I wanted to go to the church where Fr. G’s retired to, but my hair appointment took longer than I had anticipated. As I was driving home, I decided as I passed his old church to check it out, as I was only going to be a few minutes late. I wasn’t sure if I would even stay. It was impulsive, but I’m so glad I did it, so in my heart I could say good-bye.
Upon entering, I wasn’t even greeted by the GREETERS. But that is all so okay now. I saw there was good space closer to the front, and the clergy were still in the procession, so I took my seat closer to the altar. The mass was just fine, nothing really different. But I was sad, because I love Fr. G. so much. But he’s not dead, he’s just at a different parish, which will soon be mine. I have waited for this change. It’s been over six years, and I haven’t made a single real connection, except for Baxter. People don’t even acknowledge me, even when we are doing the offering of peace. It’s crazy. It makes me feel as though I am crazy.
I want to give this church a big “fuck you”, even though it really has a piece of my heart. During the offering of peace, there was a single woman in front of me and one beside me. We all wished each other peace, but I didn’t turn around. I just thought, I so don’t care anymore.
I fought back some tears throughout the service, but right before the transubstantiation, my voice was cracking. And I thought, maybe. Maybe I can believe in a miracle, that Christ really is there. And I hoped he was, because I was so sad. The Gift Of Desperation made me at least willing to believe.
When I went up to take the Eucharist, I really did not like the way the man administered it to me. I was already a little red with watery eyes, and I felt like he just let me linger there, like he was trying to discern if I was worthy to receive the host or not. I grabbed the wafer after he (finally) placed it in my hand, taking it briskly and carefully so as to not drop it, and any Catholic readers will know, it is NOT good to drop the host, as carefully as a woman in near rage can be, broke it with my teeth, and stormed back to my seat. And I stifled my sobbing, and then, the service was over.
When I left I took the route by the altar, so that I could bow one last time before it. I thought a man would dare cross my path as I was about to kneel, and nothing makes me more angry than when people get in my way. But he kneeled as well, and I felt solidarity.
I exited, and I really hope I will never return.
Upon entering, I wasn’t even greeted by the GREETERS. But that is all so okay now. I saw there was good space closer to the front, and the clergy were still in the procession, so I took my seat closer to the altar. The mass was just fine, nothing really different. But I was sad, because I love Fr. G. so much. But he’s not dead, he’s just at a different parish, which will soon be mine. I have waited for this change. It’s been over six years, and I haven’t made a single real connection, except for Baxter. People don’t even acknowledge me, even when we are doing the offering of peace. It’s crazy. It makes me feel as though I am crazy.
I want to give this church a big “fuck you”, even though it really has a piece of my heart. During the offering of peace, there was a single woman in front of me and one beside me. We all wished each other peace, but I didn’t turn around. I just thought, I so don’t care anymore.
I fought back some tears throughout the service, but right before the transubstantiation, my voice was cracking. And I thought, maybe. Maybe I can believe in a miracle, that Christ really is there. And I hoped he was, because I was so sad. The Gift Of Desperation made me at least willing to believe.
When I went up to take the Eucharist, I really did not like the way the man administered it to me. I was already a little red with watery eyes, and I felt like he just let me linger there, like he was trying to discern if I was worthy to receive the host or not. I grabbed the wafer after he (finally) placed it in my hand, taking it briskly and carefully so as to not drop it, and any Catholic readers will know, it is NOT good to drop the host, as carefully as a woman in near rage can be, broke it with my teeth, and stormed back to my seat. And I stifled my sobbing, and then, the service was over.
When I left I took the route by the altar, so that I could bow one last time before it. I thought a man would dare cross my path as I was about to kneel, and nothing makes me more angry than when people get in my way. But he kneeled as well, and I felt solidarity.
I exited, and I really hope I will never return.
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