We got Mac a wheelchair via Amazon. Now we can go in the van to Holy Hour at our local church. It means a lot to both of us to be there, though Mac can't sit comfortably very long.
We like the shared feeling of reverence you find at Holy Hour. I wish I associated the Mass with reverence but it doesn't happen very often. The vibe of a company picnic comes to mind: forced camaraderie.
At Holy Hour people are praying silently and intently, eyes on the Eucharist. Some get down on the floor and kneel forward, head to the ground. We've even seen a couple walk on their knees from the back of the church. This is not an easy thing to do on the hard floors.
Sadly, too often the Mass doesn't seem informed by any emotion other than a wistful earnestness... this does not do justice to the Real Presence of a passionate God.
Somewhere in the last 50 years the Catholic Church lost focus on the Real Presence. It's an amazing concept, a God Who wants to be here now, with you. Not a symbol, not a memory, not a nice thought, but a real person.
I remember the first time I went to Holy Hour and observed the Eucharist in the monstrance and realized, this is more real than I am. This is Ultimate Reality while I'm just a brief gathering of atoms and electrons soon to dissipate into the ether. And here is Ultimate Reality reaching out to hold us together.
The Church knows it doesn't get any better than this. It must act like it.
My days are anything but sublime. After getting things at the store that Mac needs, like shorts with zipper pockets so his phone doesn't fall out of reach on the ground, and a bathroom-safe chair that might allow him to take a shower, I headed to the Cathedral for a brief visit.
As I headed the truck towards Saints S&J a car cut me off on my left. I noted the Harley Davidson sticker and the Hell's Angels MC sticker. Peace, brother. An elderly man bent at the waist hobbled across the intersection while we waited for the light to turn. He was carrying a tote bag that said "Glad to be young!"
The Adoration chapel at Saints S&J is Perpetual, meaning always open day and night, but at night you have to sign in and have a code to open the door. A note on the door says they need volunteers to visit in the middle of the night. That might work in the summer time.
There were a couple of people there when I arrived, a young woman nodding off over her rosary beads, and a guy I recognized from previous visits. He didn't have on his Harley Davidson t-shirt today. Funny to think of sitting with people you would usually keep a safe distance from on the street but the Real Presence becomes our common denominator.
I've been thinking about the Benedictines. After decades of social anxiety do I have an awakening awareness of the value of community?
When I go to the dawn Mass at St. Effects almost everyone there is over 60. The priest is old, too, and sometimes he has to reach for the words. We all sit respectfully in silence, mentally saying the words for him, rooting for him to remember. I think God might be saying wherever He is and we are there together, that is community.That's how it feels.
Went to noon Mass at St. Effects. I sat up more towards the front and could make out most of the sermon. So far the acoustics have been terrible in every church we've visited. What did priests do before they had microphones?
I felt guilty about leaving Mac alone at the house but going to Church keeps me strong. He said it was fine. He knows how I am. He had hip surgery a few days ago. Now he's home recuperating. I wonder what the doctors would say if they could see Mac covered in cats as he lays on his bed.
As a distraction I told him about a Benedictine monastery I found in California. Based on what I've found on the Web, I'm drawn to the Benedictines more than the Franciscans, but I'm not sure why.
The Benedictines go way back and were founded before there were religious orders. They seem very independent to me.
You can join a monastery as a layperson. There's a Benedictine monastery on the West side of Phoenix that we can visit. You don't live there, you're not a monk, but as a layperson you're associated with the particular monastery you choose. So you want to pick the right monastery.
This morning I got up at 4 AM and started chores, which now includes helping Mac, of course. I drove to the pharmacy and picked up his meds, including painkiller. His leg aches pretty bad, understandably. It's an alarming shade of eggplant.
Tuesday I went to Holy Hour at St. Gee. This time the deacon showed up. He was supposed to be there last Tuesday but no in casa. Mac and I and a few stalwart Mexicans huddled outside church in the freezing cold for 15 minutes or so. (This was several days before Mac fell and broke his hip in the backyard.) Finally we disbanded and waved each other good night.
This week I had to go to Holy Hour by myself because Mac was in the hospital with his broken hip. I wondered if at the beginning of this service the deacon explained why he was missing last week? Probably no need as regular parishioners are probably already in the know. Deacons can be married so maybe he had family issues.
There were considerable tears this particular night. One of the men, even. Sometimes I cry, too. I can't help it. Deacon puts together a beautiful Holy Hour. It's actually closer to two hours. He plays Gregorian chant for the first hour, then he plays something traditional. This time he had a violin rendition of Amazing Grace that was gorgeous.
At the Benediction they sing "Bendito, Bendito", a hymn that is about 400 years old. It feels like you are being transported through time and space. Everyone prays to the Real Presence in the Eucharist with a fervor I have never experienced in a church before.
There is a wooden kneeler right in front of the monstrance that holds the Eucharist. People who have special intentions go and kneel there and often cry, even sob. I admire this but I am way too shy.
I had never much thought about the Real Presence until recently. The idea that you could just sit in silence and visit with Jesus, that struck me as brilliant. You could talk to Him, tell Him about your week, ask for help, express gratitude, or just clear your mind.
Momo is playing at the feet of the Lord now.
When she was a baby I found her in the yard, alone in a planter pot. She was not much bigger than a little mouse. On her first visit the vet offered to put her to sleep. He said she tested positive for some acronym. "NO!" I said without thinking.
I nursed her to health and she bounced around so much we named her Momo Bongo. Part Russian Blue, with Tux markings, as an adult she was the most regal of cats. She lived almost 9 years, one year for each of her 9 lives.
In her last months she moved back and forth between the kitchen and the family room. She watched Nordic Noir with us in the evenings. She slept on the kitchen counter no matter many how many times I discouraged her.
I gave up and let her have her way. We put a soft blanket on one of the counters and that's where she slept until the day she couldn't climb up there anymore. She had picked the most socially important part of the house and made it hers. Who would deny her? Not me.
I miss her.
Some days later:
Found a picture in my camera phone tonight of Momo sleeping her final hours. The lighting is dusk and all you can make out midst the shadows is one little snowshoe paw. An hour before she passed over she raised her head and gazed at me and I gazed back, willing her to let go.
I still miss her.
