As a girl, when Marie experienced discomfort, her mother would retrieve a cobalt blue cruet, uncork it and sprinkle droplets of water wherever her daughter was ailing.
Each time, Marie’s pain would subside.
The little girl was amazed.
“What is that, Mama?”
“Holy water.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It’s been in our family for generations. My mother sprinkled it on me when I was a girl, and my grandmother sprinkled it on my mother when she was a girl.”
“Where did it come from?”
“France, where your great grandmother was born.”
“What makes it holy?”
Her mother smiled.
“Someday, I’ll tell you.”
Marie didn’t press, but she stayed curious. She’d heard about the holy water of Lourdes and how people claimed to have been cured by drinking or bathing in it. Maybe that’s where my family got this water, she thought.
As she grew up, Marie had fewer bumps and bruises. But her tender heart was easily hurt. Schoolyard taunts, slights, unkind words. Such insults made Marie sad.
Seeing this, her mother would bring out the cruet, sprinkle water on Marie’s chest and place her hand over her daughter’s heart.
“The sacred heals us,” she would say.
And Marie would feel better.
When she became a teenager, though, her heartaches got worse. Mean girls and immature boys sent Marie home in tears.
Her mother was always waiting, her blue cruet close at hand.
Years later, Marie had children of her own. They too experienced bumps and bruises.
“Mama, may I borrow your holy water?”
“Of course.”
“Mama, you said someday you’d tell me what makes this water holy.”
“Yes, I did, and I suppose it’s time you know. Marie, there’s nothing special about the water in this cruet. It’s true that it originally came from France. But that water was used up long ago. I’ve refilled it from our tap, just as my mother did and her mother before her. It is holy water. But what makes it holy comes only after I’ve sprinkled it on your body. It is you who make the water holy.”
Marie was stunned.
“Mama, why didn't you tell me this before? Why did you keep it a secret?”
“When we’re young, we believe God is out there,” she said, outstretching her hands. “This is true. It’s how we begin to learn about the divine. But in time, we come to understand God also lives within us, that we ourselves are sacred. This is a deeper truth, and it takes time for us to grasp it. Now you know. I hope you’ll share this with your children one day.”
“I will, Mama.”
“But not too soon,” she said, handing Marie the cruet.
“Yes,” Marie said, kissing her mother’s cheek. “Not too soon.”
Each time, Marie’s pain would subside.
The little girl was amazed.
“What is that, Mama?”
“Holy water.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It’s been in our family for generations. My mother sprinkled it on me when I was a girl, and my grandmother sprinkled it on my mother when she was a girl.”
“Where did it come from?”
“France, where your great grandmother was born.”
“What makes it holy?”
Her mother smiled.
“Someday, I’ll tell you.”
Marie didn’t press, but she stayed curious. She’d heard about the holy water of Lourdes and how people claimed to have been cured by drinking or bathing in it. Maybe that’s where my family got this water, she thought.
As she grew up, Marie had fewer bumps and bruises. But her tender heart was easily hurt. Schoolyard taunts, slights, unkind words. Such insults made Marie sad.
Seeing this, her mother would bring out the cruet, sprinkle water on Marie’s chest and place her hand over her daughter’s heart.
“The sacred heals us,” she would say.
And Marie would feel better.
When she became a teenager, though, her heartaches got worse. Mean girls and immature boys sent Marie home in tears.
Her mother was always waiting, her blue cruet close at hand.
Years later, Marie had children of her own. They too experienced bumps and bruises.
“Mama, may I borrow your holy water?”
“Of course.”
“Mama, you said someday you’d tell me what makes this water holy.”
“Yes, I did, and I suppose it’s time you know. Marie, there’s nothing special about the water in this cruet. It’s true that it originally came from France. But that water was used up long ago. I’ve refilled it from our tap, just as my mother did and her mother before her. It is holy water. But what makes it holy comes only after I’ve sprinkled it on your body. It is you who make the water holy.”
Marie was stunned.
“Mama, why didn't you tell me this before? Why did you keep it a secret?”
“When we’re young, we believe God is out there,” she said, outstretching her hands. “This is true. It’s how we begin to learn about the divine. But in time, we come to understand God also lives within us, that we ourselves are sacred. This is a deeper truth, and it takes time for us to grasp it. Now you know. I hope you’ll share this with your children one day.”
“I will, Mama.”
“But not too soon,” she said, handing Marie the cruet.
“Yes,” Marie said, kissing her mother’s cheek. “Not too soon.”
