The Hymnbook

[Excerpt from In Spite of and Because of Everything]

When my grandmother died at age 81 — she died from the shock she sustained upon receiving premature last rites from a well-meaning man of the cloth — it was my mother’s task to sort through her belongings. Her life’s possessions had piled up over half a century in chests and boxes and cabinets, on the lining shelves of a moist laundry room, between the cracks of fusty upholstered furniture, or tucked into the corners of a bedroom that had not been entered by anybody but my grandmother in more than 20 years. My mother was surprised how few of the belongings seemed to be of a more personal nature: an album with photos of weddings and confirmations, vacation postcards from her children, a few letters. And then there was her hymnbook. Every Sunday, my grandmother toted her hymnbook to early morning mass and, when time permitted, to afternoon prayer. Once a month she would confess.

The hymnbook looked new and at the same time used, as only the things of very old people can look. Its leather cover was worn thin, the red and blue and yellow bookmarks frayed; and yet, it looked like a book that had been wrapped in silk paper all its life.

When my mother picked up the hymnbook, a photo fell out, fluttering down to the floor. Yellowed by age, its formerly waved borders nearly smooth and even, the photo had nonetheless been gingerly preserved, without a crease or rip. Pictured was a young man my mother had never seen before, slim and a little pale, his legs crossed casually, his head slightly tilted in a subtle gesture that conveyed a sense of energy and relaxation. On the back of the photo was written "Ludwig, 1912".

My mother was puzzled. Who was this man, and why was his photo in the hymnbook? And for how long had it been in there? Nobody but her mother had ever used the hymnbook, so the photo might have been in there for 20, 30 years. Had she looked at it each time she went to church all these years, reminiscing or maybe praying for the man? My mother felt as if she had just learned something about her own mother, without knowing what it was, something that touched her, and she wondered whether she would ever find out, now that her mother had passed away.

. . .