In recent years my mother, quite unexpectedly, has begun a collection of Catholic statuary. She is not, in fact, Catholic and, aside from a trip the two of us took to Italy in the 90s that involved any number of buildings associated with Catholicism, to my knowledge she has only ever been inside one Catholic church here in the United States where we live.

In preparing to attend a wedding at this church several decades ago, an older relative became anxious. “We are Methodists and Presbyterians; none of us will know when to kneel,” she confessed before sharing additional concerns about not being able to understand the ceremony because she did not know Latin. I explained that Vatican II had changed a lot of things, and that the ceremony would almost certainly be in English.

It was, therefore, somewhat surprising when I was visiting my parents a few years ago and noticed a statue of an enrobed child wearing a crown on the living room mantelpiece. My parents lived in the same house for nearly 50 years and I can attest to the fact that statues of this kind were never on display when I grew up there. As newlyweds, my parents purchased a “well-used” house recently exited by a college fraternity whose members moved two doors down to more commodious accommodations. What many neighbors and friends apparently wondered, but few said aloud, was what my parents saw in this house that needed so much work. An electrician brought in early on asked my mother what she planned to do with such a large home. Years later, he returned to discover that the house had been filled with children (and their friends) and pets of all kinds. My mother, an interior designer at heart, oversaw the renovation of the entire house as well as many years of room redecoration initiatives. This is the woman who, while heavily pregnant, stood on a ladder, gluing mirrored tiles onto a wall at midnight to finish a project and fulfill her 1970s vision for a room that, over the years, had been known as the living room, the piano room, the dining room, and the parlor. My siblings and I were accustomed to furniture being rearranged, walls being painted, floors being replaced, and rooms being repurposed for whatever the current needs of the family might be. As we launched into adulthood and carted our belongings to homes of our own, it was not a surprise that our bedrooms were redone. Mom also redid the bedroom she and my father shared, which was filled with florals and spring colors. I have a sneaking suspicion that Dad was not involved in the selection process, but they have, over a half century of marriage, developed the ability to play to their individual strengths. Dad, by his own admission, would not be the person you would call with a decorating emergency. (He was, however, the parent to awake if there was any nighttime drama: pet gerbils escaping, police at the door, etc.)

My childhood home evolved to feature cubbies filled with toys for visiting grandchildren; enough folding chairs to seat 15 people for dinner in one room; a large, functional kitchen with room to prep meals for those 15 people; areas for reading and watching TV; other areas for playing pool or a piano; dog beds for canine family members; and pretty much anything our extended group needed during our visits. My mother spearheaded these initiatives while my father oversaw the sewer line replacement, the new roof, and the other projects that are vital to homeownership, yet unseen. My parents provided a wonderful home for themselves, and for us all. That house could fit a lot of stuff and we saw many decorating trends on display over the years, but other than the occasional wise man figurine displayed during nativity season, there were no enrobed figures. And no statues.

Mom is a fan of yard sales, thrift stores, auctions, church bazaars, and other opportunities for snagging re-sellable items. She has sold chicken feeders from barn sales to decorators creating industrial/country chic layouts in big city townhouses, artfully mismatched antique china to bridal shower celebrants looking for retro pastiche, and old apple ladders to homeowners searching for unique pot racks or quilt display options. She is a genius at repurposing items I would have long ago tossed in the nearest dumpster, never looking back. It is rare for her to keep any of these treasures so I was initially taken aback that she had retained any item, let alone a statue.

I asked her what the statue was called. “The Infant of Prague,” Mom said with a slowly blooming grin. “It’s the baby Jesus.” (It took me some time to reliably remember the name of this delicate, painted figurine with alabaster skin and a light blue cloak. For whatever reason, I kept thinking it was the Baby Jesus of Perugia. Wrong name. Wrong country.)

Having not been raised Catholic, I had only rudimentary knowledge of the faith’s underpinnings until my marriage. My mother-in-law, a lifelong Catholic from a long line of Sicilians, and I had a number of enlightening conversations over the years about what I found (as a lapsed Protestant) to be a remarkable array of saints and various visitations that have manifested over the millennia. I now have my own Saint Francis of Assisi medal (having acquired two -- including one for my beloved and now deceased mother-in-law), but I had never heard of the Infant of Prague. So, I did what all self-respecting adults do when confronted with something they know nothing about: I searched the Internet.

Succeeding visits to my parents’ house revealed that a second Infant of Prague had joined the mantle. The term “infant” in the statue’s name gave me pause because what I saw was a reproduction of a child, not an infant. The statues were standing and holding objects while wearing crowns. Anyone who has ever cared for an infant knows that infants do not stand upright. And, no hat is staying on a baby’s head without some kind of elastic chin strap, tape, or other assistance, yet these babies were balancing crowns. Of course, I quickly realized, this line of thought completely discounted the religious significance of a statue that holds deep meaning for millions of believers. So I put my questions aside and crossed into the sunshine of my mother’s perspective.

Three statuettes soon graced the fireplace. My curiosity piqued, I asked my mother what I hoped were unobtrusive questions about these figures and was met with comments such as, “I find them so comforting,” or “Aren’t they just so sweet?”

My parents then relocated, in a move that can be called “downsizing” only for those who used to live in former frat houses. This process precipitated multiple e-mail messages to their children about who might want what furniture, endless drop-offs at local non-profit donation centers, two large moving trucks, and sifting through the contents of attics and basements and cubbyholes and closets of a rambling house where many children and animals played. The Infants made the short list for relocation.

Mom and Dad are now settled in this smaller place, one that will never be “home” to me, but a place that suits them well. Everything they need is on one floor, yard maintenance is minimal, the new next-door neighbor loves to use his snow-blower to dig out each house on the street, they have a functional garage for the first time ever, and there is an impressive amount of easily accessible storage. It is a place where they can be comfortable, where there are fewer worries (for them and their children). The Infants make my mother happy and her committed affection for them makes me smile, too. After being  beset with various chronic pain conditions and medical mysteries, I certainly understand the appeal of wanting to surround oneself with comforting things that inspire thoughts of love and feelings of care. As I compose this story, I am surrounded by three cats who have curled themselves into the boxes and onto the perches in the living room where I write. I find them incredibly comforting and I love them so.

During my most recent visit to see my parents I glanced at the top of a display cabinet that was kept during the purge, and saw four Infants collegially grouped and gazing down upon me. I suspect this quartet might gain new members. One never knows what a future garage sale might yield.

Perhaps the greater message is that there are many roads to peace. Let us honor any person’s journey getting there, as well as the items and objects that allow her passage.

Sarah Bigham lives in Maryland with her kind chemist wife, three independent cats, an unwieldy herb garden, several chronic pain conditions, and near-constant outrage at the general state of the world tempered with love for those doing their best to make a difference. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, Sarah’s poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have appeared in a variety of great places for readers, writers, and listeners. Find her at www.sgbigham.com.