For Catholics, today is the feast day of St. Monica, the long-suffering mother of St. Augustine. In the day when Augustine was a party animal, Monica nagged and prayed, prayed and nagged. Finally, he saw the Light, and the rest is history.
Monica also is the confirmation name of my mother and my sister Maureen. Me, I went a different direction in picking my confirmation name–Anastasia. My choice says a lot about my state of mind at the time—I picked the name for the last czar of Russia’s youngest daughter. The family and its tragic, for so long uncertain, end, has been a lifelong obsession. I just lucked out that the Church also had a Saint Anastasia. I had no idea who she was, and didn’t care.
I left the Church shortly after confirmation, and was gone for more than thirty years. After I moved to Arlington, Virginia, I started making my first halting steps back. In the early fall of 2005, I decided I was ready to register as a member of the parish I’d been attending for a couple of months. Just in case they asked about my confirmation name as part of the registration process, I’d looked up Saint Anastasia. I didn’t think I could skate by with the truth. So I looked her up.
According to the Catholic Encyclopedia, Anastasia was a noblewoman who lived in modern-day Serbia in the early fourth century.
The encyclopedia said Christmas Day Mass was originally celebrated in Anastasia’s honor, not Christ’s, and she remained the only saint with a special commemoration in the second Christmas Day Mass. I’d never been to a Christmas Mass my entire life, so no surprise I didn’t know that, I thought. Her name was derived from the Greek anastasis, or “resurrection.”
Resurrection … somehow, that seemed appropriate.
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