A Small Matter of Eternal Life
I attended a memorial mass Sunday morning, a service for a fine man who lived 86 years on this planet and never made one enemy, never yelled or lost his temper or complained or left unfinished business. And what I want to say is mixed up and bordering on black humor, the way life is an amalgamation; dark rocks and dirt mixed with light cement, like a New York sidewalk, all bright lights and fancy stores and streetwalkers and drugs. Artists instinctively know this. They use colors like purple and blue to paint the color gray, they know that gray does not occur in nature. I can't be grey here, can't give good homage to a wonderful man, mix that sadness with the joy of a life. I haven't processed the pain of loss yet.
All my extended family breaks bread under the crucifix Sunday mornings, sits through the readings and homilies sanctioned by Rome. But me, I'm a heathen black sheep Avon buddhist recovering Catholic, and I didn't enter my children in Sunday School, didn't tell them the stories of guilt and suffering and redemption I learned through years of parochial school. I sound bitter. Maybe I am. I'm not sure. I only know I woke up one day, after a rape and pregnancy and missing young adult life and chucked the Church and the old men who run it.
So, Saturday night found me teaching two young boys how to act Catholic, how to get through a family memorial service without embarrassment and the pointing fingers of the thoughoughly washed. Jesus is the Son of God, I said, and folks go to Catholic Church to pray to him and ask His forgiveness for their sins. He forgives everyone, that's what the Catholics believe, I said, and all you have to do is sit and stand and kneel when everyone else does, and read aloud the prayers in the missile, I'll help you, I'll find the right page, kick you when you have to stand, and whatever you do, don't tell the old people this is your first time in church. Please, boys, please. And one more thing, boys, I added. Toward the end of the service, everyone second grade and up goes to the altar. So you - and I pointed at 9 - will go up to the altar with me, and you - I pointed at 7 - will remain in your seat until I return. Is that clear, boys?
The next morning we arrived at the Church, dressed in our most conservative finery, with tissues for the sad parts, and a pack of chocolate kisses in my purse as sedation devices for 7, and we sat near the front, in the long oak pews decorated with lilies and reserved for the immediate family. The organ began a drone of solemn liturgical music, and the congregation rose. Not a seat remained open. Like I said, the deceased was an incredible man. Altar boys and girls led the procession, carrying Catholic utensils and a holy bible, followed by a deacon, the readers, the Eucharistic ministers, and finally the priest, a tall and fat and kindly man, dressed head to toe in embroidered purple silk robes. I pointed to the words in the music book and sang a song of salvation in unison with the community of faith, didn't see 7 turn around to stare at the priest, mouth gaping open, moon pie eyes, until I heard him yell, at the tip top of his lungs, "Look! Look! It's Jesus!"
Mortified doesn't begin to describe my pain, and I shrunk in the pew, pulling little 7 close to me, whispering a severe and sharp warning in his ear, but the damage was done. The congregation laughed, and the priest began the mass.
"Welcome to St. John's Church! We are celebrating the life of a wonderful father, husband, and friend, who now rests with Jesus. And I'm not Jesus" - laughter here - "but we teach that we should aspire to be as much like Jesus as possible, and this man was as close as you can get."
The service continued, a mixed up river of sadness and joy, with touching stories told by friends and the priest's promise that he now rested with angels, rested and watched over us, was with us in spirit, just like Jesus. My boys absorbed every word. They paid close attention to the blessing of the bread and water, listened to the ancient words changing water into wine, bread into the everlasting body of Jesus Christ. I didn't have to break out the chocolates.
And then the big moment came, the big Communion moment of our Saturday night instruction, and I left 7 sitting in the pew with the snacks and held 9's hand as tight as a mother can, and headed up to the altar for my bread and wine. I held out my hand and received the Eucharist, mumbled "Amen," watched 9 do the same. We chewed on the thin tasteless wafers and began the shuffle back to our pew. I glanced at our seats, saw 7 trembling, standing on the pew once more, finger pointed at me, at 9, and then he let loose, in the loudest loud kid voice you ever heard.
"Hey! Hey! This isn't fair! Hey! He said that bread makes you live forever!" - and here he pointed at the priest - "And my brother got one and I didn't! That's not fair! If he gets to live forever, I want to live forever!"
4:37:23 PM 
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