Holy Water
If a single drop mellowed her even a little bit, God, I’d dunk her in that baptismal font so fast.
My grandma’s bedroom shelf: four bottles of holy water and one bottle of Chanel No. 5
On Easter morning we ate brunch around our friends’ table, with glorious spring air coming in through the open window and the kids playing outside. We nursed our coffees and talked—as one does on glorious spring mornings—about cults. Scientology, NXIIM, that one where the lady turned into a Smurf after drinking too much colloidal silver. We wondered if we would be susceptible to a cult leader if he caught us at the right moment. I said I’m too suspicious by nature to fall for it, but that’s like saying I’m not as human as the rest of you humans, so I think I’m probably wrong.
Eventually our coffees were drained and we cleared the table and said our goodbyes. My family and I piled into the car to go to Easter mass at the only church in Chicago I can stomach. It’s 20 minutes from our neighborhood but the priest has never once preached about abortion or modesty or the biblical family order, so we make the longer trip. Something about this church soothes me enough that I can quiet my suspicious mind and let the message seep in.
My younger daughter recently went through one of those stages where you wonder sincerely whether she needs an exorcism. It’s normal, she’s four I‘d reassure myself as she whaled on her sister and snarled like a badger when I attempted to extract her. But maybe she’s a sociopath?? I’d think again as she dared me, laughing, to take away all her toys before spitting in my face. I hid the scratches on my body like I was a battered wife and tried my best to stay out of her way. I was ready for the stage to end. I was worried it wasn’t a stage.
“She’ll be a great cult leader,” my husband said one morning as we watched her manipulate her sister into doing her chores. I put The Explosive Child on hold at the library and considered whether it would be more effective to pay for a subscription to Dr. Becky or just start praying.
As I sat in the pew on Easter, feeling vulnerable enough that the music made me tear up, I wondered—am I in a cult? Was Jesus a charismatic sociopath who deprived his followers of sleep and food to make them fertile ground for his message of…blessed are the meek and merciful?
The priest walked by and sprinkled holy water on us as we sat. A moment later I absentmindedly touched the top of my daughter’s head and felt a droplet of water. I found myself hoping it would do all the things I learned holy water could in my 18 years of Catholic education, namely, make her chill the fuck out. She went on with her day, neither meek nor merciful.
As the week went by I pondered whether the droplet had made any difference. If a single drop mellowed her even a little bit, God, I’d dunk her in that baptismal font so fast. I’d make a pilgrimage to Lourdes. I’d light all the candles in the grotto and go to church on all the holy days. I’d join the cult.
But you and I both know that the water sprinkled on her that day was just water. The holiness—in my opinion, because as I mentioned I’m too suspicious for cults—comes from the act of sitting peacefully next to my sweet and salty child and just listening. To old words, to cheesy music, to people shifting in their chairs and saying Peace Be With You! And to babies crying and old ladies singing off key. To have nothing to do for an hour except listen. When I do that, I can hear the wild holiness of the child sitting next to me, no cult or holy water required.
