Church

January 8, 2019

I was raised Catholic so many of my memories revolve around church. We attended early mass every Sunday, in dresses and shiny shoes...pretty hats and on high holidays, white gloves.
I worship in a different church now, but I have fond memories of services of my youth. Even now, when I attend a Catholic wedding or funeral, I am touched by the ceremony. People make fun of it, but every act means something. The incense, the blessed water, the standing or kneeling or sitting, the sign of the cross and genuflecting... it is not subservient or silly, but respectful in acknowledgement of our smallness and God’s greatness.
That said... I remember when someone accidentally put a hot coal in the incense box and while we worshipped clouds of sweet smelling smoke wafted in from the prep room behind the altar. Never saw ushers move that fast before.
I remember Baptism ceremonies in the front of the church using a crystal bowl that looked more like a punch bowl than a religious device. When asked “why do you use a punch bowl” I responded, “because people thought a beer pitcher was crass.”
I remember first communions with lines of angels processing forward; confirmations with the youth of the church affirming their faith; weddings of hope; funerals of promise.
I remember which priest spoke well, which was quickest for confession, which was crankiest and which was friendliest. I remember Latin and not knowing what was being said, but you knew it was important because it sounded important.
We lit candles, sang hymns, responded to prayers in one great group. Church bored us, excited us and formed us. I am who I am today, in part, because of where I was on Sunday mornings.
I may not be the Catholic girl of my youth, but she is still in here...and I embrace her for the memories she made for me.