Rounding the corner in the Capuchin Basilica, I nearly
stumble backwards as nothing could have prepared me for the sight that now
fills my field of vision. Bones. Bones of monks, now dead for centuries,
decorate an otherwise plain chamber. Mummies propped up onto their dried, half
preserved feet stand watch over the piles of femurs and skulls that are piled
high against the walls. Death watches over the tomb, hanging from the ceiling,
scythe and scales gripped firmly in his skinless hand. Jawbones and hipbones,
nailed to the walls and ceilings, create beautiful patterns and spirals inches
above my head.
When my great grandmother passed away I was still struggling
with the Christian concept of death. Held in my father’s arms I looked down on
the body that I once affectionately called “Maw Maw.” My dad tried explaining
to me that what I saw was no longer Maw Maw but she had a new body now.
Expecting her to walk in, younger and healthier, I kept my eyes trained on the
door to the sanctuary. Maybe the pastor would wheel it in on a cart and boot
her up like some sort of android in front of the audience. The Capuchin Order’s
wonderful display of mortality bewilders me even now. Even if they believed
they had new bodies waiting for them in heaven it will still disturb and
fascinate me for the rest of my life.
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