances. As she died, she told her attacker that not only did she want to protect her virginity, not only did she not want to offend God, she resisted Alessandro because she feared for his immortal soul. She forgave him in the hours before she died and told him she hoped she would see him in heaven.” Stacy gravely met Father Joseph’s eyes. “He had stabbed her fourteen times.” She sighed and paused for a moment, remembering the intensity of Jeremy Stanbary’s performance. She wished she could do it justice. “After he had been in prison for quite a few years, Maria appeared to him, offering him fourteen lilies—one for each time she had been stabbed. He had become quite a hardened sinner, but after she appeared to him like this he repented, completely turning his life around, and he fought against pornography for the rest of his life. Along with her own mother, Alessandro attended Maria’s beatification ceremony. He was instrumental in her becoming a canonized saint.”
“Very good.” Father Joseph was smiling at her. “That must have been some conference.”
Stacy nodded. He didn’t know the half of it.
After they had toured the upstairs of the building Stacy would have given Fr. Joseph a run through the East side Martyr windows, but the sun had gone down and it was too dim to see much detail.
“We’ll save that tour for next time,” Father said amiably and they headed back across the street. It was time for dinner. Stacy’s mother had made an old fashioned pot roast with mashed potatoes and baby carrots. There were also fresh veggies and dip. Fr. Joseph led the family in a before meal prayer. There were four ladies—Grandma Annie, Rose, Stacy and Emily. There were four gentlemen—Uncle George, Zeke, Arthur and Fr. Joseph. And then there was Reecie. Company or not, she began industriously to scoop all of her mashed potatoes, carrots and gravy-covered beef into little piles beside her plate. Later she would scoop it all back. Stacy’s mom shrugged apologetically. “We think she does this to cool it off.”
“That’s why I didn’t bother with table linens,” Grandma Annie said with good humor.
Father nodded as though this were quite normal. “Speaking of table linens,” he interjected, “did any of you know that the original linens for the Eucharistic liturgy were made to the specifications of the Shroud which covered Jesus’ body at the time of His death.”
“I read a book on the subject,” Zeke told him. “Stacy is studying the Shroud right now for her senior report.”
“Ah, fellow sindonologists!” Fr. Joseph exclaimed. “And I thought I was the only member of the ‘Shroud crowd’ at Holy Apostles.” He took a forkful of carrots and enthusiastically ate them. “Some say that James, who was head of the Jerusalem church, celebrated the Mass with the Shroud itself as table linen a few days after Pentecost. Others say it was not only Jesus’ burial cloth, but also the cloth which covered the table at the Last Supper on Holy Thursday. I have a few books on the subject, if you’d like to borrow them, Stacy.”
Stacy nodded enthusiastically. “I would very much appreciate that.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Father continued, “what is the particular topic of your presentation?”
“The Shroud as Holy Grail.” Stacy took a drink of ice water. “I’m going to contrast it with the other grail possibilities: the Cup which was used at the Last Supper, and the bloodlines of Mary Magdalene.”
“That DaVinci bunk!” Father’s tone was openly disgusted. “But I like the concept of your talk and I’d be more than happy to help in any way that I can. I’ll bring those books to Mass next Sunday… unless you’d like to pick them up tomorrow,” he said this with a sidelong glance in her direction, “at Confirmation class.”
Stacy hung her head. “I haven’t been to religion class since fifth grade,” she said with embarrassment.
“Isn’t it high time we changed that?” Father asked her, not unkindly.
Stacy smiled. “I’ll be there.”
“About time!” Zeke whispered under his breath.
“We all have our own time, Ezekiel,” Father reminded him. “Rose, would you mind passing me one of those magnificent whea
t buns.”
“Not wheat,” Rose handed him the basket. “The only wheat in it is some gluten to help it rise. The whole thing is made of healthy fibers.”
“So this is the bread.” Father buttered a bun and took a good-sized bite. “It’s amazingly soft,” he commented. “You don’t usually see that in a healthy bread.”
“Mom would never serve something that didn’t taste good,” Stacy’s mother assured him. “She’s even a better cook than she is a scientist.”
“How is it that you all came to be involved with the creation of this wonderful product?” Father asked, after savoring the last bite.
“A couple years after Uncle George came to live with Mom,” Rose told him, “he developed diabetes.”
Grandma Annie interjected, “There was just no bread out there that my brother could eat.” She gave Uncle George a fond glance. “George has always loved bread more than any other food.”
“So we started to study the subject. In the course of his research, George linked up with a scientist who had developed a method of extracting the very best part of barley—which is good for diabetics anyway--”
George interrupted his sister to say,” I got the fellow to send us a ten pound sample bag, and Anne got to work.”
“Keeping in contact with
