Grew up in a Buddhist Communist Atheist Catholic family, the choice of my religion was not that easy. Baptised Catholic in a church not recognised by the Vatican (in fact no Catholic church in China is recognised by the Vatican), I was never forced to go to church, my childhood memories of bible studies were sitting in the lap of my grandmother, leaning on her round and warm shoulders, her sweet voices telling me bible stories, the touch of her silk Chinese dress (Qi Pao), the mixed odour of her perfume, powder and cigarettes. Her favourite brand was Mu Dan, gigantic flowers on a bright red packaging, she actually allowed me to have a puff or two from time to time. When Grandmother passed away, I almost forgot that I was Catholic except when I was exempt from all communist political studies in teenage years. I once thought it was romantic and very “Thorn Birds” like to be a Catholic and that I would certainly grow up to fall in love with a priest one day and finish my life fighting between belief and desire.
Years later, I ended up in a protestant school in America, a Methodist one; instead of converting to Methodist, I actually tried to compensate my 3 hour weekly religious study of John Wesleyan’s teachings by Sunday church in a local Catholic Cathedral where I prayed, sang, balanced my check books and wrote love letters; but most importantly I thought about my grandmother and I missed her immensely. I often went to church in a Chinese dress thinking she would probably have liked it.
Ever since I came to France, my guilt of not going to church reduced to zero, because this is the largest Catholic country in the world where least people go to church. From time to time, I would walk into a wedding or funeral service in Paris, or hear the choir singing as I am passing in front a church. The little moment of peace brought me joy and memories of my grandmother. I believe she has been watching over me all those years, one of the proofs being that I still cannot quit smoking, as that is one of the habits she gave me at my early child days.
This Sunday on the coast of Normandy, after two naps and a few strokes along the beach, I lit a cigarette, the favourite brand of my grand mother – Mu Dan. That was my Sunday mass in memories of my dear grandmother in her silk Chinese dress...
