Today I shall slice
No more cans.
Today I shall slice
No more cans.
Forget complicated instructions.
Ignore those who say you must try this you
must do that.
Buy tea that sounds yummy. Brew it.
If you like it sweet, add sweet. If you don’t,
don’t. You are not under surveillance by the tea police
as you top your fine English breakfast with Redi Whip.
people across this blue-green world drink with you.
Today, I drink Joy
read a poem or two
in a few minutes, the leaves unfurl
and so do I. The laptop anticipates my next move.
Most days the tea runs out before the words.
First things first: You cannot criticize my affection for Willie unless you also grew up in Austin in the ’70s and somehow resisted the pull of Trigger (his guitar).
So I was pretty pleased when I recently found his album “Heroes” which includes the song “Come on Back Jesus.” This being the time of Advent, I thought this song was just about perfect.
The world’s done got crazy, and it seems to get worse every day.
True, Willie. True. Everyone’s talking about how bad things are. At church, we’re lighting candles to get ready for the coming of Christ. But in this song, Jesus brings someone with him.
Come on back, Jesus, and pick up John Wayne on the way.
Why should the Son of God choose the Duke?
They just don’t respect peace anymore.
And what exactly does John Wayne have that we need?
We know he can swing from the floor.
If ol’ John Wayne does tag along on the Second Coming, what should we do during the epic battle?
While he kicks their butts, we’ll just stand there and watch him and pray.
Some people say the world is ending in just a few days, on 12/21/12. On one hand, that’s the last day of finals, so my kids would welcome the break, but on the other hand, they’d like to finish growing up. A heavenly reunion might wreck those dreams.
Maybe I’m wasting my money and time buying presents. I’ll take my chances. Because so far, no one’s predictions have come true.
So, come on back, Jesus. And pick up John Wayne on the way.
This is the last post in my series, and it’s airing almost two years to the day from when I first visited St. Mary’s.
Traditionally, converts come into the church at the Great Vigil of Easter service, held on the night before Easter Sunday.
My friend, Deidra, told me to “pay close attention.” So the first thing I noticed was an insect struggling on the floor while the kneeler was still up. The insect had wings. It belonged outside.
After they extinguished the lights in the church, we went out to the courtyard to light the Easter fire. St. Mary’s is next door to Altdorf, a restaurant and bar, and the band was playing, “My Way.”
I can’t make this stuff up. A struggling insect and a Frank Sinatra standard.
As we were walking back in, I caught my son’s eye, and he said he wanted to sit with me. I was shocked because he was not looking forward to a two-and-a-half hour church service.
This was my third night in a row at church. I’d cried all through the Maundy Thursday service and through much of the Good Friday service. That night I was dry-eyed. Clear-headed. At rest.
There was a long prayer sung by Father Enda. Then the readings — lovely, but they skipped Ezekiel and the dry bones. I love that one!
The homily was super short. He asked us to consider where we are encountering a stone that seems impossible to move, especially a stone of fear or worry. Father Enda reminded us that the women didn’t need to move the stone; the Lord took care of that.
Then, the baptisms. All Latino boys and girls, dressed in white. White dresses for the girls, white dress shirts and white pants for the boys.
Finally, it was time for me and the other boring, adult confirmands. I was the first one to be anointed with oil. I had been warned, “Do not wear your best shirt,” and that was good advice because Father Enda did spill a little on it.
They had said something about a marriage, too, and I looked around for a bride. I was shocked when a husband and wife from our group stepped out and renewed their vows, right then and there. Father Enda said, “In sickness and in health? And breakfast in bed every morning?” Their daughter, who is my son’s age, was also being confirmed, and she was just standing there in her black shirt, jeans, sandals and blue toenail polish, with tears running down her cheeks. I don’t think she knew they were going to renew their vows.
From then, we zipped on through the rest of Mass. I had been told that Father Enda would serve us, but he stepped aside. I was actually the first one to go forward because of where I was sitting. My sponsor, the sweet woman who talked me down that night at RCIA, was one of the servers. I asked her with my eyes, “Can I go to you?” and she nodded. I can’t think of any person I would rather have my first communion with than with her.
And it was done. The recessional was “Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee,” sung as multiple “alleluias.” It’s my husband’s favorite hymn. It’s also the same song we had as the recessional at our wedding.
What shocked me was the love and support. Before the service, my daughter Googled “Catholic symbols for dummies” and made a card, and she also gave me a Catholic bracelet she randomly found in her locker. I had emails from family and friends. My dad came. After the service, a woman handed me a card with a booklet of prayers.
A few months later, Father Enda asked me if I was going to help with RCIA this year.
“Oh, no. They don’t want me,” I said.
“And why not?” he asked.
“Because I’m not exactly 100 percent on everything.”
He laughed—this man who has been a priest for 50 years—and said, “You think I am?”
Yep. I’m home.