Ahh, October . . . quite possibly my favorite month of the year.
It certainly ushers in my favorite time of the year: Crisp, cool air suddenly free of summer’s weight . . . leaves of fiery orange and vibrant yellow against a sky of the most perfect blue . . . daily walks that leave the tip of my nose a bit chilled from just a hint of the breath of November . . . wafts of pumpkin, apples, and cinnamon as I walk through my door.
Yes, October is chock-full of treats for my senses, but also runneth over with writing subjects to fill my spirit: St. Thérèse of Lisieux (October 1), the Holy Guardian Angels (October 2), St. Francis of Assisi (October 4), St. Faustina (October 5), Our Lady of the Rosary (October 7) — that’s just the first week.
You also have the Rosary itself, Respect Life Month, etc.
You get the picture.
With such a cornucopia of subjects, it’s been tough to choose. I thought about a full departure, and going with shame and self-loathing (which I consider to be two of Satan’s greatest weapons), but I think I’ll shelve those for a more somber month.
October is still early in the football season, and we’re all a little rusty at protecting our blind sides; I don’t have the heart to sack the reader for a 10-yard loss on this perfect fall morning.
I am in the midst of a novena to St. Thérèse, and I must say she wastes no time in getting on the job; she is undoubtedly deserving of a column one of these months (note to self).
I love St. Francis, but am definitely not a pet person, so I fear I might hit a quick dead end there.
I certainly need Divine Mercy, and I pray the Rosary every day . . . but I’ve decided the ones who perhaps get very little press are the Holy Guardian Angels.
I’m guessing their humility would preclude them from filing a complaint over this, but it hardly seems fair to me.
These loving and hopelessly devoted spirits are on the job 24/7/365 from our conception until death; I know for a fact that mine has put in a ridiculous amount of OT in the last 63 years.
I could elaborate with numerous stories to attest, but then I would have to divulge some of the inane things I have done in my life.
My morning coffee buzz is about gone; ergo, so is my willingness to share.
I grew up saying that famous “Angel of God” prayer every day, morning, and night, and I still continue that practice.
I suppose, therefore, you could say that my angel gets at least cursory recognition, but that beautiful prayer is one that’s all too often on auto-pilot with this girl.
It has taken the wisdom of years (let’s hope I’ve garnered some) and the revelation of souls more innocent than mine to remind me of my ever-present angel.
Let’s start with those innocent mouths of babes.
Years ago, my Godson was spending a few days at my parents during the summer.
These excursions were tantamount to a weekend at Disneyland, but Mom never sidestepped an opportunity for spiritual training.
Once during the usual bedtime ritual (snack, story, and night prayers), she suggested he picture his guardian angel ever on his shoulder and even name that angel.
(I cannot believe there was any teaching of the Church that Mom didn’t know, but apparently “you absolutely should not name your Guardian Angel” was one of them).
Anyway, maybe Young Squire had been more demonstrative than usual of the “boys will be boys” phenomenon that day? I can only speculate.
After a long pause of deep consideration, he turned wide-eyed to Mom with the bright green windows to his soul and said, “We won’t name him Lucifer.” That’s a solid plan, Honey Boy.
Speaking of wide eyes, mine were opened anew after singing a typical “vanilla” Sunday mass at a former parish.
We had used the soft and lovely “Attende Domine” for the offertory.
Our accompanist shared afterward that one of her children rushed to her and said, “Mom, when they sang that Latin hymn, you won’t believe what happened to me. I saw the whole altar fill with angels. It was so beautiful I wanted to cry.”
Upon hearing this, who do you suppose DID cry?
Then there are the fervent souls of new converts and the dying.
A friend who came into the faith via her husband’s example said that her in-laws told her to picture herself escorted by her guardian angel every time she approached Holy Communion.
In all of my cradle Catholic years, I had never heard this; it struck me in a profound way.
The dying, of course, have a glimpse beyond the veil that none of us can really grasp.
Once asked to sing “Litany of the Saints” as a processional for a friend’s funeral, I recall thinking that it was a unique piece for said situation, but I didn’t mind at all because I love it.
Days later, his widow explained that he’d had a vision of the end: Evil minions tried to approach him, but the angels stepped in to guard and said, “No, this one is spoken for.”
I get chills just typing those words, and will never forget how perfectly suited that litany was for that moment.
I spend more time now consciously invoking my angel (like St. John Vianney suggests) all day, every day, in matters big and small. I’m circling back to childhood. Just ponder the words of that age-old prayer:
“ . . . to whom God’s love ENTRUSTS me here . . .” Could I have a more perfect “go-to”?
“ . . . ever this day be at my side . . .” This guardian is MINE alone.
“ . . . to light . . .” my mind in its darkest confusion;
“ . . . to guard . . .” my body and soul in my every peril;
“ . . . to rule . . .” my weak will in times of temptation;
“ . . . and to guide . . .” me Home along the Everlasting Way.
Maria Burns is a lifelong Catholic and writer who lives in Madison.