The Outside by Laura Bickle Page B

daylight.”
    We made our way down leaf-strewn bricked paths that meandered around bare trees. Tied to the trees were brightly painted sculptures.
    â€œWho are these?” I asked.
    â€œSaints,” Ginger said. “This one is Saint Francis, patron saint of animals.” She pointed to a figure holding a lamb, then another figure of a robed man holding a baby. “And Saint Joseph.”
    â€œWe didn’t have saints in the Amish religion.” I stared up at the robed man holding the baby. He was bearded, like an Amish man, and with the expression of tenderness on his face he reminded me of my father. I had heard of saints before, but wasn’t sure I fully grasped the concept. “I know that they’re holy people.”
    â€œRight. They’re special people who lived fully ‘in Christ,’” Ginger said.
    â€œHow is that different from being full
of
Christ, like Pastor Gene said?”
    â€œSaints usually lived a long time before. And accomplished huge miracles. Like this one, Saint Joan.” She pointed to a figure of a young woman in armor. Paint had flaked away from her face, and squirrels had stored nuts in the bottom ledge of her shrine.
    â€œWhat did she do?”
    â€œGod spoke to her. He told her to lead an army to victory in the Hundred Years’ War. And she did.”
    I looked at the figure. She didn’t seem very big, or very powerful. Plain people didn’t believe in military service—we were pacifists. I couldn’t imagine leading an army. And I couldn’t imagine God speaking to me.
    â€œRemember that she was also burned at the stake for heresy,” Alex chimed in.
    â€œShe was a pawn for people in power,” Ginger said. “A young girl trying to do as she thought best, as she believed God told her. And she was canonized for it, made a saint. She’s one of the patron saints of France. Also of women and captives.”
    â€œI don’t understand . . .” I struggled to articulate what I felt. “I don’t understand putting a mortal person on such a pedestal. Literally.”
    â€œSaints are thought to be intercessionaries with God. Roman Catholics pray to them, as well as to God and Jesus. It’s just another way of connecting to the divine.”
    I frowned. I wasn’t sure how I felt about praying to ordinary men and women, even if Christ moved through them and performed miracles with their mortal hands. But the Holy Spirit seemed to move in mysterious ways.
    We walked down the path, farther into the woods draining of light. I saw a fountain, overhung with ivy and backed by a rock wall. The water in it was still and green. A figure of a woman—another iteration of the Virgin Mary, I assumed—was kneeling before it with her hands clasped in prayer. Behind the wall I could see a rack of burned-out candles in glass containers. Leaves had blown into the doorway.
    â€œWhat’s this?”
    â€œOur Lady of Lourdes. A grotto,” Ginger explained. “Saint Bernadette of Lourdes saw an apparition of Mary. Mary told her to dig, and a spring with healing powers was revealed. Some believed in its powers. Some didn’t. That’s the thing about miracles. They’re open to interpretation.”
    I thought I’d experienced healing water at Pastor Gene’s creek, but I wasn’t sure. As more time passed, I wasn’t sure if that was the Lord or if it was just luck. Time was seeming to cloud the miracle I’d felt. I stared into the green water. “This is the spring?”
    â€œNo. The real one’s in Lourdes, a town in France. This is a replica.”
    â€œIt’s pretty,” I said. But also somehow forlorn in its abandonment.
    We continued walking along the bricked paths. Moss had begun to grow over the bricks, obliterating names of people who’d