I was in LA again this past weekend, for a family-and-friends end-of-summer party. Having learned the hard way, I booked a late afternoon flight so I’d have pretty much the whole day to get myself together to leave. My friend Daisy was headed to work that morning, so she dropped me off near Olvera Street for my usual orgy of conspicuous consumption, which was an unexpected treat I’d not planned on during such a short visit.
Before I took out my wallet and emptied it of all liquid assets (booty scored: tattoo-style charm bracelet, several pairs of earrings, the obligatory cross, a calavera car sticker, and gifts for several loved ones), however, I decided I’d stop in at Nuestra Señora Reina de los Angeles (otherwise known as La Placita Church), the oldest church in LA, right across the street from Olvera. It’s an active church and like many in LA, site of some amazing murals. On the north wall is a stunning one of the Virgen de Guadalupe and Juan Diego. The area of the plaza below it is fenced off and several racks are set up for devotional candles, as well as two kneelers for those who come to pray.
I was there at about eleven in the morning. Roughly a half-dozen worshippers – all Latin – were gathered beneath the mural, praying, kneeling or standing, reading from missals, holding rosaries. I felt too much like a spectator to go in myself at first, so I stood outside the fence and took it all in, especially one diminutive woman in particular, her coal-black braids trailing down her tiny back, her right hand holding a well-worn missal as she intoned her prayers quietly to La Virgen. Candles flickered in the hot noonday sun; not as atmospheric as it would have been at dark but just as moving. I watched people come and go and in a strange way envied their faith; its absoluteness and reliability – they didn’t need their religion to be a poem or a metaphor the way that I do. I wondered what it must be like to feel that way, to feel God under your feet, solid as earth.
I went inside the Church and joined the others taking part in Adoration for a while. It was cool inside, and quiet, despite a couple of dozen people in a small space. I love old, Spanish-style churches. There’s just nothing quite like them.
I went back out and made my way to the Guadalupe mural I’d visited earlier. There were fewer people there so I stood beneath the olive tree (hey! shade! Thanks, God!) to give prayers of sincere thanks for the many wonderful blessings I have in this life, and offer prayers of protection for a Marine friend who is heading back to the war in Iraq. My eyes were closed behind my sunglasses and I was super emo that day, so let’s just say that while I wasn’t openly sobbing on the street, I wasn’t exactly dry-eyed.
And then, a huge drop of water fell onto my forearm. I felt it and the first thing I thought of was pigeon, but when I opened my eyes, and then ran my finger through it, it was pretty obvious that it was water. I looked side to side – no one, nothing. Up – just the olive tree. I searched thoroughly for any sign of moisture, any logical reason to justify the splash on my arm. There was nothing. Dry as a bone. I got the chills, crossed myself, and made my way to the plaza, though I kept reflecting on it for the rest of the day.
I receive so many strange and lovely gifts, all the time. I don’t know what this was – my best friend called it ‘a small miracle.’ Maybe. Or maybe it was a coincidence and there’s a perfectly logical explanation. I’ll never know. But I’ll take what I can get, and I’ll err on the side of miracles.