Beautiful story by Patricia Johnson

AT THE HOUSE OF THE VIRGIN

Ephesus, Turkey

We are on our way to the House of the Virgin Mary. I feel sceptical about any shrine, icon or acts of intercession as the religious part of my youth was spent in a Congregational church; the austere side of Protestantism where one’s relationship to God is direct, personal, without the Catholic practices of confession or praying to saints, apostles or any intermediary. On arrival, we find we have only half an hour. I photograph the house; it is square, stone, flat topped and obviously much restored. I also take photos of the many candles burning outside in the open fronted glass cases.

It is small  inside with a statue of the Virgin at the front. I pick up my allotted couple of candles, drop a donation in the box and sit on one of three chairs at the back. Suddenly I start to weep. Unexpectedly I am crying and crying, praying for my daughter who died eleven years ago. In the chair to my left is a veiled woman reading a religious text. Beside me, I press my hand to the stone wall. People enter, stand for a while, and leave. I cannot leave because I cannot stop crying. The tears spill down my cheeks. I feel ashamed. ‘Please look after her,’ I pray repeatedly. I hear peaceful music and the stones against my hand are cool and rough.

I leave and take my thin white candles out to the sandboxes. Someone has emptied each box except for two candles at each end. I light one candle and stand it in the box for Jessie. To whom should I dedicate the other candle? It is no good: I have to give both for her. I am crying once more.

As place and I light the second candle a voice beside me asks ‘Are you alright?’ I turn to see an attractive young woman.

‘Do you need a hug?’ she continues. I am unable to answer yet we embrace. This is a very long hug; her head, covered its fine white cotton scarf is on my shoulder as she says over and over, ‘It’s alright, it’s alright.’

I want to thank her in Turkish, tesekkur ederim, but stop myself, as there are so many nationalities here that she may easily not be Turkish. Instead, I ask, ‘Are you a Christian?’

‘I am a Muslim, but the Virgin Mary is important to us too.’

I nod, trying to control my tears, groping for words. ‘Where are you from?’

‘My husband and I,’ she gestures towards a young man, ‘are from Pakistan, but now we live in Toronto.’

She is slim and petite with large dark eyes and a wide smile. Her name is Saniyah. I tell her my name and that I am from Australia but originally from Connecticut. I tell her this because Connecticut is close to Toronto, though they are in different countries. She continues to smile at me as I say, ‘I didn’t expect this to happen.’

‘I was the same yesterday at Topkapi Palace,’ she replies. ‘I was so was so close to the Prophet’s Cloak I could almost touch it. I was over (her English stumbles as she pauses), overcome with tears because I knew that this would never happen again.’

I thank her as much as I can and we part. I wash my face and go sit in the tour bus, exhausted. I wonder if anything will change; if I will change, if shame can disappear. I only know that love and kindness are real.