Mangia! Mangia!
Red poinsettias signal Candlemas
ANTOINETTE JACKSON

Over the years, as I have written my newspaper column, I have tried to keep it timely for there is nothing more unprofessional than yesterday's subject matter printed in today's edition. But as most writers will attest, there are times when a subject bangs around in one's head and begs to be put down on paper no matter what the season.

That's how I feel about what I call "The Poinsettia Column." Sure, it would have been timelier around Christmas, but there were other more pressing priorities at the time.

Still, it won't go away and the story deserves to be told, so I claim the procrastinator 's salvation: The Season of Candlemas.

You may recall that in January of 2006, I quoted Father Jerry Pardue, Rector of St. Stephen's Anglican Church in Athens, as he wrote about Candlemas in the Parish newsletter. "Being 40 days from Christmas, it was in older times considered the true ending of Christmas, not Epiphany as is the more recent custom. Here at St. Stephen's we will take down the Christmas tree and candles, but will retain the cr£che until this feast following the old custom," he wrote.

A couple of weeks ago, I attended my home church in Athens for our annual parish meeting and the first official visit of our former rector Father Steve Strawn who was just consecrated Bishop of the Diocese of the Missouri Valley.

The young man, I first met as a server at Mass more than 20 years ago, had since been ordained a priest and now was a bishop. He looked so mature and classic in his purple vestments.

"It's too bad I'm so much older than you are, Bishop, because I don't think I'll live long enough to see you become Pope," I greeted him jokingly.

Chuckling he responded, "Neither do I," both acknowledging there is no papacy within the Anglican Church in America.

After the parish meeting, I lingered a few minutes at the narthex of the Church to admire the beauty of the altar.

It was still decorated with vibrantly red poinsettias that, along with the cr£che, would remain until the feast of Candlemas, on Feb. 2.

Once again, the memories flashed into my mind and words begged to be put down on paper.

Returning to Coker Hall to say goodbye to Bishop Strawn, I said, "The poinsettias in the Church are still beautiful. Do you remember Christmas Morning Mass the year my mother died?"

"Oh yes," he answered with deep compassion in his voice and sincerity in his eyes confirming that it meant as much to him as it did to Bob and me.

It was the morning of Dec. 25, 1996. Just two days earlier my dear mother passed from this world into her heavenly home.

I had reconciled my sadness with the knowledge that Mom got the gift she wanted.

This year she was celebrating Christmas with Jesus, Daddy and her family.

I accepted that, but I still felt badly about her service awaiting our arrival in California on the 31st.

My mother lived her life as a Roman Catholic, and I felt she should have a Catholic burial service.

For some reason, my brother was against it and wanted a non-denominational service like when Daddy died.

On the good advice of our funeral director and friend Leonard Ferrara, I relented and Johnny's Pastor Mike Foell was going to officiate.

All that put aside, it was time to go to Christmas Mass and as we got ready, my husband said, "Are you sure there's church today?"

"It's Christmas. There's always a Mass on Christmas Day," I answered.

He was asking the same question as we pulled up into the church parking lot. "See I told you there was no church today. There aren't any cars here."

There was nothing in last week's bulletin saying there wouldn't be a morning service," I reasoned.

"There's nobody here. Where's Father Steve's car?"

Over the past several years, while most of the parish had chosen to attend services on Christmas Eve, there were still a few of us diehards who preferred the morning Mass. Could it be the 10:30 a.m. service was cancelled and I hadn't paid any attention to the announcement?

"Let's just go and try the front door to see if the church is open," I suggested.

As he reached for the handle and pulled the massive door open for me, I saw the most beautiful altar of the season.

It was decorated with hanging greens, brilliant red poinsettias with deep verdant leaves and covered with celebratory white and gold altar vestments that herald the birth of our Lord.

There was definitely Church at St. Stephen's this morning.

Just as I genuflected to enter the third pew where we usually sat, a small handheld bell rang announcing Mass was about to begin.

It was the bell I had donated in memory of Aunt Dorothy, my cousin Prudy's mother, who passed away Nov. 1.

Never, I lamented as the bell rang, did I anticipate that in less that two months my mother would also be gone,

For the next 45 minutes, it was just Father Steve, T.J. the altar boy, Bob and me in that beautiful surrounding.

As he reached the part when prayers are offered, Father Steve said, "and we offer prayers for the repose of the soul of Mary Chiarenza."

How good He is, I thought.

Just as God had provided the ram for Abraham, He had provided a Catholic Mass for my mother.

All I needed to do was step out of the way and let Him handle things.

Needless to say, from that day forward, the Mass celebrating the birth of Christ on Christmas morning held an even deeper meaning for me.

Oh, and the service at Forest Lawn Memorial Park in Cypress, California?

God worked that out too.

Pastor pointed out how Mom loved color.

"Mary was always dressed in brilliant colors: bright turquoise and fuchsias were her favorites. She was always made up and was always smiling. And her outside just mirrored her inner beauty."

That brought a smile to my face. Mike had gotten to know the real Mary Chiarenza.

And then he said, "While her family will miss her deeply, God's word says, `Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints'"

Mom's death was precious.

The word "precious" was like a soothing balm to the ache in my heart.

My mother always said, "When God closes one door, He opens another."

Though the door on her life was closed on Dec. 23, 1996, the door to healing was first opened at a small Anglican Church in Athens, where the altar was bursting with bright red poinsettias. It continued during the services in Cypress, California where Pastor Mike reminded us that Mom's death was precious in the sight of the Lord.

As I said in an earlier column, it's not easy to lose a loved one before the holidays.

And it's not easy to hold a service for the families who have lost those loved ones, especially during the holidays.

I'm grateful for all the compassionate priests, ministers and clergy who bring God's words of comfort to us.

They touch our grieving hearts and start the healing process that continues throughout a lifetime.

May God bless them richly in their ministry.

!

Antoinette Jackson is a Bullard-area resident. You may reach her at Antojxn@aol.com.