Catholic Book of Spells

My mother worked at the Catholic school that my siblings and I attended for nine years. Once school was over and the building emptied, I'd happily roam the emptiness while my brother stayed with my mother in her classroom to draw. Having been bullied by classmates, it was such a relief to exist in the building with only a few teachers and nuns, who were leaving and putting themselves away for the day. The nuns still lived in a portion of the school. Their living quarters would shrink each year. As we waited for my father to pick us up, I would open the classroom doors, walk up and down the aisles of school desks, look at the bulletin boards, look out the windows, and open closet doors. I loved the large, brass door knobs. They were much larger than any I had seen in my lifetime. They had to be to open such heavy doors. The doors were solid wood with several layers of paint that seemed to add extra weight to them. 

It was this sort of exploring, one afternoon, that brought me to this old prayerbook. It was in a closet that was being used to store books and a few odds and ends. From the looks of it, it once was an office with a window facing the main hallway downstairs. Someone had told me it was where you could buy pencils and other things needed for school. The window was boarded up and received several layers of glossy, eggshell-colored paint. It was now a bulletin board where the school put announcements, and it sat under the bell that was rung by pulling an old rope. The bell made the most distinctively sharp "ping" as opposed to a "bong".

I entered the closet quite excitedly. Someone had forgotten to lock it. It was a small space, with hardwood floors, not tiled over like the rest of the building. It smelled like dust, pencils, musty wood, and old books. There were two folding tables propped up against a stack of books, and it was on the edges of the two tables that my hand ran over this book of prayers. I picked it up and brought it into the light. At first it scared me. It seemed so sinister in its black cover. I opened it, and the writing on such thin paper made it seem so ancient. At the time, it was only 50 or so years in existence. Now it is 101. I had to have it. It had been stuck there for who knows how long, and I could have it. No one was around to tell me I couldn't. I had not seen anyone with this book in their hands or on a desk. I quickly made my way up the stairs to where my book bag was in my mother's classroom. 

This is a book of spells. Words are powerful and woven together in prayers and incantations, invocations; it is all spellwork. Over the years, I have opened the book for novenas, special prayers, just to admire it as I always have. It has never ceased to empower, and I have always felt it was meant for me. It definitely helped me feel special and chosen at a time when I was feeling terrible. I was 11 or 12 years old, didn't like my classmates, and was especially at odds with several of the girls who were giving me such a difficult time. I was different. I listened to old music, watched black and white movies, and couldn't care less about Duran Duran. I felt I was given a magical book to arm me and help me fight off the mean girls.