//Lord, have mercy//
My mom tugged us along by our arms as we approached the church through the courtyard. Mass started at 8, and my mother hated showing up after things got started because people stared. As we pushed through the doors the thick aroma of mahogany, incense, and silence met me as my eyes began to scour the back few rows. I soon zeroed in on my Grandma, who had already found her seat and was praying, and began frantically tugging at the hem of my mom’s dress informing her that it was time to release my hand. I insisted on sitting with my Grandmother each week. I am sure I brought tears to onlooker’s eyes as they watched me frantically climb into her lap and take my time settling in at her side just as the priest began his spiel. This was all very heart warming to watch. A kid who sits with his grandma every Sunday is straight up Hallmark, and I am sure you were all swooning at the mental image of me snuggling up beside her. If only I had a picture...
I’ll be honest. My intentions were not pure. The only reason I was so adamant about sitting with her was because she had butterscotch, lots and lots of butterscotch. Her purse was like that bag from Mary Poppins; her hand never came back empty when she reached inside. She and I had an understanding. In exchange for my silence she would give me candy. It was the way things were done, even if it was a little Pavlovian. She raised 5 kids; she must know what she’s doing.
The candy exchange would do its thing for a while, but inevitably, I would lose interest with my obedience and the sweetness of the candy in my mouth wasn’t payment enough for me to sit still. My fidgety little body would sliver down into the space between the pews and crawl around; weaving, and contorting myself around the legs of my family and any person within squirming distance, imagining I was being chased by bad guys using anything I could for cover. Within moments, without fail, my imagination would take me over causing some sort of World War II period special effect sound to erupt from my mouth loud enough for people across the aisle to look over and notice the chubby kid peering from behind the kneeling bench aiming an imaginary rifle at their foreheads.
I’m kind of embarrassed to even talk about this.
I can still feel the sting of my grandmother’s fingers toned to hardened steel from years of needlework and pea shelling as they clamped onto my ear lobe, (I was cursed with large lobes, they were a convenient handle on many occasions) and yanked me back into my seat.
Excursio...
Contrary to what you might believe, I do love the Mass. For many reasons in fact. One being that it’s so deliberate and slow. Every week it is like a romance. You enter in, things are a little awkward at first, and you even catch yourself getting bored for a bit. Everything inside you wants to rush ahead to all the physical stuff, but something inside you convinces you that your patience will pay off in the end. You find that the other person can be a little long-winded. They seem to be so self-involved. You’re really not all that interested at first, but then things begin to get better. You realize that all the self-interest, was actually self-disclosure. They just wanted you to know their intentions, to comfort you and open you up to being honest and bearing yourself. You begin to participate more, taking cues from them. You’re comfort level is rising. Finally, there’s back and forth banter. They speak, and somehow you know what to say back. You begin to feel even more comfortable with one another, comfortable enough to touch hands from across the table. You open up, you let each other in on your faults, and you soon realize that they weren’t really that big of a deal in the first place. There is acceptance, love, respect, and grace. And it all culminates in this wonderful celebration. The union of two persons into this one co-dependent thing commemorated by the breaking of bread and the sipping of wine is a beautiful thing. It’s all very involved and emotional, and you really don’t know how in the world you’ll ever be able to do it again. But somehow you find yourself there again; ready to pick up where you left off. For me, this is the Mass.
Back to the story...
Call it what you will, but every Sunday the planets seemed to align. At the very instance that my squirming, imaginative self was abruptly reintroduced into the Mass the priest and the community were preparing to receive communion. I always enjoyed getting to see what was going on so my grandmother would stand me up on the pew next to her. With my new vantage point, our faces were now at the same level, and she would draw me in close so I my ears could receive her voice. The congregation would respond in unison. Even though her response was with the rest of the congregation, I know she was speaking to me. Lord, have mercy. I could hear the priest’s voice in the background, and she would respond. Lord, have mercy. My rambling mind came to a standstill as I heard the words over and over. Lord, have mercy. Her voice is gentle, frail, and piercing all at the same time. Lord, have mercy. There is an ineffable emotion behind every syllable as each consonant receives its due attention, as if mistreating one would make the rest worthless. Lord, have mercy. My grandmother was praying for me, herself, and for the whole world. Lord, have mercy.
I’m not too good at prayer. I’ve become so mired by all the fanciness of big words, and impressive spiritual banter it seems that all the richness I experienced earlier in life has been sucked out of the discipline. Lord, have mercy.
More often than not my prayers are a chasing after the words that I don’t have. I sit/lie there in silence agonizing over my inability to be more vocal when I communicate with God. But I find that I have all the emotions and passion I could ever need. They reside in my heart, pain, joy, agony, disappointment, love, and insecurity. These are my prayers. The moments I spend in silence trying to fall asleep, as the emotions of the day rush over me. There are but few words that do justice to them all. Lord, have mercy.
I’ll be honest. My intentions were not pure. The only reason I was so adamant about sitting with her was because she had butterscotch, lots and lots of butterscotch. Her purse was like that bag from Mary Poppins; her hand never came back empty when she reached inside. She and I had an understanding. In exchange for my silence she would give me candy. It was the way things were done, even if it was a little Pavlovian. She raised 5 kids; she must know what she’s doing.
The candy exchange would do its thing for a while, but inevitably, I would lose interest with my obedience and the sweetness of the candy in my mouth wasn’t payment enough for me to sit still. My fidgety little body would sliver down into the space between the pews and crawl around; weaving, and contorting myself around the legs of my family and any person within squirming distance, imagining I was being chased by bad guys using anything I could for cover. Within moments, without fail, my imagination would take me over causing some sort of World War II period special effect sound to erupt from my mouth loud enough for people across the aisle to look over and notice the chubby kid peering from behind the kneeling bench aiming an imaginary rifle at their foreheads.
I’m kind of embarrassed to even talk about this.
I can still feel the sting of my grandmother’s fingers toned to hardened steel from years of needlework and pea shelling as they clamped onto my ear lobe, (I was cursed with large lobes, they were a convenient handle on many occasions) and yanked me back into my seat.
Excursio...
Contrary to what you might believe, I do love the Mass. For many reasons in fact. One being that it’s so deliberate and slow. Every week it is like a romance. You enter in, things are a little awkward at first, and you even catch yourself getting bored for a bit. Everything inside you wants to rush ahead to all the physical stuff, but something inside you convinces you that your patience will pay off in the end. You find that the other person can be a little long-winded. They seem to be so self-involved. You’re really not all that interested at first, but then things begin to get better. You realize that all the self-interest, was actually self-disclosure. They just wanted you to know their intentions, to comfort you and open you up to being honest and bearing yourself. You begin to participate more, taking cues from them. You’re comfort level is rising. Finally, there’s back and forth banter. They speak, and somehow you know what to say back. You begin to feel even more comfortable with one another, comfortable enough to touch hands from across the table. You open up, you let each other in on your faults, and you soon realize that they weren’t really that big of a deal in the first place. There is acceptance, love, respect, and grace. And it all culminates in this wonderful celebration. The union of two persons into this one co-dependent thing commemorated by the breaking of bread and the sipping of wine is a beautiful thing. It’s all very involved and emotional, and you really don’t know how in the world you’ll ever be able to do it again. But somehow you find yourself there again; ready to pick up where you left off. For me, this is the Mass.
Back to the story...
Call it what you will, but every Sunday the planets seemed to align. At the very instance that my squirming, imaginative self was abruptly reintroduced into the Mass the priest and the community were preparing to receive communion. I always enjoyed getting to see what was going on so my grandmother would stand me up on the pew next to her. With my new vantage point, our faces were now at the same level, and she would draw me in close so I my ears could receive her voice. The congregation would respond in unison. Even though her response was with the rest of the congregation, I know she was speaking to me. Lord, have mercy. I could hear the priest’s voice in the background, and she would respond. Lord, have mercy. My rambling mind came to a standstill as I heard the words over and over. Lord, have mercy. Her voice is gentle, frail, and piercing all at the same time. Lord, have mercy. There is an ineffable emotion behind every syllable as each consonant receives its due attention, as if mistreating one would make the rest worthless. Lord, have mercy. My grandmother was praying for me, herself, and for the whole world. Lord, have mercy.
I’m not too good at prayer. I’ve become so mired by all the fanciness of big words, and impressive spiritual banter it seems that all the richness I experienced earlier in life has been sucked out of the discipline. Lord, have mercy.
More often than not my prayers are a chasing after the words that I don’t have. I sit/lie there in silence agonizing over my inability to be more vocal when I communicate with God. But I find that I have all the emotions and passion I could ever need. They reside in my heart, pain, joy, agony, disappointment, love, and insecurity. These are my prayers. The moments I spend in silence trying to fall asleep, as the emotions of the day rush over me. There are but few words that do justice to them all. Lord, have mercy.
Labels: jesus, life, prayer, short stories
