I'm the type of person who sees things fitting together when they don't.
This morning, I dropped my son at a high school entrance exam and looked to pass the wait time, first at mass. I checked three nearby parish bulletins online before finding a church with a suitable start time. Even still, I was too early but baffled as time passed without any cars appearing in the parking lot.
There were lights on inside the building so I entered and glimpsed a folded linen on a back pew. The emptiness of the church drew me uncharacteristically towards the very front of the well-appointed sanctuary. I wanted to take it all in.
I admitted to myself, during prayer, that I'm not very attuned to hearing God in my everyday life. I found myself at a loss, still while at prayer, for how to rectify that. Hearing God seems to come so easy for other people. For me, judging by the outcome, I'm habitually "way off target."
Slowly the room filled but it was now past the anticipated liturgy start time. A cantor arrived, well-dressed, whom I mistook for the lector. She busied herself at the altar as the organist also arrived, her car keys jingling softly as she hastily set them on a music stand. She changed the numbers on the hymn board, first on one side and then on the other. The first song was "On Eagle's Wings." The deacon brought a censer, the acrid smoke drying my nose. I could taste it. I'm taking in these hints that something out of the ordinary is taking place, but it's just barely registering in a conscious way. Instead, I'm rolling along with the clues, still expecting an ordinary mass, even if it's a feast day in an upscale town.
A bell began tolling at quarter past the hour. Then the priest entered, along with the bereaved and the casket. Reacting, the couple right behind me moved immediately several pews back but I didn't feel as if I could gracefully relocate. I do not tend to sit right on the aisle anyway, but I did my best to move even further in, realizing that the family would be directly in front of me. Already I was sizing them up to see whether there were enough seats in those front rows to accommodate them.
As I surveyed the family, I recognized an old acquaintance and one-time neighbor who had recently moved out of state. I glanced about her to verify that her immediate family was accounted for. I almost felt better about accidently attending a funeral for knowing the family.
Everything was very beautiful, the Ave Maria, the homily, the prayers of the funeral rite. I felt that those of us in attendance simply for a weekday service may have aided or supported those intentionally attending a family funeral with our prayers. If nothing else, we didn't need to be reminded when to sit, stand or kneel but the monsignor gave those directives gently. As awkward as it was, and if the family felt we parishioners were intruding, this is how it's supposed to be. After all, arrangements are generally announced publicly in advance.
This morning, I dropped my son at a high school entrance exam and looked to pass the wait time, first at mass. I checked three nearby parish bulletins online before finding a church with a suitable start time. Even still, I was too early but baffled as time passed without any cars appearing in the parking lot.
There were lights on inside the building so I entered and glimpsed a folded linen on a back pew. The emptiness of the church drew me uncharacteristically towards the very front of the well-appointed sanctuary. I wanted to take it all in.
I admitted to myself, during prayer, that I'm not very attuned to hearing God in my everyday life. I found myself at a loss, still while at prayer, for how to rectify that. Hearing God seems to come so easy for other people. For me, judging by the outcome, I'm habitually "way off target."
Slowly the room filled but it was now past the anticipated liturgy start time. A cantor arrived, well-dressed, whom I mistook for the lector. She busied herself at the altar as the organist also arrived, her car keys jingling softly as she hastily set them on a music stand. She changed the numbers on the hymn board, first on one side and then on the other. The first song was "On Eagle's Wings." The deacon brought a censer, the acrid smoke drying my nose. I could taste it. I'm taking in these hints that something out of the ordinary is taking place, but it's just barely registering in a conscious way. Instead, I'm rolling along with the clues, still expecting an ordinary mass, even if it's a feast day in an upscale town.
A bell began tolling at quarter past the hour. Then the priest entered, along with the bereaved and the casket. Reacting, the couple right behind me moved immediately several pews back but I didn't feel as if I could gracefully relocate. I do not tend to sit right on the aisle anyway, but I did my best to move even further in, realizing that the family would be directly in front of me. Already I was sizing them up to see whether there were enough seats in those front rows to accommodate them.
As I surveyed the family, I recognized an old acquaintance and one-time neighbor who had recently moved out of state. I glanced about her to verify that her immediate family was accounted for. I almost felt better about accidently attending a funeral for knowing the family.
Everything was very beautiful, the Ave Maria, the homily, the prayers of the funeral rite. I felt that those of us in attendance simply for a weekday service may have aided or supported those intentionally attending a family funeral with our prayers. If nothing else, we didn't need to be reminded when to sit, stand or kneel but the monsignor gave those directives gently. As awkward as it was, and if the family felt we parishioners were intruding, this is how it's supposed to be. After all, arrangements are generally announced publicly in advance.
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