We were a band of Indians yesterday, crossing the windswept waters of the bay before braving cliffs and crevices through shrub-studded hills. The same strong redwoods that rose to greet our fathers’ fathers saluted us as old friends, pointing the way northward to the Mission of San Rafael Arcangel.
Tethering our faithful van to a parking meter, we padded toward a small outcropping of red-roofed buildings, quaint and hospitable and huddled round the courtyard like a campfire. We stepped inside the dimly lit chapel, kneeling for a few moments with hearts chiming in tune to the mission bells, “Lord, it is good that we are here.”
Blinking in the midday sun afterward, we longed to see the good Padre in charge of the Mission, a stalwart follower of Father Junipero Serra, come from Spain to shed an ancient light upon a new world. He, we felt sure, would welcome us with food and medicine and words of Eternal Life. A paper taped to the door of the second red-roofed building read, “BE BACK IN FIVE MINUTES,” and, suddenly, the hopeful Indians retreated and we were a restless family again, wondering how soon we might enter the Mission Museum and Gift Shop.
As I passed around sunscreen and sips of water, the door burst open, and a jovial woman greeted us with, “Are all these children from one family?”
“Yes, we are,” the girls and boy responded almost in unison to the familiar question, as she bundled them into the shop like cousins late for a reunion.
“How wonderful!” she continued merrily, stopping each child for a bit of good cheer, so that her every breath was exhaled through words of kindness. “A mother of all these children deserves this,” she grinned, pressing an image of Our Lady of the Rosary into my hand. Agnes was eyeing a white statue of her patroness, when the kind-hearted lady stopped to tell her about St. Maria Goretti, another model of purity for today’s teenage girls. She noticed Patrick fingering a white knotted rosary and said, “I have an even better one for you,” producing the sturdy black beads of St. Benedict. Hearing we were from New York, she swiftly wrapped not one, but nine St. Raphael medals (one for each member of the family including Daddy), telling the children the story of the Archangel’s medicine and reminding them that the Mission’s patron is also a special friend to travelers.
She did not bat an eyelash when three-year-old Maureen made a dart round the store with two of her younger babysitters in pursuit, nor when Eileen uttered an especially piercing shriek from within the folds of her sling. This was my cue to bring our purchases to the front—Patrick’s rosary, Agnes’ statue, a book about the missions, and Mission Friar paper dolls. Wearing a pleading expression, Margaret handed me a leather keychain with an image of St. Michael the Archangel on one side. The lady noticed and asked, “So you like St. Michael the Archangel?” Margaret nodded with a grin, “Yes, I say his prayer every night.”
Stepping from behind the counter, the lady invited Margaret to say the prayer aloud with her. Looking like Millet’s Angelus, the two bowed with reverence—one head turning from dark to gray, the other from blonde to dark—and recited the prayer in earnest, “St. Michael the Archangel defend us in battle.”
She finished ringing us up, shaving quite a bit off the price and saying, "A big family like this needs to save some money." She walked us to the door with a parting, “These children really know their saints!”
“Oh, thank you so very much,” I gushed from the bottom of my heart, feeling as if something remained unsaid between us and adding, “My name is Alice, by the way.” “Alice, it was a pleasure to meet you,” she beamed. “My name is Maria.” Without a moment’s hesitation, I exclaimed, “Of course it is! What else could you possibly be named?” She laughed deeply and gave me a hug, saying that the Blessed Mother always takes care of us. We were parting the best of friends after a half hour’s acquaintance, and this seemed right somehow. The moment we were all strapped into the car, I sang, “Maria, I just met a girl named Maria . . . .”
Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge many choruses later, I passed five dollars to the toll operator. She was a pretty young girl with bouncy curls and a ready smile. “Wait,” she said, after receiving the money, “Is there anyone else in the car with you?”
“Yes,” I told her, “seven children.”
“Oh! Seven children!” she exclaimed in a cheery voice, “then here—you don’t have to pay.” She passed me back my five dollar bill and sent us on our way.
Now, I can only assume this is some kind of high occupancy vehicle incentive (yet another of San Francisco’s many perks), but the children were impressed. Several observations were made from the back.
Margaret: “We’ve been getting a lot of discounts!”
Marie: “Everybody loves us!”
Theresa: “First the cable car guy, then the Mission, now this!”
It was good to be heading home and feeling loved, with a crayon-colored bridge behind us and a cozy evening with Daddy ahead.
Later that night, I was not so very surprised to learn that St. Raphael is also the patron of “happy meetings.” Maria had certainly provided a happy meeting for us, and she managed to send a band of make-believe Indians home with gifts, medicine (as in “Medicine of God”), and the words of Eternal Life.
It seems the California Mission is still performing its original task.