EFFIGIES

The foreign city overwhelmed me with its speeding cars, sounds of construction and shouting.  There was chaos when someone lost their grip on the lead of their dog and horror when the fleeing animal was hit by a vehicle.  Its careless owner collapsed on the dusty ground in tears.  It was all too much.  I dodged through the great door and was engulfed in silence.

The images within were awe inspiring, high stone arches, paintings and a man dying on a cross hoisted way up high surrounded by more gold than I'd ever seen.  These were unreachable, unimaginable riches, my jaw dropped.  Was God here in this place of silence and prayer?

I followed a left hand corridor.  Along it, in a transparent box lay Jesus, a wound in his side, pictures of saints surrounding where he lay, his long hair flowing over his shoulders.  I shuddered and walked on.  To the left was a room; inside it was an effigy of Mary, her heart pierced by seven silver daggers, a gold crown on her humble head, her face a world of pain.  Was this how it was to lose your son?  I proceeded inside.  A sign re-iterated the need to be quiet, that this was a room for prayer.  There was a box in which I could put my wishes and candles I could light.

At the end of the room was Jesus, clothed in purple, a golden halo over his head, he was carrying a wooden cross.  The expression on his terrible face was one of anger, there were tiny black marks all over the skin, I couldn't tell if they were tiny cuts or grimy tears.  I didn't want to look any more, because his gaping mouth seemed to snarl at me.  Just a doll they made, I told myself, but was I really supposed to be able to pray here?  I thought of Mother and hastily wrote my hopes on a piece of paper, dedicating the prayer to her.  I stuffed the paper in the box and lit a candle.  As I did so, there was a movement, the doll of Jesus had been looking ahead, but now his staring eyes met mine.

My legs went weak and I couldn't take a single step.  I heard something behind me; the statue of Mary had reached up to one of the daggers in her chest, her face full of sorrow.  Did she just shake her head at me?  Surely I had been exposed to too much sun.  I looked back at Jesus and told myself that he couldn't have walked out of his alcove; it was not possible that he was merely a footstep away from me, the cross on his shoulder, his face pock marked with black staring into mine.  It could not be that his benign mother was now blocking the door, her arms folded, head shaking back and forth mechanically.  I somehow managed to look up again and Jesus stared deeply into my eyes.  His voice was rich and deep when he spoke; “You have forgotten to pay, my son.”

I reached inside my pocket for the few coins I had.  I hoped they would go to a good cause.