The White Parasol

Driving along in my yellow mini on the way back from town to my house I was pondering on the illness of my son.  He had been cured we thought and now it was back with a vengeance. It had shown itself by appearing above the clavicle so now we knew that we would be thrown back into radiation or worse and all the surrounding effects.

So at this stage of events I was, yet again, beside myself with fear. With fear of what to do and how to do it and, above all, how to get complete healing. Is it not a very deep and natural thing for a Mother to want her child to be cured and happy and strong and well? Yes it is. And all of my attempts hithertoe had not succeeded then; all my endeavours, trials and praying and going to multiple practitioners of various disciplines – we had tried everything on earth, or so I thought. We were long not over this period but I did not know this at this time. I remember the sunny, clement day and looking out of the window at the trees and the countryside not caring that it was beautiful because my world was not.  There I was voicing these concerns whilst driving– as you do – speaking out loud to the heavens that for God’s sake, what to do next? Why was this thing coming back now? Why had it not gone? Feeling that fear which grips the very base of the stomach and that permeating angst of being thrown into helplessness with time running out was with me and I wrestled back and forth on the steering wheel and, using my motion to deliver the crescendo I was building up to I shouted out words to the effect of :”Look, here, please God help us and for goodness sakes why has it come back to my son? What more can I do? What is this thing that keeps striking at him? I know that I am not perfect and a sinner and all of that waffle but for goodness sakes he cannot take anymore. Let ME take on this burden, this illness because I AM STRONG ENOUGH TO FIGHT THIS SO GIVE IT TO ME!”. . And then I got a huge thwack on my right clavicle; like someone had struck me hard in answer to my question. Blimey, I bounced up straight and rigid. What the hell had I done here? What Mother wouldn’t take on the burden for her child? Was it a question with huge risk? Immediately I shouted out loud again something like “But I need Michael the Archangel to help me in this!”.
I startled myself at these strange words which emerged from my own mouth. Then stunned silence whilst concentrating on the road home and trying to understand my own words. To this day, I do not know why I called on that particular high Archangel, as I hadn’t really thought about angels as such, even if I am religious/spiritual in some ways.

On reaching home I went straight into my study and went through a file where I keep some cards and letters received over the years and I pulled out a beautiful icon postcard upon which is Michael the Archangel. A very beautiful and ancient icon in which Michael is depicted as a very strong, hard, rugged, grim but beautiful character whose eyes show clear strain, whose chin is set, whos being comes over as so powerful but beleagured. I looked at this picture for a long time; I checked the date written on the back; the postcard had been sent to me as far back as 1992. I realised that I hadn’t looked at this card for perhaps many years. But now it sat in my hands with great significance given the events in the car. And then I recalled buying miniature pictures of a depiction of the Archangel (amongst others) whilst being in Mount St. Bernard Abbey for a day during the previous year – those small prayer cards with a chain - which I’d picked up really without applied thinking but it had occurred to me then that that huge, powerful being as he is portrayed in those cards was something to be quite frightened of, dressed up as a warrior, a very aggressive stance with his huge sword – quite threatening really. Now, after the events of this day and staring at my postcard of him, I sent one of those small prayer cards to my son – who probably thought I was going loopy – without explanation except that he should keep it with him.

I knew that I was being thrown a line, an indication of what it was I was asking and doing; right or wrong it really didn’t matter because I had put my life on the line for this and that is how it felt. I remember thinking that if I now had the illness because I’d asked for it, then so be it, let’s get on with it.

I was in a strange dimension being aware of things around me but it was as if they were not quite there. It is a spaced out not-part-of-this-picture-and-if-it-is-a-film-well-I-do-not-want-to-be-in this feeling, I never asked for this feeling of desperation. But it was also a crystal sharp focus on the present.

Here was a help line and I was going to use it, come hell or high water, carrying this icon with me wherever I went, along with other prayer cards, feeling that I had asked for help and it looked like I was going to get it; emboldened with my daring, but shaking at my roots with the potential consequences. Even I knew that the answer might not be what I “wanted”. This idea of “want” and “need” that we often confuse in the hopes that well everything should just go back to “normal” right now. So I had to begin to come to terms with the fact that if you ask the angels to come in and help you, then you had better be prepared for the way forward. They are not there to bring you precisely what you want all dressed up with ribbons on, they are there to aid you in your universal life search, so it requires a gearing up of the core of the being. “Be careful what you ask for” is an old saying and I was patently aware of this right now. Being a verbose person who always has something to say, by nature, I was now completely silent and for some considerable time.

Mont Saint Michel is in north Brittany and about five hours’ drive from where we live and I did go soon afterwards with my husband – who became aware of my desire that he and I should go and didn’t even question it - and it was a true pilgrimage – even if he perhaps thought that I was going round the bend and going along with me in the way that someone might give in to a quaint but harmless lunatic, because here was a woman who might do herself some injury if left alone - it was all part of a true, desperate, daring but humble search for help. And no, I didn’t see it as an end in itself as a conditionality of my going that then my son should be healed; I knew it was part of a much longer journey and conditionality had to be thrown away, which was probably my biggest fear. I mean promising to be good for the rest of one’s life if we get this or that.. . . is at least part of us all but it was certainly part of me and I knew that I could never promise that. But this does make me think of Oscar Wilde’s words: “we are all in the gutter but some of us are looking up at the stars”. At least if I know that I am in the gutter, then that is looking upwards and outwards for help, beyond me. If I know that I cannot promise to be good for ever more then I might as well face it, especially right now as it was no time for pretence.

We were amazed by the beauty and magnificence of the place in itself; the story around the building of this huge Church to Michael the Archangel, on a huge rock in the midst of extremely rough water just off that wild, northern coastline which is the Channel is both miraculous and novel. More than that, it is extremely funny if you have the kind of humour that I have. It is this in a nutshell: in the eighth century the Bishop of Avranches (that region that borders Normandy) had a dream in which the Archangel came to him and said that He wanted the Bishop to build a Church to him on that rock out there in those waters. The Bishop was very startled by this request – it being a quest of impossible not to mention impassable requirements – I mean akin to the joke that goes around relating to the favourite Anglo-saxon word and our appreciation of its earthy humour in what Michealangelo (the painter) might have said upon the request to paint the ceiling of the Sistine chapel in Rome: “You want what on the f***ing celing!?”. So I could imagine the Bishop’s response, which was along the lines of, “..er no way! That cannot be done” and the Archangel bonked him on the head and created a hole in his skull! He really did, or as the story goes, he poked his finger into the skull of the bishop and, to this day, the skull along with the said hole, is on that rugged island in its museum below the actual structure of the huge and imposing Church. This story I did not know until we made arrangements to go and I had looked up on the internet the background and it made me laugh out loud. I’d got thwacked on the clavicle and here I was reading about a Holy Bishop who’d got a hole in the head! So, I thought, blimey, I got away lightly. And I laughed and laughed out loud in the midst of my agony and pain – the best humour is within misery and hopelessness and the “black” humour of life which serves to lift us somewhat. I suppose any onlooker might have said “Pity that poor woman, for she is clearly off her trolley”. And I didn’t care how it looked either so it was a new way forward for me and an insight akin to comradeship with madness.

So there we were. True pilgrims in search of the way forward in and amongst my state of navel gazing and considering the whys and wherefores, as we do (why me, why him, what did we do to deserve this type of thing, what about bad karma etc.) and a thought, amongst others, came to me. It was this: Listen here woman, if a policeman had just come to your house and told you that your son was dead, how would you cope with that then? At least right now I had very real opportunity to be a part of helping this situation, however hard it seemed, to become positive whatever its eventual outcome even if it were death. And for those who have ever received that news I felt a deep and ongoing sympathy for their plight; never would I not feel another’s pain in that kind of situation again. I would have true pity, not token acknowledgement.

Even today, seeing that huge monument, let alone its sophistication – I mean this is a whole village complete with hotels and cafes and shops - wrapped around this huge, unyielding rock in the midst of currents going every which way - it occurred to me that this is an architecturally impossible thing actually. But there it is. And it has stood the test of time, for sure. Winding up its path towards the towering Church above is heady enough and then we came to the huge Church and went in. There were many tourists around and we went to the front of the Church to the altar and I noticed, to the left, that there was a small notice tied to the stairwell bars that a Mass would shortly be celebrated in the crypt below. In fact, a Nun was standing there just taking the notice down and I went to her and asked if we could attend Mass down there. She was a very beautiful and kind young lady who beamed at me and told us to go down the stairs; my husband followed on in the manner that an indulgent but wary Guardian might, not even daring to question my impetuous behaviour. So down we went and there, in this tiny crypt beneath the main Church area we came across not more than about fifteen people including the Priest and his monks and nuns ready to celebrate Mass. It was cramped and we were all sitting close together; there was no music so we sang without accompaniment and went through the most powerful Mass in my entire life; I thought that the whole Church was going to be ripped off that rock and shot into heaven whilst sinners like myself who had no place in that most beautiful and sacred area were picked off and thrown down into the fire and brimstone below. To this day, the memory of that Mass fills me with awe, fear and tears but also with a deep conviction and overwhelming beauty of acceptance and healing. I looked over at my husband and saw his tears. “Here I am then”, I said to the Archangel, “I have come”. I decided against saying :”you know why I am here” because I thought that I might get a hole in the head so I just gave up the whole mess of our lives in one big blobby picture because it would take a lifetime to speak it out and words were beyond me.

It is one the few masses that I have attended where a collection bowl is not sent around the congregation. It would have been incongruous. I mean, here we are at the seat of heaven of the Holy Trinity of God whose power and possessions include every single material and non material thing in the universe. So I suppose that that is why it was not included in the order of things. The Priest came to all of us and spoke the words “Peace be with you” in our own languages (there were other non-French people there). When we climbed back up the spiral staircase the Nun was showing the way out and I asked if I could give something to her order of Jerusalem installed there and she beamed again and thanked me for my puny note of euros. And no, this wonderful lady took the offering without even looking and thanked me. I knew it didn’t matter; the mass was not about money collections and my offering was not the remotest thing to do with that mass because it would have spoilt its beauty.

I am as tight and mean as the next person and even in my temporary holy (or holier than thou) state of being, the notion of giving everything away and keeping nothing for myself is still not part of my state. But at least I don’t create any illusion about this to myself anymore. It occurred to me that everything offered to me from God is given without a price tag; it is given without conditionality. The profundity of this realisation left me depleted and empty because I realised that I had absolutely nothing of value to offer from myself; the only thing that God wants is the very core of your being and your brokenness. He wants those parts that the way of man or the way of the world has no use for.

And so my pilgrimage to that great monument and to that great Archangel ended; it had a pronounced effect on everything I did after that in the ongoing search and endurance as comes with family illness. I would like to make clear that my journey is still ongoing; that my life and my behaviour have not undergone the blinding light, stricken down, throw off all our possessions and run to help the poor in Africa-type change. I am still learning and still seeking; it is a journey of huge magnitude and taking small steps is the way forward. I remain a person with a huge number of faults; with the selfishness, the opinionated stance on life and considering what everyone else should “do” to make things better. But the difference is that I know it. And knowing is awareness. Not having to change immediately in one fell swoop because it is impossible anyway as we know from our endeavours to “become better and stop doing this or that, er next week”. Just being aware that we are with many faults and with many limitations and recognising our behaviour, following our own reasoning to nowhere and knowing that underneath our polished exterior which we present to the world, we are imperfect and we could better stop telling everyone else what to do and look to ourselves. Quietly and without even announcing it to anyone else; just becoming aware of oneself, one’s intent, one’s jealousy, envy, hatred and narrowness. To face this truth is to take off one’s own mask to oneself. The saving grace is that you can do it in private. Leave the outside world alone and witness for yourself what happens without you having to pretend to the world that you are a good and generous and wonderful person. Be quiet.

Since this time, many things have happened and changed and not changed and life goes on. To return to Michael the Archangel, I can honestly say that it had never occurred to me in my life before that day, a being so high and glorious – if he did indeed even exist – would come into my life upon my request. Upon my shouted and very direct request as it was, but he did. And that is something that still fills me with fear but mainly with awe. We are dealing with the unknown, the unbelievable and the beyond worldly comprehension, powerful and Holy things here and if I have any word of warning at all, it is to say go and ask and be deeply humble and truthful in yourself in the asking, do not pretend to be who you are not. But you do NOT have to be a good person, whatever that is, to do it.

Michael the Archangel is shown to us as a great and powerful fighter, complete with sword and requisite aggressive stance; against whom the power of Hell cannot compete. If there is a question that I have asked and pondered ever since it is this: how can such a violent depiction be commensurate with Christ and meekness and mildness? And the answer, I believe, is this: taking on the ills of the world and all its vileness is indeed, a huge fight and there is a very real war in the heavens and beyond going on in ways that we cannot begin to visualise. This war is not one that we can relate to creating war on earth in the way that we do, with tanks and missiles and bombs and suicide bombers. This war is against the very things that we are doing on earth to create such misery, want and pure hell in killing and stealing and controlling. Power on earth is owned by whoever has the politics and trade to determine our own national or personal interests; and we give them the power by being who we are. The Holy War of heaven, depicted by Michael, is against these things. But its policy of action is through each and everyone of us in ways not of this world; through bringing awareness of what it is that we are actually doing. Christ’s meekness and mildness should not be confused with being a pushover; the most powerful thing that ever happened on this earth was Christ allowing himself to be the ultimate sacrifice to the folly of man. This is allowing the power and strength of heaven to overcome that which we live by. Whatever is happening in the heavens and around us – unseen – but felt often when we go out and seek it (or through being bonked on the head or punched across the clavicle), is to allow each of us, in our individuality, to understand the truth of the world around us. We each are creating the badness and the madness, it is not “someone else”. I have witnessed much in the crises that I have been through and that angels will deliver to us when we ask for their intervention. These interventions take us into sorrowful realms, not “nice” ones. Herein lies what their effects are upon us. They fight to release us from our illusions about ourselves. The Holy War of Heaven is to overcome this hell on earth by enabling us to lay down our arms and begin seeing the “others” as ourselves.

The way I am creates the wars and want on earth. What I give out goes into the local, national and world psyche and these effects give power to war mongering, shaping national and international politics. So the best thing that I can do on earth is to stop blaming everyone else including the terrorists, the immigrants and the politicians. All I have to do is to endeavour to sort out myself. I do not have to support a cause for one warring party against another, giving them the ability to keep on killing with “justifiable” intent. Taking sides and having opinions on the “others” gives the world the divisions, this allocation of who is right and who is wrong that fuels the wars. I am learning. And, if I don’t want a hole in the head, I had better learn fast.