ABSTRACT

I grew up surrounded by religious images. A picture of the Sacred Heart dominated the kitchen of my family home and, when we moved to a new house, a special track was wired into the wall so that the reinstated picture was further enhanced by a permanently lit small red bulb underneath. As children going in and out of the house we were taught to dip our fi ngers in holy water fonts at the door and trace the sign of the cross against our bodies, or on our foreheads, with the blessed water that we called “holy” water. Sometimes the little fonts depicted winged angels, praying hands, or a crucifi x. In most rooms in the house there were statues and pictures and all were recognizable to us and all had names. Now and again we prayed to a saint for a particular purpose: if we lost something we went to St Anthony, a kindly looking tonsured monk holding the baby Jesus in one arm and a lily in the other. It seemed he was in charge of lost property-but it was necessary to go to the church and make a small donation to ensure his help. Frequently we would also make visits to light a candle before a statue and pray for help in examinations.