Throughout my years, I have heard of several “miraculous” incarnations of important Holy people. I remember as a kid reading something of a corn flake-shaped Savior. A quick internet search found an article about the Jesus pancake, the Lord’s smudge, the blessing from the ironing board, and my personal favorite, Mother Mary’s grilled cheese.
So, when a stray rock was launched my way as I was taking an eighteen-wheeler down a rural Missouri back road, I too came to see a miracle. Right before my eyes.
For those curious, a professional driver can drive with a crucifix in his windshield as long as it is no larger than the size of a quarter. When, not if, it decides to grow and show itself to the world, I will have to get new glass put in.
Until then, may all your windshields remain clear, and here’s hoping your holiday season is as blessed!
(Please read today’s post in the light-hearted way I wrote it. I have my own beliefs and respect the beliefs of others.)
Windshield Martyry
The star came first,
early one afternoon,
decending from the sun
in a brilliant burst,
then bouncing away
while we checked for injury—
pools of blood that
surely would inform
seconds before
impending death.
By dawn,
a crucifix grew
and we were saved,
faith growing stronger,
spiders held at bay
for yet another time.
I have seen pictures
of the Holy Toast,
Mother Mary offering
protection from flapjacks,
people woke to God
in the froth of a
morning cappuccino,
but now I, too, can see the Son,
I have come to the light
that breaks a new day,
blinding my way
as I round the curves,
a guide ever before me
down the unwind
of these highways.
I have seen pictures
of the Holy Toast,
Mother Mary offering
protection from flapjacks,
people woke to God
in the froth of a
morning cappuccino,
but now I, too, can see the Son,
I have come to the light
that breaks a new day,
blinding my way
as I round the curves,
a guide ever before me
down the unwind
of these highways.
| Copyright © 2021 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there. |
Maik, I commend you on your decision to use an imperfectly focused photo of the “sign” in the windshield (by refraining from using your camera’s controls to sharpen it), in order that you might say, “Maybe it takes a little more faith than I have to get it in focus.”
ReplyDeleteBut, since you confess you wrote this column “light-heartedly,” I think you would be okay to let us see one of your focused photos. Just send it to Blogger, as I think you know how, and I’ll take it from there.
Thanks, Maik, for sending two photos:
Delete(1) “Where the star is on my windshield (down by the wiper).
(2) “The best focus I could do on it.”
Always been fascinated by the reverence for "holy" objects, places, events, from the unidentifiable bones of saint whoever to stars dancing on a hilltop. Sliver of wood from the True Cross, drop of milk from Saint Agatha's severed breasts. A brisk trade in fake holy relics and antiques in general has raged since Methuselah wore short pants, and continues today. Egyptian, Roman, and Greek stuff is popular in the West. Islam has its share as well as Africa and China. Phineuas Taylor Barnum said "There's a sucker born every minute." I can find no argument to the contrary.
ReplyDeleteThe legend of Santiago de Compostela is based on the report of a hermit named Pelagio to the local bishop that he had seen stars dancing on what is now known as Pico Sacro or Holy Hill. Well, hermits were often psychotic, as was Santiago, or Saint James; he wrote Revelations, after all. Utter schizoid delusional imagery. They dug up bones there, Alfonso II declared them as St James, and boom, new revenue stream.
ReplyDeleteMost of all, pilgrimage sites were cash cows.