Have you noticed that when we see photos of old village women in Southern and Eastern Europe it looks as though they all wear the same uniform? Longish black dresses, ankle-length black skirts with white blouses and gray/white hair, also long, gathered up in buns of different styles.

That’s how I remember my own grandmothers. In Italy, that uniform is called “portare il lutto” or “wearing the mourning.” The custom was to wear it for one year after the death of someone close: a parent, a sibling, a child. But then, families were so large and the deaths seemed to come so close together that it became a lot simpler to keep on wearing black, rather than keeping track of months, years and deaths. As a variant, and for special occasions, the black cloth would be livened by small white dots, or tiny white flowers. That’s what distinguished grandmother from mother, at least for us kids.

The other thing that distinguished them, of course, was their wisdom and the honor in which they were held by everyone. Grandmas loved us, they taught us how to cook, how to sew, and my father’s mother taught us to embroider and to knit. I have to admit that since we were not the family living with her, my embroidery would never hold a candle to her exquisite stitches, so tiny, so varied, that turned anything she touched into masterpieces.

And then, the regular complement of the grandmothers’ outfit was the Rosary, black of course! If it was not hanging from their belts it was sticking out from their pockets or, when they were resting, it was in their hands. That’s how I remember my grandmothers. Always praying, always interceding both for those living and for the dead. I think I already told of my great-grandmother Purissima, whom I never met. My dad said that she helped her husband run their
“osteria,” (wine pub) in the village in which they lived. Every evening, many of the older men would gather there and drink, play cards, shoot the breeze and maybe eat some of the stew that was “the menu.” My dad told us that when the church bell tolled Vespers, the village emptied into the church to pray the Rosary. Everyone, that is, except for a few old curmudgeons who insisted in drinking and playing cards in the “osteria.” Purissima was stuck at her post, but she
took her revenge: she’d close the doors, stopped serving, whipped out her Rosary and led the prayer. And none of those rebels dared to take on the 4 foot 9, red-headed tyrant. After all, they used to have grandmas too!

Now most old women in Italy do not wear the “lutto,” unless they live in small, remote villages, mostly in the South. Many live alone, away from their children, as “progress” separated families, and grandparents are no longer the heart, the
wisdom and the teachers of the home. But I know that my children’s only living grandmother still prays for all of her family, the living and the dead. Mother is 99 years old. She chose to live in a retirement home and every day she asks God
whether He’s forgotten to call her. As her body wears down, her prayer intensifies. She still attends daily Mass in the home’s chapel, she prays for her loved ones and for her Country all the time. Then, three times a day, she follows a ritual: she calls out the name of every family member, every friend, everyone who asked for her intercession, and after every name she prays a Hail Mary. She showed my sister how she does it and it’s amazing. Her list, as you can imagine, is very long. She keeps no notes, but she does not skip anyone: what a good way to keep your memory alert!

Now it’s the turn of our generation. Most of us grandmothers do not live with our children and grandchildren. Often our loved ones are away from the Church, too busy with their lives, too “sophisticated” to turn to God in prayer. But not us. We may not wear the black garments of mourning or put up our hair in buns, but we pray for our children and grandchildren. We pray that they will call on the gift of Wisdom that they received on the day of their Confirmation. We pray that they’ll realize that only with God can they ever be happy and safe. And we trust that He will break through a stubborn heart.

Here at Holy Trinity, many of us, grandmothers and mothers, come together once a month in our beautiful Eucharistic Adoration Chapel, and together we lift up our loved ones to the Lord. We began meeting a year ago, every 4th Monday of the month at 6:30 pm. We pray the Rosary for our loved ones and all those who are on our prayer list. Then, we gather for a short time in the convent, to share success stories and also to seek comfort and encouragement when things do not seem to go well. The group is called St. Monica’s Cenacle in imitation of the great mother of St. Augustine, who never gave up on her son, and whose prayers were answered beyond her dreams! How about you? Would you like to join us? You’ll be most welcome!