Time to get back to church, in a way
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- February 3, 2024
- 330
“The smell of hospitals in winter
And the feeling that it’s
All a lot of oysters but no pearls.”
“A Long December”
Counting Crows (1996)
Dad died 25 years ago today … hard to believe it’s been that long.
The phone rang quite early that Saturday morning, and I knew without giving it a second thought what it portended and the chain reaction of ritualistic, necessary events it would set in motion.
It had only been 18 years since Mom passed away on New Year’s Day, so it wasn’t my first experience with January’s dark sadness.
Death comes to collect everyone, eventually, and we all understand there’s a debt to be paid … call it the cost of living expense.
The church where both of my parents’ funeral masses were held has long been torn down, demolished, existing only in memories.
A new, much more modern edifice has been erected in its place, practically in the same location, and I’m sure it’s a fine building.
But I have no history there, nothing that pulls at my heartstrings, reminding me of who I once was and what I’ve become.
As a recovering Catholic plagued with self doubts, I’m prone to bouts of melancholy, especially at this time of year when, as you might well imagine, loss and uncertainty are difficult to mitigate.
When it gets too bleak, I seek refuge in my recollections, knowing that with any luck, the residual blessings of my checkered theological past might just provide the proverbial bucket of life-affirming sustenance lowered into the well of my unhappiness.
Herewith, then, in lieu of the Commandments, I offer my Top 10 memories of that little church and why they remain important.
10. That time I fainted
It was required that school children in fourth grade through eighth attend Mass every morning, Monday through Friday. The littlest kids were excused from this duty, presumably because they were, well, too little. Not being a fan of breakfast — a trait that lingers to this day — I often shuffled into the pew on an empty stomach. I remember staring at the candles on the altar and the way the flames seemed to expand and contract and then … nothing. When I awoke, the nun who was my teacher was leaning over me, asking me if I knew where I was. The next time it happened was in health class, when I was a senior in high school during a particularly graphic movie about contracting VD. Strange.
9. My father’s second wedding
I don’t know too many sons who served as their dad’s best man, but I’m in their number. It was the day after my birthday, and the church was unusually empty, this being a ceremony that involved Dad and his new bride, her daughter, and my friend from grade school, who played his guitar for musical accompaniment as a priest from out of town performed the nuptials. There was a certain solemnity in the silence that pervaded the church, a suggestion that it was wholly holy.
8. My confirmation
I’ll make this one short and sweet. The archbishop came to my little town and slapped me in the face. This was in keeping with Canon Law, a tradition that indicated that now I was a soldier for Christ, willing to suffer for my faith. OK, then.
7. Impressing the prettiest girl
In the late ‘60s, sex was everywhere, except (apparently) in Catholic classrooms, where social skills were not only untaught, but discouraged. Something as innocent as giving a girl your ID bracelet — trust me, it was a thing back then — was cause for reprimand and scolding.
Trying to work up the nerve to talk to the girl who had been so nice to me ever since the fourth grade proved to be a nonstarter, so (as an eighth-grader) I began walking to church early Sunday mornings because I knew her family faithfully attended 7 a.m. service. I sat where I had an unobtrusive view of her, and well, I was in heaven. I thought about casually joining her as she walked to the family car afterward, but I was happy enough just seeing her. Besides, what was I going to say? “Great sermon, wasn’t it?”
6. Volunteering for funerals
As an altar boy, there were opportunities to earn a few extra bucks when the call went out to take part in weddings, and as you might guess, there was no shortage of guys willing to give up part of the their Saturdays to pocket a $10 bill for an hour’s work. I’ll admit I did that a lot, but the weird thing that set me apart from the other Knights of the Altar — no kidding, that’s what were we called — was stepping forward to serve during funerals. No one wanted that duty. Not only were there no crisp bills handed over in brightly colored envelopes, but also there was that pervasive sense of sadness that occluded even the brightest, sunniest days outside the little church.
Naturally, I suppose, I never missed a chance to play my part in that drama, whether it was lighting the candles on either side of the casket or assisting the priest as he walked around it, incense floating from the burner, a moment that still stays with … such solemnity. There was no predicting when an altar boy’s services might be required, death arriving on its own good time, so I was always vigilant, ready to step into the breach when the time arrived and the family in need would expect a proper send-off to a parishioner. Sometimes, I was even driven to the cemetery for a final graveside farewell.
Well, I see I’ve reached the end of this week’s space, so I hope you’ll be sure to tune in next week for the rest of my Top 10 list.
Until then, keep the faith.
Mike Dewey can be reached at 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805, or at Carolinamiked@aol.com. He invites you to find him on Facebook, where the spirit of togetherness still thrives.