Dear Father Joe,
You don’t know me, but I am Jean’s daughter. Look me up: Heroux, Marijean. Excommunicated in 1988. It’s all in the files.
There’s absolutely no way you can deny knowing my mother. I’m confident that she’s up your ass (sorry) regularly about how you’re running the parish. That, in fact, is why I’m writing today. I understand you gave her a bit of attitude last week, which she brushed off, but I know she’s hurt and you are to blame.
You, as an extension of the church, are really to blame for a lot of things, but we’ll start with this most recent transgression. Evidently, she was put out about the placement of the Infant of Prague statue. As I’m sure she’s told you at least as many times as she’s told me, she feels a special connection to the statue (a smaller version, given to her by her fifth-grade teacher on the occasion of her wedding, yada yada). It’s important to her that the statue remain in the vestibule. That it be outfitted in its seasonal garb. That the children understand its significance as they file through on their way to Mass.
Some of us like Barbie. Mom likes the Infant of Prague.
I’m fifty-two years old and spent my growing up years with the I of P in our house, a giant one in the church and my mother talking about it on end. I still don’t have a great grasp of it other than it’s a Liberace-style baby Jesus, swathed in fancy garments that have to be changed with the seasons of the church. I’m sure you know much more than I do on the topic.
Anyway, I heard you moved the notorious I of P to a far corner of the church, out of its premier location in the vestibule and Mom’s been after you to move it back. What I heard is that she approached you last Sunday and instead of greeting her with warmth and kindness, you said, with a tone unbecoming a man of the cloth, “What is it now, Jean?”
Is that how you treat parishioners, particularly the devout, steadfast few such as my mother?
It seems to me, with the church’s dwindling numbers, you’d do well to have a little patience with the elderly members of your flock. Lord knows they’re the last to hang on and will likely be the ones to turn out the lights.
If you doubt my mom’s devotion to the church, I’ll direct you again to the parish files of 1988. There you will find under my maiden name a document related to my excommunication. That’s right. My mother did that. Orchestrated with your predecessor my ouster on the occasion of my unwed pregnancy and intention to marry outside the church. (The horror.) Well, she made her point and naturally I’ve been gone since, except for the rare occasions in which I needed to accompany her to a service. I haven’t missed it at all.
All I’m saying is this woman is the real deal, the last of the diehards, one of only a few who would arrange to have her own kid kicked out for an infraction. She’s your hall monitor, Father. Give her the respect she is due.
I call my mother on Tuesday nights. I expect to hear next week about the apology you gave her and how you have restored the statue to its original location. I expect to hear from her again (she’s 88 years young, you know), all about the Infant of Prague and its flamboyant wardrobe. I’ll listen with patience. If I don’t, you can expect my call.
With barely contained rage,
Marijean (Heroux) Oldham
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Marijean Oldham is a public relations consultant and writer. In 2003, Marijean set a Guinness Book World Record for creating the largest bouquet of flowers. When not writing, Marijean is a pie enthusiast and competitive baker.
© 2024, Marijean Oldham
Halfway Down the Stairs 