I’m seated in an annex to the right of the nave with its own little altar. A beam above illuminates a modest depiction of Jesus on the cross, giving this smaller rendition a sense of quiet awe.
St. Andrews is Romanesque Revival, large in scale with thick rounded columns and high arches. The long pews that grace the nave are empty today. It’s almost noon on Wednesday during Holy Week and the Church is all dolled up. In front, there’s a thick red ribbon in swag across the entrance in recognition of this special time in the Catholic faith where Palm Sunday starts the week, followed by Holy (Maundy) Thursday, the retelling of the story of the Last Supper. On Good Friday, the church gathers in remembrance of Jesus’ death on the cross and Easter Sunday rounds out the week celebrating the resurrection of Jesus Christ.
I take a seat and wonder what to do. Now what? Do I kneel? I don’t really remember the rites of Catholicism.
My eyes settle on the rose-marbled column next to me. Then, to the grey-marbled steps that lead to the small altar. I study the striations. Strangely, this quiet, cavernous church calms me. My eyes lift to the altar and I’m flooded with memories of attending Catholic schools for thirteen years and all that came with it - mandatory masses, the Stations of the Cross on Good Friday, and staying in the pew, alone at Communion time, as my baptized Catholic classmates queued up to take the wafer, “the body and blood of Jesus Christ.”
So, why as a non-Catholic, do I return? I’m Episcopal. Why a Catholic church? Especially, given the scandals in the Catholic Church at present.
Religion for me is all over the map. Just this past July I was moved by the Rabbi whose soothing voice brought the news of my mother’s passing on that 4:00am call. It was this same Rabbi who greeted us at The Jewish Home For The Aging an hour later, who comforted me as I approached my mother’s room, where she lay, to say my last goodbye. This Rabbi, so gentle and kind, so needed that morning.
“You do death well,” I’d told him later. “I’m converting.”
“It’s a lot of work,” he’d laughed. “You sure?”
Gratitude pulled me to St. Andrews today. Last night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I wondered if I’d even thanked God for the good things – a grandchild on the way, my husband and children happy, and in a good place, or even something as simple as the pink climbing rose outside our bedroom window. I know I sure as hell call on Him when it’s bad – he’s the Guy I pray to 3am when the “night thoughts” seep in like a leaky pipe. When I need solace. It’s as if I am reaching out for His hand to take mine and make it all ok when things have been tough.
But really, have I thanked Him lately for these blessings in my life? I stared into the darkness of our bedroom, wondering. Have I been so wrapped up in the good that I haven’t needed Him?
As the sun came up with the morning choir of chirping birds, I woke with a mission. I needed to check in with the Man upstairs on His turf. What is termed, His house.
I believe that one’s house of God can merely be in a garden, or, perhaps a space in your head. I don’t think He really keeps score that way, but I’m here now in a Catholic church though I’m not a Catholic, and am thanking Him.
I’m not a regular churchgoer of any stripe, just a woman raised in Catholic Schools who is revisiting that strange comfort in ritual I’d found as a child.
It’s just a moment, a time, and a day in a week when I feel the need to stop and take stock. Things are good now and yet, I know that life is a series of ups and downs and things can change on a dime. But, for this moment, this day, it’s good.
I cross my legs, place my hands in my lap and say a silent prayer.
Soon, the church bells ring in the noon. A petite, dark-haired woman around my age approaches. “If you’re staying for the weekday mass at 12:05, it’s in the chapel.”
“Thank you,” I say.
I wait, hands still clasped in my lap. My eyes scan the small annex and I watch her leave through the double doors that lead to the chapel. Should I go? I tell myself I’ve done my thing and that God doesn’t keep score.
But I need more today.
I rise and head to the chapel.
No comments:
Post a Comment