Sunday, December 19, 2010

Soon

I unlock the door and step inside, cool air hitting me as I kick off my snow covered boots and slip into my shoes. I haven't been here all month, Advent progressing without my presence.

Methodically I go about my duties in the silent church. I turn up the heat, pull the dust cloth off the altar. In the space of a few minutes I set up the altar, pour water into the font, place the Ciborium, the wafers, the water, the wine on the table by the entrance. I turn and dip my finger in the font and say a prayer.

I make my way to the fourth pew from the front. I kneel in the silence and solitude and tell God how ornery and resistant I feel. That I don't know why I am there, just that I am. After a while I am quiet, glad for the grace to be honest and raw before God.

Soon I can hear people stamping the snow off their boots, snow that has fallen every sinlge day this past week, as they come up the wooden steps of the church. They, too bring a blast of cold air in with them.

One hundred times out of a hundred that I come here I am the lector during the Mass. A pity party builds within me as I consider this. I rise and go to various neighbours, asking them to do the readings. I don't tell them I just want to sit in my seat, that I have no desire to contribute, that I don't want to do a thing.

We are few in number. Very few. A handful at best. It's Advent. There are four candles to light. When the priests finds out I'm not doing any readings he asks me to light one of the candles. I see several faces turned my way at his request. He's wrecking my firm intention to not participate. I tell him grumpily that I don't want to but I will. Harrumph.

So we process in and as we wait for the last strains of the entrance song to fade I consider how my orneriness is contributing negatively to the atmosphere. In my head comes a picture of Jesus and a small child. A small child having a whale of a temper tantrum with Jesus holding them by the back of their shirt, suspended in mid air kicking and hollering and carrying on, arms and legs flailing like an airplane hitting turbulence. Jesus can barely restrain himself from having an all out belly laugh. A small smile escapes my lips despite my resolve to be ornery to the end.

When my turn comes my candle won't light. I tip it and let wax drip away but still it resists the flame. The priest comes and together we get it lit. It glows faintly beside the others whose flames reach for the ceiling.

Eventually I thaw out emotionally enough to participate. I still feel the faint pressure of my heels digging in, not wanting to abandon myself to the moment. There is relief in prayer, even if its just to say that I feel empty, absolutely empty. At the end of Mass I consider Advent, the darkness I feel inside and out. Father Charlie has told me many times that beautiful flowers grow in the desert. "Fuck the desert" I think to myself. Been there done that as the saying goes. Every winter.

Soon the darkness will break.

Come O come, Emmanuel.

6 comments:

annie said...

Oh, Hope! Your honesty has helped me so many times. Thank you!

Andrew said...

I sometimes feel as you do now. I don't really know why I get that way, at least some of the time. And the times that I think I know I may be full of it.

The light is still there dear one.

Daisy said...

I hear you loud and clear, Hope. Roger that and most definitely ditto.

Mich

Patty said...

You make me smile :)

Jim said...

There's a smile on my face, too. Last Sunday evening I visited the old assembly, mostly out of nothing else to do, admittedly, always, with a hope to somehow meet with a dose of His presence as I have known it there in other times. What met me, however, on this particular evening was their Christmas program, something close to twenty carols performed by just about anyone willing to stand in front of the microphone. After an hour, I left, wondering how many more could be squeezed in before the sermon and finding better contact with Him during the quiet ride home.....

Guinevere said...

I wonder if you've ever read Kathleen Norris's books... She writes about being Catholic and also about depression and acedia. ... Enjoyed the image of Jesus holding the toddler by the shirt. :) --G