Mother Mary Elizabeth Lange celebrated during Black History Month

Opinion echo By Ralph Moore Jr. and Willie Flowers

Black History Month recognizes the Sainthood of Mother Mary Elizabeth Lange published in Afro Media News Baltimore.

Also:
Archdiocese of Baltimore link here.

Mother Mary Elizabeth Lange (b. 1784 in Santa Domingo but some sites say in Haiti, she died 1882, in Baltimore MD.)

OPINION- With all of the issues, problems and concerns in Baltimore City, why are some Marylanders, Catholic and non-Catholic, devoting this Black History Month to a letter writing campaign addressed to Pope Francis? The campaign is to declare Mother Mary Lange a saint “santo subito,” or “to make a saint immediately.”

Mother Mary Lange is, unofficially, the patron saint of education for the Black poor children in the city of Baltimore. She was one of the founders of the Oblate Sisters of Providence, the order of African-American religious women, and established St. Frances Academy in 1828. Mother Lange died in 1882 in her room on the second floor of the school. Many followers of the faith are perplexed as to why she has not been declared a saint by the Pope, since her sainthood has been recognized by the public acclamation for years.

Oblate Sisters of Providence 

Mother Lange and three other sisters showed holiness in their courageous commitment to teach reading to children of slaves when it was illegal. The sisters could have been killed for educating slaves. They risked martyrdom by doing the right thing and answering a higher call.

For sainthood, the Catholic Church requires proof of miracles or a death by martyrdom for the faith. The fact that St. Frances Academy, born during the time of slavery, has survived through the period of legal segregation and has sustained through mass incarceration and mass poverty should be proof enough of Mother Lange’s leadership and sainthood. So, why hasn’t it happened?

So, if now is not the time for sainthood for Mother Lange, then when? Now that the Archdiocese of Baltimore is built and will operate an elementary and middle school to be named after her, it is time for her church to officially declare Mother Mary Lange a saint. It is up to the Pope. He declared Pope John Paul II and Mother Therese “saints suddenly,” so why not declare sainthood for an African-American woman who lived and labored for God in the United States. Apparently, there are no Black United States citizens in heaven despite 250 years of slavery, 100 years of legal segregation, mass incarceration, and mass poverty cursing people of color in America.

Please join the Baltimore Racial Justice Circle and Maryland State NAACP, led by Willie Flowers, in this Black History Month campaign to send letters to Pope Francis calling on him to canonize Mother Mary Lange.

There are two addresses for Pope Francis in Vatican City:

St. Peter’s Basilicais
His Holiness, Pope Francis
Apostolic Palace
00120 Vatican City

The apartment for the Pope
His Holiness
Saint Martha House
00120 Cita del Vaticano, Vatican City

Please address your letters to either or both addresses. Knowledgeable folks say the more concise the letter, the more likely the Pope will read it, so please get to the point. And please network with others in your family, your neighbors, your co-workers and church members of all denominations. Email your letter to me or please be kind enough to send copies to Ralph Moore at vpcs@yahoo.com and to https://.www.naacpmaryland.org.

Ralph E. Moore Jr. is the cofounder of Baltimore Peace Camp. Willie Flowers is president of the Maryland NAACP.

The opinions on this page are those of the writers and not necessarily those of the AFRO.
Send letters to The Afro-American • 1531 S. Edgewood St. Baltimore, MD 21227 or fax to 1-877-570-9297 or e-mail to editor@afro.com

A commentary about snow shoveling in New England

Topsham, ME: February 8, 2020: 

After two days of snow and ice falling in Maine, this back page essay, published in the AAA Magazine, "Northern New England Journey", describes a somewhat positive experience, considering the alternatives.

Winter Workout- illustration is by Virginia Vallely published in Northern New England Journey

In other words, some people like snow. Nevertheless, I'm not sure this description about snow shoveling is convincing enough to encourage me to take on the challenge. I stopped shoveling snow when my sons learned how to operate our snow blower. Today, we hire a snow plow guy who charges us $50 a plow! Ouch.

Congratulations to Erika Cohen, for publishing this perspective about snow shoveling:

Winter Workout- The Joys of Shoveling Snow, by Erika Cohen, who lives in Chester New Hampshire
(No link is available to this essay)

"I love snowstorms in New England!", she wrote.

Especially the first one of the season, when the meteorologists warn us about how it will snow all day, and night and leave a multi-foot blanket of white in its wake.

First, the roads get too slick for regular car traffic, and the rhythm of passing cars through the woods on the main road slows.

Then, traffic is limited to the occasional passing vehicle. Their tires leave tiny slivers of bare pavement that the falling snow quickly fills. 

Finally, the verge between the road and the lawns is barely distinguishable and night falls.

When the sun comes up, our lawn glistens, revealing hundreds of tiny footprints from mice along with dual tracks of snowshoe hare and signature two-toed deer prints.

The distant rumbling of snow blowers and the occasional screeching of metal plows against pavement on our street fill my neighborhood. I hear these sounds, but I do not contribute to them. Because, my family hasn't owned a snow plow in more than a decade. Tiny rocks from our unpaved driveway would get stuck inside. We fixed it once, maybe twice, the blades would always stop turning. And, since we needed to get our kids to day care and ourselves to work, we just switched to shovels.

We have not switched back.

Instead, we have shoveled ourselves out from every major snowstorm that has come our way since - a foot of fluffy snow here, a few feet of wet snow there and many smaller 6-10 inch storms. Our close friends have stopped asking when we will get a snowblower or hire a plow guy.

Our routine has been perfected by many storms. After dark, we shovel what we can with the driveway light to guide us. While shoveling, I've heard owls and the skittering of nocturnal animals in the woods next to the small pond on our land. When our kids were little, my husband and I took turns. Now that they are older, my son joins us, alternating between shoveling, sledding and snow shoeing around the front woods.

Shoveling snow has a rhythmic quality to it. I outline 4-foot-long rectangular chunks and shovel out the middles before moving down the driveway. Push, lift, throw, push, lift throw. Deep breath. Push, lift, throw, push , lift, throw. Deep breath. The world smells and tastes clean.

My shoulders and hands ache, but when I am done, I am very grateful for our warm house.

(Maine Writer Julie's response is "Amen".)

Memories of a grandmother in poem

The grandmother I never knew, published in the University of Maine digital commons:

Ode to a Grandmother I Never Knew by Peggy L. DuBlois

She is a hard-working person
With a clean apron 

Wiping her hands on a towel 

Tied to her apron string.

She has the uncanny ability 

To press laundry 

While the dough is rising

And telling one daughter 

That her braid is too loose 

Another daughter 

That her sweater needs mending.

She can spot a fallen hem

From a block away 

Throw open a window 

And call that daughter home 

Before the neighbors see her “like that.”

She buys bananas from the back of the truck 

That pulls up at the corner 

And notes the exact price in her ledger— 

Black, with precise handwriting 

Mastered in third grade 

Under the watchful eye of her own mother.

She plays cribbage every night 

With a husband I will never know 

Who works at the train yard 

And at the college, 

Bringing home insignificant funds 

That get recorded in the ledger 

Along with the income of the children 

Who live at home and pool 

Their resources during the depression.

She quilts a blanket
From old shirts, torn by a nail
Ripped by her hands
Stored in a rag basket 

Cut into squares
Pieced together with tiny stitches
Transformed into a blanket
That will travel across country by train
In a hope chest that I will find in an attic
Two generations later just when
Motion sickness has dropped me
Into a life I don’t recognize

I wrap myself in its embrace
And hear the whispers of Ma Mémère— Tu es fort comme moi, ma belle fille—

The grandmother I never knew.