In the photo on my home page, you can’t really see it as the altar is well adorned at a time of National Celebrations. It was Creole Week, leading up to Independence Celebrations. So, I was also wearing colourful madras, though not classic traditional wear- not a wob dwyett, but something quite acceptable for the season.
Why the preamble? If you look at the post Hurricane Maria photo, you will see the bare altar but in all its glory. I say this because the lovely stonework isn’t hidden.
After Vatican II, churches were allowed (or encouraged) to build table altars. Most parishes built a stone altar in front of the high altar that had been there for ages, and they continued to live with both. In Grand Bay, embracing change that spelt progress came naturally. So not only did the parishioners of St. Patrick’s, Grand Bay build this stone altar, but after its construction, the old high altar was demolished. If you look at the place, you’d think the present altar was all that was ever there.
That stone altar holds pleasant, yet bittersweet memories from my childhood. What you cannot see beneath the handcrafted stone exterior, is my dad’s contribution. He cut, bended, welded, did whatever metalwork was necessary for the construction. There would be no altar without Joe’s hard work.
You might ask if my father was a welder or construction worker. Well, long before DIY was in vogue, my father ordered books and taught himself technical skills from plumbing to electricity; so besides being a fireman (that was his paid employment) he was truly a jack-of-all-trades.
He offered his service gladly, refusing to submit a bill for his labour and skill. He was proud of the result, and he knew the value of his work. Time and time again, the parish priest would ask for his bill and Daddy would remind him that there was no charge. He pestered my father non-stop until one day Daddy told him, “Pay me seventy-five dollars.” In the late 1960’s that sounded like a lot of money, yes. But Daddy’s work was worth that and more. Moreover, he needed to get Father N off his back.
Then the priest suddenly remembered that it was a free job and he called my father a liar. Did I say bittersweet memories? Well, whenever we have family rehearsals of childhood dramas that only the Delsols can enjoy, this one comes up- my dad’s response to the priest. “Well, Fr. N, if you call me a liar, you’re a stranger to the truth and an enemy to your profession!”
There are so many quotations to remind us of our parents and the lessons they taught us! But for me, every trip to the St. Patrick’s RC Church, even now as it still awaits restoration, is a reminder of more than my childhood experiences in and around that building- worship, fellowship, etc.
Every time I go there, my father’s unseen offering inside that altar reminds me that that my giving doesn’t have to be exposed to the whole world. God sees it and many are blessed because of it. Way to go.
To God be the glory.
