1
November 5
St. Michael, Spring Hill
If the size of the church to the number of residents means anything, then St. Michael’s parishioners had a heap ton of faith. The tall spire could be seen for miles from Highway 4, which was good since I had never been there. Farms dotted the landscape all around with a handful of houses in Spring Hill. The church’s cornerstone was dated 1900 and much of the interior had changed little, I suspected. Most churches have modernized, but this church seemed more traditional from my first glance of an ominous statue guarding the main entrance of St. Michael slaying a dragon. The church seemed outsized for a farm community consisting of the classic small Stearns County town with a bar or two and a church.
Inside, the confessionals were ornate, heavy structures on the sides that looked like they could handle all the venial and even mortal sins. Statues lined the altar and dozens of unlit beeswax candles stood ready. The tall stained glass windows captured the morning sun through a dove flying over the earth. I couldn’t help but imagine the sunset streaming in the other side through a giant bright blue eye. Most of the windows symbols were familiar but I did not recognize an anchor-type cross and an egg-shaped object. The ceiling featured eight angels in circles facing St. Michael at the front while underneath stood rows of dark pews, probably original, creaky even though they had been reinforced at least twice in the middle of the long sections. Ten souls celebrated Mass in that beautiful church, not all singing acapella, but those few voices harmonized like a well-rehearsed choir. Father Marvin’s homily related using gifts and talent from the first reading Romans 12:5-16 “Since we have gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, let us exercise them” My take-away was this reflection as I am way out of my comfort zone in any matters evangelical. Writing about my faith was a big stretch and helped me hone the gift of finding faith and spirituality in any situation.
I definitely felt the presence of regular daily Mass attendees there and wondered if they probably conferred afterward to analyze who this interloper was. Maybe I should have introduced myself to someone, but I mischievously enjoyed the mystery. It also made me wonder if I could do a better job connecting to other lone worshipers and be more like my Mom who would certainly have extended herself.
Mom’s Faith
Growing up almost in the shadow of the steeple, my Mom surely attended St. Michael’s at some point. Her faith was truly part of her very being, in fact if you looked closely you could see small indentations in her forehead from a sign of the cross mishap. As a young girl, Mom thought she had a bottle of holy water, but it was muriatic acid and burned through her shirt at the shoulders and ate away the skin on her forehead. Truly marked with the sign of the cross! This same faith would prove inspirational when she made decisions at the end of he