Do you have something you wear or carry around with you regularly? I’m not referring to something like a purse, wallet, or phone. I’m talking about something sentimental; you just feel like you need it. Perhaps a beloved book? A rosary? A lucky keychain? A coin?
Mine is a necklace my aunt gifted me on the day of my Confirmation. It is a necklace of my confirmation saint’s medal–St. Joan of Arc. I didn’t wear it very often at first, but over time, I wore it more and more, to the point of it now being one of two necklaces I choose between each day.
For the non-Catholics and non-confirmed Catholics who may be reading this, allow me to explain what “Confirmation” is and what the purpose of a “confirmation saint” is to a confirmed Catholic.
First, Confirmation is one of the seven holy sacraments a Catholic may receive in the Church. The other six are Baptism, Eucharist, Penance, Anointing of the Sick, Holy Orders, and Matrimony. Sacraments are “powers that come forth from the Body of Christ, which is ever-living and life-giving. They are actions of the Holy Spirit at work in his Body, the Church. They are ‘the masterworks of God’ in the new and everlasting covenant” (pg. 316. Catechism of the Catholic Church: with modifications from the editio typica).
While there are seven sacraments available to each Catholic, a Catholic will rarely receive all seven of them. While it is possible, a situation such as this would have to unfold:
A little boy is baptized into the church as an infant. As a child, he receives the sacrament of the Eucharist, and a year or two later, receives the sacrament of Reconciliation (Penance). In high school, the boy makes the decision to confirm the vows of his baptism on his own, and receives the sacrament of Confirmation. This boy grows into a man who meets the love of his life, and receives the sacrament of Matrimony when he marries her. Unfortunately, his wife passes away while they are young–still in their thirties or forties. Over time, this man feels he is being called to enter the priesthood. With special permission from the Archbishop, he enters the priesthood and receives the sacrament of Holy Orders. Many years later, he falls gravely ill, and receives the sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick in hopes of healing, or in preparation for his death.
As you can see, the circumstances would have to be precise in order receive all seven sacraments. However, nearly all practicing Catholics receive at least four of the seven: Baptism, Eucharist, Reconciliation, and Confirmation.
The sacraments of Holy Orders, Baptism, and Confirmation “confer, in addition to grace, a sacramental character or ‘seal’ by which the Christian shares in Christ’s priesthood and is made a member of the Church…This configuration to Christ and to the Church, brought about by the Spirit, is indelible; it remains forever in the Christian as a positive disposition for grace, a promise and guarantee of divine protections, and as a vocation to divine worship and the services of the Church. Therefore these sacraments can never be repeated” (pg. 317. Catechism of the Catholic Church: with modifications from the editio typica).
Confirmation is also one of the sacraments of initiation; it “lay[s] the foundations of every Christian life,” and the faithful are “strengthened by the sacrament of Confirmation.” Through Confirmation, “the baptized are more perfectly bound to the Church and are enriched with a special strength of the Holy Spirit. Hence they are, as true witnesses of Christ, more strictly obliged to spread and defend the faith by word and deed” (pg. 358. Catechism of the Catholic Church: with modifications from the editio typica).One must first be baptized in order to receive Confirmation, though you do not have to necessarily be confirmed. Confirmation is a choice a member of the Church makes when he or she is around sixteen years old. If you choose to opt out of confirmation, no worries–you can always receive the sacrament later on in life.
While it is not “wrong” to not be confirmed, the Church states by refusing Confirmation, you have not completed the three sacraments of initiation: Baptism, Eucharist, and Confirmation. In other words, you are not completely and totally devoted to Christ and the Church. You are in a sort of “halfway” state–while you are a member of the Church, you have chosen to not complete your “initiation.”
If you choose to partake in the sacrament, you will be anointed by the Archbishop with a perfumed oil called chrism, both confirming your baptism and strengthening baptismal grace (pg. 360. Catechism of the Catholic Church: with modifications from the editio typica). The anointing signifies an imprint of a spiritual seal of the Holy Spirit and “marks our total belonging to Christ.” Just like Baptism, Confirmation leaves an indelible mark–a mark that cannot be washed away. No sin can remove this mark, either. Therefore, as mentioned before, neither Baptism nor Confirmation can be repeated. This also explains why someone who was previously baptized in a Christian faith who later converts to Catholicism is not “re-baptized”–they have already been baptized to Christ. Instead, they will receive Eucharist and Confirmation to complete the sacraments of initiation.
When the Archbishop anoints you, he says, “be sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit,” and, (this is the REALLY cool part) he calls you by your chosen name.
My what? Your chosen name. While preparing to receive the sacrament of Confirmation, Catholics choose a saint to model after and guide them through the remainder of their spiritual journey–the rest of their lives. Your confirmation saint will pray for you in heaven, and is someone you can ask to intercede for you during prayer. While it is not mentioned in the Catechism, this is a tradition most Catholics follow while preparing for the sacrament. So, as a confirmed Catholic, I have four names–my first, middle and last my parents chose for me–and my confirmation name, Joan.
But, you don’t just randomly pick a saint name and go with it. After careful (prayerful) time and consideration, and quite a bit of research, you may choose your confirmation saint. The point of making a thoughtful decision is to know your saint inside and out–their story, beginning to end, and to continue to learn about and call upon them throughout your life. “By canonizing some of the faithful, i.e., by solemnly proclaiming that they practiced heroic virtue and lived in fidelity to God’s grace, the Church recognizes the power of the Spirit of holiness within her and sustains the hope of believers by proposing the saints to them as models and intercessors” (pg. 239. Catechism of the Catholic Church: with modifications from the editio typica).
When I was in sixth grade, I had an amazing History teacher, and he always kept books resting against the chalkboard for his students to borrow during reading times in class. He would change the books out depending on what we were learning that week. One week we were learning about medieval times and the Renaissance, so the chalkboard held up numerous books about knights, queens, kings, and the like. One book in particular caught my attention–the cover had a knight riding a horse, thrusting a banner into the air with one hand and a sword with the other. There were a lot of books about knights–but this one was different because the knight was a woman. Her hair fell around her armored shoulders and her face had an expression of fury. She wasn’t one of the damsels at the top of a tower, wearing an ornate dress and a soft smile, like many of the other book covers pictured. She was quite obviously the hero. When my teacher announced it was time for quiet reading, I grabbed that book as fast as I could and devoured it cover to cover.
It was all about the incredible life of Saint Joan of Arc. She was a young peasant girl in France who regularly received visions from Saint Michael the Archangel, Saint Catherine, and Saint Margaret. At thirteen, she was told to drive the English from France via one of these visions. At age sixteen, she petitioned to visit the French Royal Court, and was dismissed by the commander. However, she returned months later to petition again, and successfully predicted a reversal in battle that could have only been revealed to her by divine revelation. This convinced the commander to grant Joan passage to the French Royal Court. In order to safely travel through war-ridden territory, Joan was given men’s clothing and armor.
Joan met privately with King Charles VII and earned his trust. She was given permission to travel with the French army dressed as a man in a suit of armor, with her own sword, banner, and horse. Despite King Charles VII’s trust, his advisors encouraged several inquiries and tests to be thrust upon Joan. She passed every single obstacle, including putting an end to the siege of the English in Orleans. This victory is most significant due to the fact that Joan had predicted the siege would lift several months before, and she was excluded from war councils and battles, leaving her completely ignorant.
Although she was wounded by an arrow in her neck during this battle, she returned and asked King Charles VII to allow her to continue to fight in the French Army. She was granted permission to continue to lead the army into several battles to reclaim French cities, each of which ended in victory. Eventually, a truce was established with England; however, it was short-lived. While defending against an English/Burgundian siege, Joan was captured by the Burgundians and sold to the English as prisoner. France, and its king, did nothing to save her.
Joan was denied access to legal counsel, and despite there being no evidence to support a trial against her, one was opened. She was tried as a heretic, crossdresser, and witch. The jury was made up of only English clergy, despite law which required impartiality. She was asked various questions which proved nearly impossible to answer without admitting guilt or being accused of heresy, yet somehow, Joan articulated perfect responses. Still, the court altered the transcripts of the trial to fit their murderous agenda.
Joan was held in an improper prison, despite her requests to be moved to an ecclesiastical one. After an attempted rape by the soldiers who guarded her, she refused to wear a dress, and instead donned male clothing and armor, insisting it provided more protection against rape than a dress. This earned her another charge of cross-dressing, and Joan was condemned to death in 1431. She was burned at the stake, and her body was desecrated by being burned two more times after her death to prevent any relics from being collected. She was nineteen years old at the time of her death. Twenty-five years later, Joan was finally declared innocent of all charges and her death an injustice after the Church held a nullification trial as requested by Joan’s mother.
Saint Joan of Arc is the patron saint of France, soldiers, rape victims, martyrs, prisoners, persons ridiculed for their piety, opposition of Church authorities, the Women’s Army Corps (WAC) and Women Appointed for Voluntary Emergency Services (WAVES).
In other words, Joan of Arc was a literal badass. She was an ordinary girl, born to peasantry, who never doubted the call of God, even at the young age of thirteen. She defended her country and its king, despite their betrayal. She defended her God, no matter the realities of torture, rape, and death. Joan was, and continues to be, an inspiration for women all over the world–a victorious warrior in a time when women were nothing more than the property of men.
And that is why I chose Joan to be my confirmation saint. I aspire to be strong, courageous, and steadfast in my faith the way she was. I admire her stubbornness (something we share) and her ambition. I am awestruck at her blatant defiance of the law and of the men who imposed it. She never wavered.
So, why am I writing about the initiation sacraments and confirmation saints? What is the point of this post if you are a confirmed catholic who doesn’t want a religion lesson?
Well, here it goes: my grandmother unexpectedly passed away in her sleep on January 11, 2018. She was sixty-eight years young. I called her Meme.
We don’t know why she passed. She was called home and that was that. And despite knowing she has made her journey through this world and is in the next, where she can finally be with her parents and grandparents, my family will forever mourn our loss. She is our light. She is the goofball, the jokester, the comedic relief. She is a pillar of strength. And now, she’s gone.
My Meme was an absolute character. Once she met you, she didn’t forget you, and trust me–there’s no way you would ever forget her. She greeted everyone, and I really do mean everyone, with “hey, baby!” My Grandpa calls her–“hey, baby!” I call her–“hey, baby!” My Dad calls her–“hey, baby!” Random grocery store cashier? Yep–“hey, baby!” Police officer who pulled her over for speeding in a school zone? She would roll down her window, give him a big smile and say, “Hey, baby!”
Now, we’re in Louisiana, so calling a stranger an affectionate term is completely normal. Still, I would never call a person I just met “baby,” unless said person is actually a child. But Meme came from a different time, an old-school New Orleans culture. We refer to it as “Yat.” Long story short, “Yat” is a term used to describe someone who speaks in a very unique dialect belonging to the greater New Orleans area. It is a hard-not-to-notice way of speaking that stems from a multitude of cultures and peoples: Native American, French, Spanish, Creole, Cajun, English, Irish, Italian, and German. Not only is “Yat” a linguistic feature, it is also a culture. It is a way of living; a warm, eclectic, loud personality. Meme was a Yat–everyone was her friend, everyone was welcomed to her home, everyone was “baby,” everyone needed her help, and everyone was special to her.
My Meme was baptized and raised Catholic. Her mother, my great-grandmother, was an extremely devout woman. I was lucky enough to know my great-grandmother well into my twenties, and trust me, my Granny’s faith was steady and absolute. My Meme didn’t echo my Granny’s beliefs, but, she and my Grandpa baptized both of their children into the Catholic Church as infants. My father served as an altar boy for most of his childhood, attended Catholic school his entire life, and regularly attended mass. This was a majority in thanks to his grandparents and great-grandparents.
My father’s religious upbringing carried over into his own children. My parents raised my siblings and I to be devout Catholics. And while I’ve never known my Meme to attend mass of her own accord, she always ensured her grandchildren went to church while in her care, whether that meant she went with us, let our Granny take us, or dropped us off and picked us up afterwards. She attended every single religious milestone in our lives, from baptisms, to first communions, to confirmations, to weddings. She made sure to be present, and to acknowledge and support our faith as an important part of our upbringings.
Around the time of my confirmation, I remember discussing with Meme my choice of name, and I was quite surprised at her response when I told her I had chosen St. Joan of Arc. She said, “Oh baby, that’s my confirmation saint, too!”
I remember being shocked for a few reasons: one, she never actively participated in the Catholic faith during my lifetime, so I didn’t know she had ever been confirmed. Two, despite her confirmation, I was surprised she remembered her chosen saint, given her strained relationship with the Church. Three, I thought it was a strange coincidence that of all of the thousands of saints of the Catholic Church, I unknowingly chose the same one as my grandmother. Four, I honestly didn’t think she would know who St. Joan of Arc was, as she never discussed religion with me unless it involved making sure my butt was in a pew on Sunday.
At the time, sixteen-year-old-me smiled at the coincidental connection between us and I never thought much else of it.
Until two weeks ago, on a Thursday, when my mother called to tell me Meme didn’t wake up that morning. In the midst of the sobs, dry-heaves, shaking…I felt St. Joan of Arc. It sounds crazy, I know, but I felt her. She immediately clouded my mind, and allowed me to calm down. What’s an even crazier coincidence is what had happened just four days prior, on Sunday.
My husband, daughter, and I were rushing to get back into the car after morning mass. I had a tutoring session I was teaching that day, and I was anxious to get there on time. While my husband started the car, I placed Genevieve in her carseat and began to buckle her. She unexpectedly grabbed my necklace–my St. Joan of Arc medal–and yanked just hard enough to snap the chain in half. I have worn that necklace nearly every day, if not every other day, for about five years. I immediately cupped it in my hands and bit my lip to stop the angry tears from flowing. My husband assured me it was an accident, we could easily fix it, and to not worry about it. I agreed, and did my best to ignore the pit in my stomach.
I told my husband, “I know it sounds silly, but I wear that necklace on the days I feel like I need extra help, extra strength or courage. It makes me feel like I can do whatever I set my mind to.”
“I know, but you don’t need a necklace to do that,” was his response as he held my hand. And I thought, he’s right.
Over the next few days, my necklace sat on the kitchen counter, waiting to be fixed, but I kept forgetting about it.
Until Thursday morning. I automatically reached for my neck, and it was bare. I had temporarily forgotten it was broken, and in the moment of learning of my Meme’s death, I felt completely weak without it.
It took ten days to have a funeral. Those ten days were the longest, most miserable days my family has endured in quite some time. They seemed to never end, and it felt like we couldn’t properly attempt to heal, unless we wanted to rip open the scab come the day of her service. So we sat there, with a gaping, bleeding wound, for ten days. And on each of one, I glanced at my snapped necklace on the counter, and thought, I should fix that. I should bring it to my Dad. I should ask him, he’ll do it for me, I know he will.
But I couldn’t. I don’t know if it was because I didn’t want to disturb my dad during the commotion of losing his mother, or if it was because I couldn’t handle dealing with it, because dealing with the broken necklace somehow meant dealing with losing my Meme. I wasn’t ready.
Over that week and a half, without my necklace, Joan of Arc must have been praying for me. She must have been conspiring with Meme, both of them entering my mind and my heart, filling them with memories and things I hadn’t realized before Meme left. Meme used our seemingly coincidental saint to reach me, to comfort me.
Because suddenly, I realized Meme had always been Joan.
She bore two children. She worked as a nurse for years. She struggled with her weight, and underwent major surgery to bring her back to health. She had double-knee replacement surgery during the worst hurricane to hit Louisiana–Katrina–and was rescued off of the hospital roof by her husband and son. She battled and won against breast cancer, and then just a couple of years later, she battled and won against thyroid cancer. Nothing could stop this woman from being here, from being present, from living.
She served everyone around her, and never doubted their goodness. Meme had a way of not only finding the positive in every situation and person, but also had a way of flat-out refusing to acknowledge the negative. She lost more friends and family to death than anyone could bear. She held friends’ hands as they went through divorces, miscarriages, deaths, illnesses, and the like. She put herself to work at all times–never taking a minute to rest. She would tell me, “there’s too much work to do, baby. Someone has to do it, and I can, so I will!”
Like Joan, she fought and won battle after battle. She had every reason to stop fighting, but never did. It didn’t even occur to her that quitting was an option, because for her, it simply didn’t exist. She just always seemed to know where she was meant to be, what she was meant to do, and how to accomplish her mission. It was as if her courage and confidence came naturally, easily. Meme was a warrior.
She told my siblings and I multiple times: “I may not be a good Catholic, but I’m a good Christian!”
But, Meme, you were always a good Catholic. Your indelible marks of baptism and confirmation never faded. You have always belonged to Christ, as you chose to be. You consciously chose to live like Him–you served and protected others at any and all expense. No price was too high. You loved everyone with your entire heart. You ensured your children and grandchildren knew and loved God. You never gave up, despite the many obstacles you faced. You fought. You won. You had faith.
The day of her funeral I kept absentmindedly reaching for my neck. I confided in my husband how weak I felt, how desperately I needed St. Joan with me, how I needed my Meme. I needed that connection with her now more than ever.
He sweetly reached over my pregnant belly, gently touched my right side, and reminded me that I already had both Joan and Meme with me, and always will. At first, I thought he meant generally, like how we believe the dead never truly leave us, and are always in our hearts. Then I realized why he was reaching for my side.
When I was twenty-one, I got a tattoo on my ribcage. It’s my only one. And it says,
“I am not afraid, I was born to do this.” –St. Joan of Arc.
A Surge of the Heart 