Marie Taylor, Ink

The first thing I ever stole was a holy card. I was in first grade and every Saturday morning I would attend catechism class at our local Catholic Church to learn stuff about God. To keep the children motivated, Sister Mary Magdalene who taught our catechism class gave a holy card to anyone who could perfectly recite the Ten Commandments.

For any non-Roman Catholics reading this, a holy card is about the size of a playing card and often used as a bookmark or placeholder in a prayer book or bible, or sometimes as a focus for prayer and meditation.

Holy cards pictured a variety of saintly virgins, holy martyrs, learned theologians and, of course, Jesus and Mary. There were no pictures of God the Father because He was too big to be drawn, and none of the Holy Spirit because He was, as everyone knew, a ghost and therefore not visible to any but those with a spiritual eye.

My favorites images were pictures of the Virgin Mary in all of her many guises – the Immaculate Conception, the Lady of Fatima, the Assumption, Our Lady of Guadalupe, the Madonna and Child, and the Immaculate Heart of Mary. The cards with Byzantine and Russian Orthodox stylings were particularly beautiful to me because of the lavish use of gold leaf and patterning.

Our church, in typical Roman Catholic fashion, was filled with color, lifelike statues, stained glass windows, soaring vaulted ceilings, mysterious flickering red candles in dark alcoves, all underscored with soaring hymns in the ancient Latin tongue.

This was far removed from the world of steel mills and factories in which I lived. The only art in my childhood home was a large picture of the Last Supper in the dining room and the scenic calendar from the local bank on the kitchen wall.

But holy cards opened up a whole new world of aesthetics for me. Here was art that referred to another world, one of color and history and beauty. Art I could hold in my hand, art I could keep for my very own. I lusted to own just one holy card.

I assiduously memorized the Commandments during the following week and could recite them perfectly. When Saturday morning arrived, I was ready. Palms sweating, heart pounding, I stood up for my recitation of the Thou shalts and the Thou shalt nots.

I glibly sailed through having no other Gods, not swearing, and honoring my father and mother, but things started get a little fuzzy after Thou shalt not kill. Was that number Six or Seven. And was number 10 about lying or coveting? And what was a covet?

The further into my recital, the slower and more hesitant was my narration. Sister Mary Magdalen told me to study harder next week and called on the next person. I sat down and numbly watched as one student after the other spieled out the Commandments and was then given a holy card as a reward.

As I watched my classmates showing each other their cards, I felt an unknown energy arise in me. A shiftiness slid into my heart as I weighed my options. Had I not perfectly recited all Ten Commandments at home? Didn’t I deserve a holy card like everybody else?  I want one!

At the end of class, I spied Sister Mary Magdalene speaking to one of the parents. As stealthy as a cat, I slid towards the teacher’s desk where the stack of holy cards sat in glowing splendor, quietly whispering my name. My six year-old hand darted out, snagged the top card, slid it inside my catechism and sidled out the door.

That evening as I sat in my bedroom, I admired my new possession, a picture of Saint Bartholomew, a saint known for his integrity. The irony of the selection was not recognized until many years later. Any twinge of conscience I felt was quickly silenced as I practiced reciting the Commandments. Next Saturday I would say them perfectly … and I’d get another holy card.