A Sack of Dirt

This smoothie, though of an unattractive color, was much appreciated in my household, but it was way too thick to drink – it had to be consumed with a spoon! You mix one banana with half an avocado and about half a cup of almond milk. I added some strawberries to make it pretty.

 When I was younger and lived in Brooklyn, I used to go to church every Sunday. My routine was to attend Mass and then to go straight to this bakery where they had the most amazing bagels, and where I would pick up French toast bagels and iced coffee with vanilla soy milk.

I liked the congregation in Brooklyn; it was small yet diverse. The priests all came from Poland and they spoke in broken English, there seemed to always be a new priest. I can’t recall any of their faces. The woman who did all the readings, however, I remember well. She was an old toothless lady named Flo, who on other days could be seen pulling a little cart up and down Bedford Avenue, looking for empty plastic bottles in all the garbage cans. In spite of her tiny body, Flo had a strong, clear voice that lent itself perfectly for readings. I miss Flo.

I always sat in the same spot in that church. I liked the way the sun shone in through the stained windows where I sat. The carpet that led up from the entrance to the altarpiece was red, like a red line of blood rolled out. Near the altarpiece was a statue of the Infant Jesus of Prague. We were only a handful of people gathering there on Sundays for the English language Mass. The majority came to hear Mass in Polish.

I am no longer in Brooklyn and these days, going to church is sometimes an uphill battle. Getting a 7-year old to church on a Sunday morning isn’t always easy. Sometimes I feel he’d be better off playing or reading. Sometimes it’s me; I just don’t feel like getting out of my pajamas.

However, church going does create a predictable and enjoyable routine that I often crave. It sets the day, and it finishes off the week nicely (I’m European and think of Sunday as the last day of the week). I wouldn’t feel the same, if I spent Sundays doing last minute shopping for the upcoming week.

Yesterday we went to church. My son didn’t complain, and even though at first I didn’t much feel like going, I softened on the way. We walked in the snow that had curled around the sidewalks. Dirty, tired snow. I looked down at my son and he smiled up at me. Hand in hand we pushed ahead.

At church, the priest told us the following story:

Shortly after the fall of the Berlin wall (in the fall of 1989, as you may remember), a Polish bishop was sent out to re-open the first church in Russia since the revolution. The bishop was worried that there wouldn’t be any Christians there, after all, there had been no organized religion in the Soviet Union for 70 years. He thought faith couldn’t have possibly survived all those years. Still, he prepared himself and to mark the greatness of the occasion he put on his full bishop regalia, including the miter and the crosier. As he walked towards the church, which was located in a Moscow suburb, he saw from the corner of his eye, a young woman approaching him. She gave him a little sack. Then he saw an older woman coming, a babushka tied under her chin, and she too gave him a little sack. Soon a great many people had approached him, and they’d all given him these sacks. When the Polish bishop opened one of them to look inside, he found dirt. Dirt in all of them.

“Why do you bring me dirt?” he asked.

When the last churches in Russia closed, all those 70 years ago, the faithful scraped off the dirt from them and saved it in these small sacks. They passed them on to their children and grandchildren. These sacks they had now given to the Polish bishop to show him that faith, indeed, can last longer than we can imagine.

“Every time a baby was born, because we couldn’t christen them, we put the sack of dirt on the baby’s chest,” they told the bishop. “And every time we buried someone, because there were no Christian burials, we put a sack of dirt from the church on the coffin of the deceased.”

By doing so, they kept their faith alive during all those years. A handful of dirt, kept in a small sack. The simplest things, such as the ability to worship, should never be taken for granted.

After Mass, we had breakfast at church. As we walked back home in silence, with the priest’s story echoing in our minds, I thought it was a good thing that we had come.