40 Years Away from the Church
Most Sundays,
for forty years, I would wake in the arms of the woman I love, the mother of
our two kids, debating whether to wake up or not. After no one winning, we
would make love and wake at around noon, eat a power brunch and laze on the
couch cuddling, dreading the inevitable coming of the blue Monday.
Last
Sunday I found myself in church, our daughter sandwiched between me and her
mother for her wedding. Angel was right. She had managed to drag us to church.
I loved her as much as it hurt to lose her to another man who would never treat
her like the princess she is.
Nothing
had changed much though. It was the same Catholic Church, antediluvian pews
probably salvaged from the capsizing Noah’s Ark; the same old hymns that never
see time catch up on them.
It
was Angel’s big day. I had to be there for her, not for the service, or worship
of a God I doubted scores of years ago.
It was
awkward. Ave Maria started and it was déjà vu again. But I couldn’t get the
lyrics. My wife seemed fine right. Did she sneak to go to church and leave me? I
guess when I will be burning in hell she will be gloating in heaven.
Angel,
the girl I had seen grow from a baby to a lady, my second best friend, opened
the hymnal and moved it slightly so I could see the printed lyrics. I could
feel the smile forming on her lips.
Well,
when you go to Rome---- I realized I didn’t know the tunes anymore. Actually, I
did not know the tunes for any hymns.
The
choir began to sing in well-rehearsed falsetto, and everyone joined in. During
consecratio I found myself standing alone when everyone was on their knees.
Well, I had to do what they were doing. For the rest of the service, I joined
in.
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