Just to be Clear

Just to be clear:  I DO go to Church for Religious reasons, not just to be distracted by men.  When I was back home over Christmas vacation, my childhood friend asked me the nefarious question:  Where DO we go to find men?  I told her that the best place to find alcoholics is typically in a bar, so I rule that out.  The best place to find a problem gambler or under-employed single male is at the casino, so onto the next option.  Then she asked me if Church was a good place.  I told her, nah, because priests still aren’t allowed to marry yet and the single guys that are there are either elderly widowers or younger guys struggling with “Do I have a vocation to the priesthood or not?”  Or the others, which I care to not itemize.  My comments are strictly based on personal experience and do not represent anyone else’s thoughts except for maybe accidentally.  But, man, do I have data!

I went into church strictly to attend to my God-business once.  I made it my personal mission to be 100% focused on what was going on with the service.  I knelt down and folded my ten fingers interlaced – the way kids who did not attend Catholic school do, because I hear-tell that nuns don’t let them pray in that posture.  And we all know the tales about when nuns don’t like what you do (think:  12 inches of correction smacking your hand).  Actually, to be fair, back in the days when nuns swatted bad Catholic school kids, corporal punishment was ALSO permitted and practiced in the public school system.  It’s just we didn’t talk about it because in that era parents and teachers were in cahoots.  If you got in trouble in school, and “home” found out about it, there’d be Round 2 of corporal punishment that was no joke.  So at least public school kids didn’t spread it around that we could’ve got swatted in school.  Again, not having attended Catholic elementary or grade school, my comment to the kids that say (as my father once complained), “Sister Mary Peter hit me with a ruler” has a standard reply:  and you did NOTHING to deserve it??  Yeah.  Just checking.  I taught high school for four years:  I know about the “innocence” of students.

But as I was saying.  It seems every time I go to church and try to focus 100% on what I am allegedly there for, the Good Lord looks down from above and says: “let’s see how focused she really is!”  I kneel to pray and close my eyes.  The worn-out kneelers send a warning twinge up my knee that somehow tweaks at my lower back.  Consequently, I sit back with knees still on the kneeler, but fanny on the edge of the bench (yet another non-nun-approved posture).  My eyes still remain shut so that I can keep my mind on the heavenly business of prayer.  The scent of clean, beeswax candles wafts from the single white pillar and the side rack of smaller ones sitting in red glass holders.  I think we have those red glass holders to get God’s attention – you light a candle to give Him a reminder of the prayer you are putting before Him.  Well, then someone got nervous about fires in church and switched those candles to be faux-flame with a button you push to give a flicker of hope.  I don’t know as if God answers prayers attached to those candles.  You can’t cheap-out on the Almighty, after all.  A slight scent of mothballs from an elderly person’s coat seems nearby.  I open my eyes for a second and to use a biblical phrase, “Lo and behold!” a handsome specimen of male humanity is situated within 4 rows ahead of me.  Augh!  I am undone! 

Now I am obsessed with waiting to get a glimpse at his left hand.  When in the need-to-know, I am able to spot a wedding ring from 500 feet.  Practice makes perfect.  Early on, I get a glimpse:  no ring.  The teenagers sitting with him, the poor things, they must be longing for a new mother in the tragic loss (I imagine) of their mother.  I imagine our camping vacations, our laughter at baseball games, sharing popcorn at our family movie nights.  The opening song in church begins, we all stand.  Today is my day.  And then, suddenly, it’s not:  the luscious blonde mother slides into the bench late, snuggles up next to him, and raises her eyebrows with a familiar smile to her husband.  Her husband, the BUM who doesn’t wear a wedding ring! 

It was not the Holy Bible that gave us the phrase: “God helps those who help themselves.”  It was Benjamin Franklin.  The guy who thought of harnessing electricity with a kite and a key by snagging a lightning bolt?  It just goes to show you that a guy who gets knocked on his bum too many times is not the source of wisdom, but rather, the inspiration for an example of perseverance.  Taking Ben’s advice has been a lifetime exercise in futility for me.

My friend at work verbally prodded me on a Friday as we left work: “be willing to step out beyond your comfort zone.”  (I have NO comfort zone anymore!)  I spent the whole weekend working up the nerve to be ready when they called for volunteers after church to take down the Christmas decorations.  It’s not that all of a sudden I felt a surge of community service desire flowing through my soul.  It more had to do with that guy that sits alone every Sunday morning and reads the bulletin during the homily.  He has seen me – we have made eye contact on the way out of church – but he has made no move to engage me in conversation.  It seems he might be shy.  It has taken me two weeks but I have worked up the confidence to take down holiday decorations.  I just hadn’t found my “opening line” yet.

So there we are, after the last song, people moving forward to help carry the statues from the manger scene downstairs.  I am elbow to elbow with him as they are handing over wisemen and camels to people willing to carry them.  It comes to me like a zip of light, and I lean toward him and say: “Note to self: the poinsettias can go home with us, not the statues.”  He gave me that half smile that people give you when either:  a) they don’t think you are funny; b) they object to talking in church because it is too holy.  I tell you what, if I was blonde with noteworthy eyelashes and a southern accent, there’d be more talking in church, sanctioned by the ever-so-pious men.  Of this I am certain.

I get to the front of the line just as the last camel has been handed out.  Now, I am without my lines, without a job, and without some level of personal dignity.  I turn.  I see no leader taking the reins.  This isn’t my moment, so I walk down the aisle, as if I know what I’m doing, to ask the pastor if all the poinsettias need to move to the back of the church.  I hope he will engage me in conversation to make me feel visible again as I am turning some shade of fade-out.  He is hammering out details of something else with another parishioner.  I move on to the deacon and ask the question.  The deacon replies that ONLY the poinsettia’s in front of the altar can be taken.  I don’t want a poinsettia.  Not at all.  I want a ROCK to crawl under.  No one reaches for me to put me to work.  There are no people taking charge or giving directions.  The deacon bellows again from mid-church to take ONLY the poinsettias from in front of the altar.  He’s not talking to me.  He’s talking to anyone who will hear him… in a radius of 5 miles.

Maybe this group of people has done this for years and I am just an “extra” in this cast.  I grab my jacket and purse and bolt for the door before Mr. Handsome comes back from dismantling the display of the manger’s stable.  I get in my car and do the one thing I know to do for myself:  I head to Dunkin’ Donuts.  I make a beeline for the women’s room to find it locked.  I wait and pretend to read the bulletin board which is littered with business cards of everything from Massage therapy to snowplowing.  I take my next huge step forward in organizational leadership and commandeer the Men’s room and lock the door. I wish I could bolt it so I could have a good primal scream for myself.  But it is only a button lock and those can be popped from the outside.  My stay is brief: I order my breakfast and drive to Utica.  It seemed the thing to do.  I shopped and drove around for two hours until I felt suddenly so exhausted I wanted to be home on the couch with my dogs.  And they just thought I was going to church!

Last week my mother again said to me that I should “stop looking” and then someone would find me.  She is Polish, but she is not a gypsy and she has NO crystal ball.  I think of all the advice people have given me to find Mr. Right.  They put the mental burden on ME to be the right person – I already am -  instead of looking to find the right person.  I have assured my mother that when they lay me in my coffin for viewing at the funeral home, look very carefully.  You will see my eyes are not quite closed:  they are looking toward the door to see if Mr. Right has finally come, a day late and a dollar short.

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A New Year, A New Look in 2019

The wrapping on the toilet paper roll made me think of it.  There were little green falling leaves pictured on the wrapper.  I remembered that in some countries they don’t have the roll, just the leaves.  It gives you pause to think of it.  I have a friend who has been a missionary across The Pond for over 40 years.  He has taught the people of the village how to dig fish ponds to raise their food.  He has helped in the work of education in their seminary.  He told me tales of women walking for miles to attend Mass with babies on their backs.  As the hot sun beat down on the babies, they do what babies do … and there are no such luxuries as disposable diapers/nappies there.  So the spot on mama’s back grows wet, hot, sticky as she gets to church.  And they sing and dance and pray for hours.  Then she gets to walk back home.  No cry room for a fussy toddler.  No Buick to hop in and try to race the fellow congregants out of the parking lot before the last blessing is given.  It’s just a different world.

He came to visit me here in the States once during the summer.  I remember a few things about that visit 25+ years ago, but relative to this writing I will tell you about our trip to the Mall.  My city tried to build a bigger Mall to rival the Mall of the Americas in the Midwest.  At the time of his visit, ground had not been broken yet.  I thought maybe he’d like to see the different kinds of stores we have.  He was unimpressed.  What he DID comment on was the child in the shoe store who was having a good old-fashioned “fit” and saying to his mother:  “but I don’t like them!”  My friend couldn’t refrain from commenting on how disrespectful American children are, even ungrateful.  It was a sweeping generalization that left me with a bad taste in my mouth because not all of our children are this way.  The adults, perhaps that’s another story entirely.

He wanted me to come teach theology in their seminary.  I was just ending the Arizona chapter of my life and beginning my Central New York story and couldn’t quite wrap my brain around the idea of leaving so soon.  Perhaps I should have.  Then I found out that African seminary was not serious young college students, but rather, junior high age boys and the level of my interest dropped.  It’s a long way to travel just to teach grade school.  Then there were other considerations. 

I couldn’t imagine living away from my American comforts.  Well, mostly it was about the dog, I think.  Now I have three dogs and am fairly anchored without question to this continent.  I like electricity.  I like flush toilets that are indoors.  I like hopping in my car and going shopping or sight-seeing or to the state park.  There’s a line in a popular movie where the man says to the woman:  “You had me at 'Hello.'”  In my case, as I learned more about the African village – the weather, the adorable guinea pigs that live in the bush outside my friend’s window, the agricultural area, the warmth of the peoples, I felt drawn to go there.  And then he said the game-changer.  And my response:  “You lost me at 'cobra in the chicken coop today'.”

So I like my creature comforts.  I have grown accustomed to my freedom and responsibilities.  My wardrobe is not fancy but it is fairly comfortable, as is my house.  But I do, thoughtlessly, what so many other Americans do:  I complain.  In fact, I may actually have a college degree in complaining because I am so good at it.  I can make being displeased come out like an entertaining story.  My colleague and I were talking about our tendency as humans to be judgmental.  I can be judgmental and make my listeners walk away with the impression that I am of refined taste and very wise.  I’m that good at being that bad (uncharitable).  I am also easily depressed.  I am not going to confession publicly here; I’m just stating some mental habits in which I detect I may not be alone.  And I know I need to change.

When I met her I did not know that one statement from her would change my kaleidoscope of life so much.  She is an elderly immigrant from an Eastern bloc country.  Her eyes twinkle when she talks.  She always seems joyful to me.  She barely speaks English and I did some grocery shopping for her.  One day she had that tired-look and I asked her how she was feeling.  Answer:  “Not so good.  My heart.  But, you know, tick, tick, tick for 90 years and it gets tired.”  She held up her wrist to show me the bracelet with the nitroglycerine vial on it.  I didn’t know people still used nitro.  Hmm.  Then she added:  “My husband, he die.  He had a ‘bad heart’ too.  We were both in the camps many years ago.”  

There are times when you have to keep your own eyeballs from popping out of your head.  There are even times when me, the person who mass-produces words effortlessly, can’t find one single appropriate thing to say.  Here was the moment.  What do you say to someone who endured a concentration camp and yet had such a joyful demeanor now how many years later?  I think I would be:  Bitter, angry, mentally disfigured by my mistrustful and displeased nature, and even angry at life itself.  And, yeah, I call myself a Christian, so there are a bunch of mental expectations I have of myself – and even others have of me – just because of that belief system.  Most likely I would disappoint all of us. It leaves me asking myself if maybe, just possibly, I should count my blessings instead of aggravations? 

I am thankful that she felt comfortable enough to slip that into our conversation because I think she may have saved me.

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