----------------------------
The
Pink Room: Thoughts About Intentional Living
Chapter
17/ Advent.
Part
2 (Previous post contain the previous chapters.)
----------------------------
We
always knew when it was a special service in the Catholic Church because they
would have burned incense in the church. We all seemed to be mildly allergic
and the hacking and nasal drainage would begin. The whole church went from
silent to coughing, snorting, sniffling and blowing noses.
Mom
was even more than mildly sensitive to it; the tissues would come out of her
purse. She’d start blowing her nose and hacking. My throat would burn and eyes
would water…it was a scene.
Winter
always had the narrow pews filled to the brink with coats. They didn’t heat the
sanctuary during the week so the floor would radiate cold and your feet would
feel it through your shoes.
I
remember looking at the floor and seeing crystal patterns in the dried salt,
people would track in snow and salt on their shoes and the puddles would dry on
the stone floor.
At
the end of those services we’d be sprinkled with holy water. The priest would
walk up and down the aisles with a basin of water. The basin was normally held
by a deacon or altar server. The priest would pause and dip the
aspergillum into blessed water. The aspergillum looked like an oversized baby
rattle, and then use it to sprinkle water on the crowd. A big arm sweep, a little like a badminton
motion, and a fine rain would hit the crowd.
There was a church we attended for a while after St.
Patrick’s. That church, the priest was young and had innovative ideas. At that
church he used a pine branch to “sprinkle” holy water. The church was “in the
round” and the seats surrounded the center of the church where the priest sat
and there was a lectern and altar in the middle as well. That building was
beautiful. All exposed beams and brick and lots of light colored wood. They
mounted the stained glass inside of new windows and had wrought iron in
strategic places.
Around the holidays one year we were there. We sat near
the center. My brother was sitting on the end one of those holiday services. And
the priest was enthusiastic with his blessing. One by one, the rows of people
would appear to be shocked, soaked and then be wiping off their faces. Paul was
next. It was one of those moments you wish you had on tape.
The priest didn’t quite get the badminton motion high
enough. You could see it happening. Up went the branch and the priest looked
away just enough to lose track and Paul was all-but hit in the face and it drag
right down to his shoulder. His head snapped quickly away from the wet pine. It landed nicely on his shoulder with a little
thud. With a completely wet shoulder, this thirteen year old stood with his
hands out in front of him and wet, blinking water away for several minutes he
looked at all of us. I didn’t quite muster compassion—and had a very difficult
time composing myself. His lovely blue button down shirt told the story of
being hit—the large dark wet spot covering his shoulder and of course, the left
side of his head was wet, not to mention hundreds of water spots all over the
rest of his shirt. And the priest kept on going—never knowing what had happened,
by his hand, and the floppy pine branch that accosted this poor kid.
And I had to find a way to control my laughter for the
rest of mass.
----------------------------
Celebrations can be messy. Families gather, unexpected things
happen, we wait for the big events, we find joy with the mess most of the time.
And just like the progression of advent and those candles on that wreath--we
wait for the arrival of the most special gift of all time, in the meantime
there is the pink candle--the joy stands out. And joy takes all forms, but joy
is only joy when it is shared.
