French Girls Don’t Like Bats
I attended church this morning for the first time in about four years. At 6am I headed to Alton, arriving 10 minutes late for the 6.30am Mass. I had a hard time finding my father in the crowd, but, once I did, I sat next to him, his surprised face soon fading when the Apostle’s Creed began. He bowed his head and recited the verses, his start up time lagging a bit behind the rest of the followers. Presiding over the Mass was Fr. Jim—a priest who had been there since I was in grade school. I always was fascinated with him because, unlike all the other priests I had ever known, he smoked cigarettes. I only thought Jesuits were allowed to do that. And he always smelled like ash—his hands especially. His face glistened a little bit like most smokers’ do, and his great smile and addictive energy always made his smooth, round cheeks incredibly pinchable. Everything in the church was just as I had left it: the lip on the pew, the red cushioned kneelers, the school desks used to hold the pre-transubstantiated body and blood, the worn down hymnal covers, the ushers’ baskets, the lady who holds her hands pressed against her body as she walked down the aisle after communion, the Holy Water dispenser that looks more like an office water cooler than a place for sacred H20, the servers’ black and white cassocks, and Jesus hanging from the cross. I didn’t feel comfortable enough to say the words, go through the motions or even receive communion, but being there was gratifying in its own little Catholic way.
