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In the Orthodox churches there is a wall of Icons at the front, the Iconostasis. There are doors with angels, there are faces looking at you as you stand before them and worship. One “gets to know” these images of saints over time…they are part of the tapestry of a family, in some ways, not unlike the rows of family photos lining the stair, and just being around what has become familiar is a comfort. Asking saints to pray for you, both visible and invisible, transforms the one asking…heaven and earth become “crowded”…and one feels less alone.

Since my conversion to Orthodoxy, I stood before Anne, the mother of Mary, the Theotokos. She is the saint our parish was named for. We asked her to pray for us. We remembered her life, her place in the lineage of Christ, her example. Many times I’ve drawn on that example for strength.

Yesterday it occurred to me that I miss Anne.

I know I miss my fellow parishoners. I pray for them daily, think of them daily, miss being a part of their lives and stories. I miss visiting them, bringing bread or sitting in armchairs and talking. I miss my priests. I miss having the church available for quiet, private prayers by candlelight.

But this missing a saint took me by surprise. Of course, she’s in eternity…what do we say when someone dies? “They aren’t really gone…they’re living in heaven”, etc. The protestant background I’m from doesn’t really acknowledge that beyond the grieving stage though and I’m pretty sure they’d all hesitate to say or believe that those in heaven even care a twit about what’s going on around here. But we don’t beleive that in Orthodoxy and we ask these saints to pray for us. It’s a church that prays for one another without the bonds of time holding us back.

Those who understand this better, or who could write it better, please forgive. It is likely very humble understanding I have. What I know is that in praying for Anne, and in asking her to pray for me, I feel I’ve gotten to know her a little. I stand before other icons of saints right now, out of necessity and gratitude, but Anne is not there to be seen. Of course, she’s as there as she is at St. Anne’s, but I miss her image, her icon. I haven’t gotten to know these others yet, though I’m sure that I will.

One thing I missed, without knowing a contrast, while I was protestant, was the presense of women. There were examples from scripture certainly, but they were mostly brought out in women’s bible study groups, or one or two mentioned now and then in a sermon. A few through history, used exhaustively (Susanah Wesley comes to mind…mostly for her ability to mother many babies cheerfully, not so much for her devotion to Christ). Missionaries here and there, again in our homeschooling lessons or women’s groups.

It is very different standing in a congregation of both men and women asking “Oh Godly Ever-Blessed Anne”, the grandmother of Christ, to pray for them, next to an icon of the Theotokos. Often on the calendar there are other female saint days; we acknowledge others every time a woman gives her saint name (mine is Julianna). Women became visible to me, in a way they never had been before. Their presence, their devotion, is a strength, an encouragement. It is in some ways, a redemption. Because as I felt myself disappearing, only visible for the role I filled and the services I provided, here were women who were unique. They are diverse. Where my femaleness was reviled, except where it was useful, theirs was integral and cherished. They are loved for who they are and were. They made choices that we remember. They have stories that we tell. They walked such different paths and yet in their devotion, they sing in unison.

So I took, and take, comfort in their lives. I miss Anne. I miss her image being visible, hearing her Troparion. If the saints are threads in the tapestry, how bare the world of christianity becomes without them.

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