So Much for the Spirit

Some of the funniest things seem to happen to me at church.

Our small Catholic parish consisted of two church buildings for decades before we moved to Oswego, Kansas in 1996. Several weeks ago one of those buildings was condemned and now we are combining into one church family in my town. Because our church building is two blocks from our house, the changes have not affected me personally. But I can feel the grief rolling off of those who have lost their church building one town over, the location where they were married, the structure in which their children and grandchildren were baptized, the spiritual home that held so many warm memories.

Last week we missed 9:00 mass, so we attended 10:30 mass. Most of the people attending at 10:30 were from the condemned church, including the choir. In true Solomon form we arrived just in time to follow Father Larry toward the altar so closely that we looked like part of the procession. Usually we sat towards the back, but for reasons known only to Carl, we marched up to the third row. Well, I didn't exactly march, but it seemed like a good verb for a procession.

That particular Sunday morning I was in more pain than usual, so I took a darvocet before leaving for mass. I also wore a form-fitting, ankle-length, mustard-yellow dress that I hadn't worn recently and, since I couldn't find the, um, proper underclothing, I wore none. I know. Too much information, but bear with me here. It comes into play.

I held five-year-old Hannah in my lap during the gospel reading that Sunday, which told of Jesus' saying, "Everyone who listens to these words of mine will be like the wise man who built his house on rock." Then Jesus continued to tell of the foolish man who built his house on sand. It collapsed. Ouch. That could have pulled the scab off of any healing that might have begun.

Father Larry did a beautiful job during his homily immediately following that gospel reading. He explained how the house was actually the person's faith and spirit life, not a building. I don't remember everything he said now, over a week later, but I recall that he complimented everyone because, in spite of their physical house being condemned, their faith house was still standing.

The darvocet kicked in. I was feeling the Spirit, baby. If we were one of those charismatic churches, I could've yelled preach it! and Amen! Then the choir, which I rarely hear at our church because they sang at the now-condemned church, led us in a song about "letting the healing begin." Remarkable. It was as if I could physically feel everyone around me receive healing from their own grief...or maybe it was the drugs. I sang my heart out as Katie thumbed through a second hymnal for Hannah. With each of the three verses, the Spirit flowed all the more, carrying me higher and higher. Boy, was I ready for the Liturgy of the Eucharist, a quieter part of the Catholic Mass. I could practically feel angel wings flapping around me. Does that mean I should be looking into 12-step programs?

Katie handed Hannah the hymnal just as we finished the last verse. I was soaring high in the rafters when Hannah realized they were done singing. As the rest of the congregation became completely silent, and I watched from my high place, she arched her back and let out a scream that brought me rapidly from the rafters right back into my pew. Right up front. Oh. God.

She slid down my dress onto the floor, so I pulled her, arched-backed and rigid, onto my lap. As I did so, my dress slid up with her, inching towards my knees. Holy smokes! No underwear! I could either allow Hannah to slide back onto the floor, or potentially flash my priest. So much for the Spirit. 

I did somehow manage to position Hannah on my lap uneventfully and whisper sweet please-please-please-be-quiets into her ear. She screamed again just as everyone else said, "Blessed be God forever" in unison. Yes. Blessed-be-God please get my screaming five-year-old out of here.

I handed her off to Carl, who can walk without the aid of a cane, blessed-be-God, and he took her to the kitchen until she cooled off. Darvocet or no, it took another five minutes for my heart to slow. I never quite got back into the Spirit that Sunday.

After mass, as if she didn't do a thing, Hannah ran up to Father Larry and said, "Hi Fah-er Wawwy!" and gave him a huge hug. He just said, "Hi Hannah Solomon!" and hugged her right back.

Blessed be God forever.