Rita's House: Light from Imaginary Teachers

One of the most enduring lights in my life is a woman who never existed. I invented her when I was four years old.
Although my family attended church on occasion when I was a child, we seldom arrived early enough for the Sunday School portion of the event. That being the case, for a long time, I dreamed about attending Sunday School; my mind created a whole mythos around it - this delightful event that I could attend eventually.
One day as I was playing near the orchard on the hill near the trailer house (my family's first home), I looked beyond the waving hillside grass and spied the shining, silver roof of a farmhouse nearby. As children's brains sometimes do, mine made a connection between the house across the way and my imagined Sunday School teacher (who I had never met). I thought that my Sunday School teacher lived in this house, and she would like to see me. I must go visit her!
That night, as my mom tucked me and my brother and sister into bed, I told her about my Sunday School teacher's house and how she lived nearby. My mom smiled and asked what my teacher's name was. "Rita," I confidently told her. To this day, I do not know why or how that name came to me at such a tender age. We had no family members or family friends named Rita, so it was not a name that I had encountered before. I have racked my brain trying to discern where it came from. The only place that I could maybe have heard the name was on the news on the radio (my mom listened to the radio nearly every morning of her life). Actress Rita Hayworth passed away in May 1987 when I was 4 years old, so perhaps I heard news of her death on the radio, and my subconscious filed her name away?
Years later, when I visited Paris, France, for the first time (a desire I'd had since my teens), and it began to pour down rain, I sought shelter in a small Catholic church. The church was located at 65 Boulevard de Clichy in the 9th arrondissement of Paris opposite famed Moulin Rouge (Red Windmill). As I looked around inside the place of worship, the name of the church caught my eye: Sainte-Rita Chapel (The Chapel of Saint Rita). They had some brochures in English available, and I began to read with astonishment the account of St. Rita of Cascia who endured many trials and is regarded as the patron Saint of Impossible Situations. I had never heard of Saint Rita before, because my Christian tradition does not venerate saints in the same way as the Catholic church (we believe in the priesthood of all believers and not simply that of select holy individuals). Shivers ran up and down my spine. Did the Lord bring me to this chapel because He knew I needed a reminder of Rita's House? I don't know. But I do know that the experience of stumbling upon a small church with candles gently flickering was special to me and comforting as I stood there in my rain-drenched clothing.
But I have digressed. Let us return to Rita's House beyond the orchard just over the hill. I am certain that my mother was amused at my declaration that my Sunday School teacher lived just over the hill from us, and she certainly would have known that was not really the case.
In the coming days, I continued to talk about my Sunday School teacher Rita and her house, and my mother was indulgent of my ramblings about my imaginary Sunday School teacher.
When the next Sunday came, my dad was too tired to attend church, but he also knew that my mom was tired from being in a house day in and day out with three small children. He said that he would take us for a walk. My mom had made cupcakes the day before, and I begged her to let us take the cupcakes to Rita at her house while on our walk. I'm sure my parents must have exchanged bemused glances, but I have no memory of it. I was absorbed in my fantasy of Rita. My mom agreed to give us the cupcakes, and we set off to see Rita.
On the way, to Rita's house, we three children suddenly got hungry. So, we sat down in the tall grass of the hillside and ate all of the cupcakes ourselves. I was sure Rita wouldn't mind and would be happy to see us - even if we didn't have cupcakes for her.
Eventually, we reached Rita's House. I remember being surprised that it was dirtier and dingier on the outside than it had looked from my house. All the same, I bravely stepped up to the door and knocked. No one answered, and my dad told me to knock a little harder. I knocked again, but still no one answered the door. By now, it was slowly dawning on me that something was wrong. My dad came and forced open the door.
No lights were on inside the house. All that could be seen was dirty old lumber, dust, and more dirt. It was clear that no one had lived there for quite some time. My young mind tried to grasp this. How could a house exist without a person living in it? That simply wasn't possible! And yet, it clearly was. I was very sad but put on a brave face. We all walked into the house and looked around. The stairs creaked ominously as we tentatively placed our feet on them to peer into the upstairs rooms.
In subsequent years, the story of the journey to Rita’s House became a mainstay in my family’s storytelling repertoire - mainly as an amusing and quirky anecdote to chuckle at fondly.
But, for me, Rita remains a blessed figment of my imagination. It is impossible that her name should have visited me. And yet, it came. Rita is my personal Saint of the Impossible, and I will always venerate what she symbolizes: joyous experiences yet to come, dwelling just over the hill a short walk away.