Letter: The Angelus and Our Lady of Guadalupe

Suzanne Black shares her reaction to the destruction of Our Lady of Guadalupe at the Catholic Church in HMB ©2008

Before I even learned the words to the thrice-daily devotion to Mary called "the Angelus," I was taught to stand still with head bowed when the church bell rang a series of three solemn sounds repeated slowly three times. Bong. Bong. Bong. It tolled at 6 o’clock in the morning, noon, and 6 o’clock in the evening. I was a child in a high-church Anglican boarding school, and this is what everyone did.

When I first arrived at the school, led by my mother’s hand, I was not quite six years old. A kind lady in a long blue dress and wearing a stiff white veil gave us a tour of the school. She was called Sister Mary, as I recall.

She showed us the cottage where I would live with other children my age. She showed us the dining room where we would all eat together. She took us into the lovely stone chapel, which smelled both sweet and pungent and contained carved wooden benches where the children and the nuns would sit. She pointed to the majestic figures of a man on a cross and the women next to the cross. "Mary, His Mother," she said, "and Mary Magadelen."

I’d never heard of either of those Marys; they looked kind but sad. The only Mary I knew was in a photograph on the mantle in my grandmother’s room. That Mary was my aunt, tall and slim, with bobbed hair and an ingratiating smile. I don’t think I’d met her then, but I liked her from her picture.

We went outside, into a garden next to the chapel. Flowers were blooming everywhere. In a small grassy area stood a statue of a woman. "That’s Mary, the Mother of Jesus," she said. "We kneel and pray to her to comfort us when we are lonely or afraid."

I took the hint, kneeled in front of the statue, steepled my hands, and closed my eyes. I knew how to say prayers. And I particularly wanted my mother to hear mine about not wanting to stay there. I looked at her just as she snapped a picture of me on my knees. Shortly after, she left me and my small suitcase in the care of Sister Mary.

And so I learned the words to say when the church bell rang. I remember them still: "The angel of the Lord appeared unto Mary and she was conceived by the Holy Ghost, Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen."

I said that prayer three times a day, every day for five years. I was told that "Angelus" meant "Angel," and that we were thanking the angel for appearing and Mary for being the mother of Jesus. I’m not sure how much of that prayer I understood then or even now, so many years later.

I no longer say the Angelus, but I haven’t forgotten it. At some point, I even learned it in Latin, thinking it might be more potent when I really needed help. Like all symbols, it is always there to be called upon when needed. As a reminder, I have one of my mother’s needlepoint works, a copy of the famous mid-nineteenth century painting by Jean-Francois Millet called "The Angelus" hanging in my dining room. It depicts a farmer and his wife paused mid-day in prayer over the soil they’ve been tilling. Next to it is a companion piece, "The Gleaners," done by the first Mary I’d ever heard of, the Aunt Mary in Grandmother’s photograph whom I got to know and love.

For years, the town where I live had a colorful fiberglass statue depicting the Virgin Mary as Our Lady of Guadalupe, the patroness and symbol of Mexico and the Mexican revolution. It stood in a flower-lined alcove on the lawn next to the Catholic Church. Our town has a large Mexican, Spanish and Portuguese population and heritage; the statue was beloved.

I used to see children kneeling in front of this Mary, just as I had done before another statue long ago. Passersby seemed to treat the statue with deference and respect. Then one night Our Lady of Guadalupe disappeared, leaving only jagged edges of her gown. Townspeople, no matter what their beliefs, were horrified that anyone could do something so disrespectful to the Church, its members, and to Mary, who some believe to be the Mother of God.

"Vandals," people said. "Kids out of control" and "Where are their parents?"

The next morning I walked by the Church just to be certain the story was true. Mary was gone. Tears came with memories of the Marys I had loved and sometimes prayed to long ago. And though it wasn’t 6 o’clock or noon, I said the Angelus out loud.

A few days later, I learned that the statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe had been dragged to nearby Pilarcitos Creek and tossed down into the mud. The statue was irreparable. But symbols are immortal. She will return to those who love her.