Saint Christopher
Saint Christopher is the patron saint of travelers and soldiers (amongst others). But for how long will the protection last? And for whom?
Image courtesy of Imogen + Willie
Every day for as long as I can remember, Dad wore a massive Saint Christopher medal he found at an antique store in Chicago. He bought it when he was eighteen and stationed at Great Lakes Naval Base. The medal was silver and heavy with a low relief of a hobbled Saint Christopher carrying a small boy on his shoulders. Dad bought it before deploying to Korea. It was the only thing pure that came back with him after the war.
On my seventh birthday, I remember Saint Christopher swinging around Dad’s neck when he slapped Mom because the marshmallows on the sweet potatoes burnt in the oven. Michael begged Dad to stop. Dad whacked him so hard with a bottle that Michael couldn’t open his left eye for a week. I hid under the kitchen table and stared at Dad’s medal. It kept my eyes off of what was happening. The next day Mom told the school Michael fell out of a tree.
During summer, Saint Christopher glistened against Dad’s tan chest as he barked orders like a sergeant at Michael, Mary, and me. Like soldiers. He demanded the grass be cut on a diagonal. For every weed next to the nest of snakes be pulled. At night I’d peek into Mom and Dad’s bedroom and watch Dad on his knees begging God for forgiveness. The medal and its long cable chain draped over his hands like a rosary. Saint Christopher protected us from him…and he knew it. It protected us from his private war.
Dad prayed every night for ten years before God answered.
When everyone left the funeral parlor and only the family was left to grieve, I swiped Saint Christopher off Dad before the funeral director closed the casket. I wanted something to remember him. I hid the medal in a small box in my dresser.
After college, I prayed with it when I battled my private war. Just like Dad. Tara gave me a Saint Christopher medal for Christmas the year we married. It was small and didn’t have the weight of hope like Dad’s. I never told her it was a piece of shit.
When the grandkids were older, Mom told the story about Dad’s Saint Christopher and how much he struggled with a demon inside him. She said she thanked God that Dad was buried with Saint Christopher. To protect him. It gave her comfort believing Dad was at peace. I excused myself before she could finish her story. I needed to get a glass of water to wash down a generation of guilt.
