Being Catholic

The Pope is in town, and the faithful are beside themselves with joy.  This guy is a rock star in so many more ways than one. 

Work it, Pontiff.

I was born a Catholic.  I was baptized as a wee babe, I made it through my First Holy Communion without spitting out the Host (which I would have sworn was Styrofoam), and I committed to memory the Gloria and the Confiteor and the Nicene Creed and the “short version” of the Our Father (other Catholics know what I mean there) and how to sing “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” in Latin before I was ten years old.  I attended CCD classes with a very strict nun and I made it all the way through Confirmation and was happy to get the Beatitudes straight.

I, like others, have several stories about going to Confession…like the time I lost my balance in the confessional and fell, and the resounding boom echoed in the huge old church for what felt like eternity, and the priest quietly asked if I was okay before continuing.  There was also the time I drew a blank on what sins I’d committed and flipped frantically through my Child’s Book of Confession, only to wave it helplessly and tell the priest to just put me down for everything in there (I could see him trying not to laugh through the screen) and he just gave me a couple of Hail Marys for penance because anything else would have made him bust a gut.

My parents made certain my sister and I had a proper Catholic upbringing, and we went faithfully to Mass every Sunday.  Of course, it would be only a matter of time before my sister and I had to be separated because we would always find something to giggle about – the cantors, for example, had nicknames, like “Julie Andrews,” and “Tiny Voice Woman” and one was simply a hand gesture, which he used to tell everyone to join in the chorus, and to this day it always sends us to our knees with laughter.  Then there were the deacons, like “Story of the Story” (he repeated his words over and over) and “Ta-dayyyyyy,” who had an extraordinarily thick, slow Southern drawl and would read so slowly that it felt like I’d be in service for a week.  I can hear my sister laughing from here as she reads this.  She'll confirm all of it.

Nevertheless, we continued to attend, because despite the humor, we still enjoyed the ancient majesty of the Catholic service, the huge old church, and especially the sense of stately ceremony, especially on Easter Vigil and Christmas Midnight Mass.  I enjoyed the music, and inserted myself into it by joining the handbell choir.  I had many a great time with wonderful people in that choir.  When the director quit, the choir fell apart, and to this day, I miss it terribly.  I understand they have regrouped, but for me, it just wouldn’t be the same without that director and the other fun folks.

A few years ago, my strict churchgoing began to drop off.  I get up for work at 4am, as you already know, and I took advantage of sleeping in on Sunday mornings.  As time rolled on, I was surprised to find myself a “twice a year” Catholic – Easter and Christmas – and sometimes even those are questionable.  I know, I know – God doesn’t judge, but a part of me - that little girl in white gloves and black shiny shoes - still feels the sting of guilt for not attending like I should. 

So today, I’ve had the TV on all day on Channel Pontiff.  I’ve watched His Holiness stop the Pope Mobile to kiss babies, shake hands, and take selfies with the faithful.  I’ve watched him canonize a saint, and hold High Mass in Spanish.  And I’ve found that there’s still a part of me that knows God walks in all of us, and even though my churchgoing days have slowed, I found that I talk to God in my own way, and on my own time. 

So peace be with all of us today.  Love your neighbor, forgive (or ignore) the self-proclaimed pundits who post anti-Christian crap on Facebook, and dance your way through life.  Just don't trip in the confessional.  

As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.  Amen.

--Rebecca