I can turn on a dishwasher, a clothes washer, and a dehumidifier to be sure that work in my home is being done by machines while I leave the house.
I can go to the mall in search of something called "shapewear" in my size.
I can go there wearing "athleisurewear," meaning basically long, stretchy underpants and a top with no sleeves that reveals a colorful bra.
If my hair is wet from a recent shower, that's also okay.
Tuesday, June 18, 2019
Thursday, June 6, 2019
Being Not Catholic
Jake's best friend, we'll call him Michael, had recently returned to habitually attending Catholic mass.
A few weeks ago, Michael and I were both at Jake's family's house for Jake's birthday weekend. It was a time of playing a few games and cooking a lot of food. But we made time to go to mass with Michael, since it was such an important habit, and since there was a Catholic church one block away. We walked there in the drizzle and took seats in a pew by ourselves.
Sidenote: Okay, seriously, it's getting out of hand, churches everywhere, when you are referencing a hymnal, a hymnal supplement, a pewback card, the bulletin, the bulletin insert, and general liturgical knowledge. It's a lot. It's hard. I never thought I'd say this, but it may be time to consider PowerPoint.
Thirty minutes in saw us dutifully fulfilling expectations of the liturgy, attempting to keep up with the responses to the calls and the lyrics to the hymns. We did forget to bring offering, so the basket passed us by. The homily was about the table of God. At the table of God there is "room for everyone. Jews, Hindus, Atheists! There is room," Father Maugham said. This explicit invitation to the table of God convinced Jake that taking the Eucharist would be acceptable, when the time came. I was tuned out, to be honest, and when a churchman in a suit stepped into our pew and tapped me on the shoulder, I felt caught red-handed, absent-minded. He beckoned to us three to come along. He whispered something about "offering," and I wondered if he knew we had not given to the offering. We stumbled out of the pew, I still grasping a hymnal, hoping against hope that it counted as "offering."
We were stopped at a tiny table in the aisle where the elements and a book were sitting. The man in the suit handed each of us one of the items from the table. I was perplexed, afraid, "I... am not Catholic, and I don't understand what's going on," I whispered frantically, for I did not know what I was saying. Luckily, Michael is actually Catholic, and he led the way up the aisle to the waiting Father Maugham, who took each element in its turn, and dismissed us to our seats.
I thought the worst was over. I let the spasms die down within, and enjoyed the dismissing of the rows, one by one, who gathered in two straight lines to receive the Eucharist. I had decided early on that I would receive the body and blood of Christ with any Christians, regardless of smaller differences. So I waited in line, noting how each believer held their hands out, one on top of the other, to receive the wafer. When it was my turn, who should be standing in front of me, dispensing Christ's body one wafer at a time, but the churchman in the suit, who had heard my panicky confession of not being a Catholic. He could not unhear it. Though my hands were outstretched, he whispered, "didn't you say you're not Catholic?"
"Yes," I whispered earnestly, "but I'm a Christian."
"Just hold your hands like this, for a blessing," he instructed. And I crossed my arms, like he said, but I don't remember his giving me a blessing right then. Maybe he had forgotten what words to say. So I turned back to my seat with a red face, fiercely angry at myself for having tried, at the churchman for having asked a stranger to complete the office of altarserver. The anger didn't last long, though, because it was supplanted with admiration for his obedience. He was obeying the rules, even when they made him squirm, not just when it was comfortable.
A few weeks ago, Michael and I were both at Jake's family's house for Jake's birthday weekend. It was a time of playing a few games and cooking a lot of food. But we made time to go to mass with Michael, since it was such an important habit, and since there was a Catholic church one block away. We walked there in the drizzle and took seats in a pew by ourselves.
Sidenote: Okay, seriously, it's getting out of hand, churches everywhere, when you are referencing a hymnal, a hymnal supplement, a pewback card, the bulletin, the bulletin insert, and general liturgical knowledge. It's a lot. It's hard. I never thought I'd say this, but it may be time to consider PowerPoint.
Thirty minutes in saw us dutifully fulfilling expectations of the liturgy, attempting to keep up with the responses to the calls and the lyrics to the hymns. We did forget to bring offering, so the basket passed us by. The homily was about the table of God. At the table of God there is "room for everyone. Jews, Hindus, Atheists! There is room," Father Maugham said. This explicit invitation to the table of God convinced Jake that taking the Eucharist would be acceptable, when the time came. I was tuned out, to be honest, and when a churchman in a suit stepped into our pew and tapped me on the shoulder, I felt caught red-handed, absent-minded. He beckoned to us three to come along. He whispered something about "offering," and I wondered if he knew we had not given to the offering. We stumbled out of the pew, I still grasping a hymnal, hoping against hope that it counted as "offering."
We were stopped at a tiny table in the aisle where the elements and a book were sitting. The man in the suit handed each of us one of the items from the table. I was perplexed, afraid, "I... am not Catholic, and I don't understand what's going on," I whispered frantically, for I did not know what I was saying. Luckily, Michael is actually Catholic, and he led the way up the aisle to the waiting Father Maugham, who took each element in its turn, and dismissed us to our seats.
I thought the worst was over. I let the spasms die down within, and enjoyed the dismissing of the rows, one by one, who gathered in two straight lines to receive the Eucharist. I had decided early on that I would receive the body and blood of Christ with any Christians, regardless of smaller differences. So I waited in line, noting how each believer held their hands out, one on top of the other, to receive the wafer. When it was my turn, who should be standing in front of me, dispensing Christ's body one wafer at a time, but the churchman in the suit, who had heard my panicky confession of not being a Catholic. He could not unhear it. Though my hands were outstretched, he whispered, "didn't you say you're not Catholic?"
"Yes," I whispered earnestly, "but I'm a Christian."
"Just hold your hands like this, for a blessing," he instructed. And I crossed my arms, like he said, but I don't remember his giving me a blessing right then. Maybe he had forgotten what words to say. So I turned back to my seat with a red face, fiercely angry at myself for having tried, at the churchman for having asked a stranger to complete the office of altarserver. The anger didn't last long, though, because it was supplanted with admiration for his obedience. He was obeying the rules, even when they made him squirm, not just when it was comfortable.
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