Mass

Burning my a

Tonight, something burned away from me. Big time.

We had a whole day of events at church today, and it was really cool, right? Well, it all ended with Mass and then Adoration. For those who don’t know, Adoration is when a priest brings out the blessed sacrament and puts it on display for folks to adore. Put differently, it is an opportunity for people to sit in a physical presence of God, to look right at a physical form of Him. (The blessed sacrament is bread that has undergone transubstantiation, a change of form/state, into the exact form that was the bread Jesus, way back when in the Garden of Gethsemane, declared to be his body. The priests have a beautiful right – is it actually called a right?? Now, I’m doubting myself here… – in which they recreate Jesus’ words and actions, allowing for the bread and wine to become the body and blood of Christ, just as they were when Jesus declared them to be his body and blood.) It’s like having someone here in person, instead of over the phone – prayer, aka conversation, with one sitting right in front of us.

During Adoration tonight, there was some music, some prayer led aloud, and some silence. For part of the time, the blessed sacrament sat on the altar for all to see. And, eventually, the priests and deacons carried it slowly around the entire church – it’s a quite large church, you see – for everyone to be able to pray right up close to the blessed sacrament.

I tell you, every time I got to see it straight on, clearly, I suddenly lost the capacity to sing. All I experienced in those moments was intensity through my whole being, like a current being upped immensely in power. The words that suddenly filled my head were simply, “Love,” and, “My Love.” Every time.

And then, when it came around by us – I was even on the end of the pew, and they stopped almost exactly next to me – things went to a whole new level. As it turned the corner onto our aisle, my breathing became inexplicably heavy and fast. My tears turned into heavy, intense crying. I was in a sudden full-blown, desperation-type cry in mere moments. We were already kneeling, and I couldn’t even keep myself up – I fell to the ground… or, rather, I went from sitting tall on my knees to collapsing on my heels, holding onto the pew to keep myself from falling off the kneeler, my chin just above even with the pew back where I was holding myself still upright, but lower to the ground than before.

When they were within about a meter or two, I felt a sudden heat approaching me, coming from their direction. As they got next to me, I felt like the intensity of a sun was exploding outward from the small group of priests as deacons, the blessed sacrament at the center. My entire body was intensely hot, in a matter of moments and directly connected to the position of the blessed sacrament. As I roughly cried my heart out, my whole body shaking, I could feel something burning away from me, layers being penetrated and spots being dissolved in the crazy heat. It felt like a fever times two. I considered how I needed to take off my sweatshirt, also the jacket that had been covering the backs of my legs… yet I couldn’t make a move beyond crying and clinging to the pew, looking directly to the blessed sacrament, struggling to breathe calmly (and failing). I even felt one priest notice and look right at me as I fell downward, but I didn’t even look at him as I typically would do. I was pinned.

And then, this small eternity in the cosmos ended. The priests and deacons began to walk again, moving to the next spot. As they moved away, I could feel the temperature changing by small jolts with each step they took. Perhaps thirty seconds or so later, I found no need to remove my sweatshirt, as it was back to the winter cool it had been all day in the church.

And I collapsed even further, like all my energy had been spent, like after a long, long day of work and a nice cleansing shower, how I collapse into bed… it felt like that. I could barely even hold onto the pew back at this point, I just draped an arm on it to keep me from collapsing fully to the floor. My eyes could just see over the pew back, following the blessed sacrament still, but from a distance now. All my energy was gone. I had been well worn, it felt, well washed and scrubbed and cleaned. I tried singing a bit, and could only manage it when I couldn’t see the blessed sacrament directly. Every time I saw it, no sound was emitted from me, now matter how I may have intended.

I eventually got my energy restored and was even more energetic afterward than I had been all day today. My mom was asking the main priest about a quote afterward, and I joined them briefly as I returned from a bathroom trip. The priest recognized me from adoration – he remembered seeing me crying. I wasn’t embarrassed. Not in the least.

And I noticed that I felt so much more myself now, not so afraid or strained or stressed about anything anymore. Weight had been lifted, and from all of me, somehow. Now, I’m going to bed much later than I like or than usual. I am utterly exhausted. I do not know what is going to happen with my living situation or my financial situation. Nope. And, somehow, I’m not secretly incredibly stressed about that. We’ll just face that tomorrow and onward. May God’s way manifest clearly and beautifully, and may I embody it fully through myself in every way.

Post-a-day 2022

Mass is such an emotional experience for me these days. When I am truly present, I end up in massive and intense tears… I wonder if it always will be this way, now that I am not so afraid to be myself as I am when I’m Church, in love and in need…

Thank you, God, for such passion and love as I have an feel from you when I am in Mass these days… may it continue beautifully. Amen.

Post-a-day 2022

(Had to think about it still, but I got it right twice now!)

Alas, Mass

Tonight, I attended Mass with one of my best friends. I forget how much we have in common when we are apart. But then we find ourselves talking after Mass, discovering that we both cried at this Mass we had both wanted and needed, and, oh, right, we both use celsius temperatures, and we both blah, blah, blah… it’s really cool. I am extremely grateful that we get to live together again, come February. I am also extremely grateful that we have Church together. It is becoming a thing for her to join me for Mass, and, judging by this evening’s service, I think it most certainly will continue and will pick up immensely in frequency. And I think we both are grateful for that.

Thank you, God and Universe. Amen.

Post-a-day 2022

(Oops… almost got it wrong again)

Two things

One: I cannot seem to stop thinking about and feeling those feelings from my dream this morning, those of having met and been with my partner in life, my man. Even when I am not thinking about it, the feelings are there, in the background, ever-present. I am nervous now to sleep, for fear of no longer having the still-strong memories of being with him at last.

But then I also wonder what I need to do to go ahead and step forward in real life, so that I can make happen for real what manifested in my dream this morning…

……….

Two: I am back at the house in Houston now, about to go to sleep. Tomorrow, I am thinking I will go to Mass in the morning – though I usually prefer the evening Mass – while I am still all clean from having showered tonight. Then I can pack and lug boxes and such downstairs all fay after that, and not worry about getting dirty and sweaty while at all of that, as well as not have to keep track of the time, which tends to give me a certain level of added stress whenever I am waiting for something happening later in a day.

I am still nervous. That’s okay. I’ll go pick up the boxes from the store after Mass, and then come back and hop to it. I’m thinking I’ll start with my art stuff and my hanging clothes. Then I can just move down all the already-packed tubs and boxes of kimono, books, blankets, scarves, shirts, jackets, etc. I also will fold and pack up the laundry on my floor. That I will keep with me for the next six weeks. I think I had probably better pack my six-weeks bag first, actually. Set all of that somewhere particular, and then start to pack up all the rest. Yeah, that sounds about right.

Well, then, I have a plan that feels good for tomorrow’s goals. Mass, box-pickup, pack for the six weeks, take down to first floor all that is already boxed, start boxing art/desk stuff and hanging clothes, and breathe calmly and fully all day long. It’ll be easier to pack all the other stuff once the already-organized and -boxes stuff is out of the way. Then, Monday morning, I can go start sticking it all into the storage unit before packing all the other stuff, art and shoes and toiletries and rocks included.

God, grant me, please, the grace to handle this all effectively and beautifully and safely and lovingly tomorrow and this week. Help me to be your love in the world through this necessary shift. And, please, help this shift to be the source of my being your love more fully and more powerfully than ever, both presently and going forward throughout life.

P.S. Please give those green eyes some extra love and fulfillment tonight and this week. I hurt for their bearer and all that that one bears so heavily right now. Allow me to lift that weight and fill that individual with such love as frees – the love that You are.

In Your name, I pray. Amen.

Post-a-day 2021

Works (of art and of grace)

I went to a different Mass than expected this weekend, but it was the one toward which I had had a sort of tug earlier this week. I had planned to attend a different Mass, and had this one as a back-up plan, and the back-up almost didn’t even happen – ate crappy food, and felt horrible all afternoon today, like I was about to pass out from exhaustion or hurl from the food at any given moment. But, despite feeling crappy in my belly, I knew I wanted to go to Mass this weekend – something about it just felt right, despite my body’s feeling so wrong today.

So, I sucked it up, and made the Mass happen. And, you know what, I not only saw someone who made me smile, but, after seeing that person, this absolutely gorgeous guy I’d met a couple years ago came walking in, and he sat the row behind me. (Eek!)

I felt like a high school girl, I swear. Lots of letting go of eekiness alongside all the emotions I experience throughout a beautiful Mass… silly, but also fun. I didn’t get to talk to him or anything, but we acknowledge each other’s presence both when he arrived and during the peace offerings. I told my mom that it was both exciting and slightly upsetting, because, yes, he was there, but he was there only at a distance, in a way. She said it was like a museum: Enjoy and admire the beautiful art, but you can’t touch it and you can’t take it home with you. Very true, Mom. Very true.

What I will say about his presence at Mass, though, is that it felt like encouragement, like a small reward, for my being there, that it was, indeed, the right place for me to be. Like God said, ‘See? Good things show up when you go where you are called.’

And that part felt very good and loving and encouraging. For it all, I am grateful. And, of course, I am very open to seeing him more regularly, God and Universe. 😉

For now, though, I thank you both. You hold my life and my heart with such grace and tenderness, and I am grateful. Please, help me to continue to step forward into what is next for me in this life, that I might be the love and creativity that I am here to be, to my full ability. Thank you, God and Universe.

Amen

Post-a-day 2021

Mass

I did the second reading on Friday. My grandma’s cousin, the priest presiding over the Mass, had asked me to give a brief reason for and explanation of what I was going to do, just before I began. And so, with some trepidation, deep breathing, and many tears, I said, “My Opa’s first language was German. So, I will do the second reading in German, for him.” And then I did.

Der erste Brief an die Thessalonicher
Das Schicksal der Verstorbenen
13 Brüder und Schwestern, wir wollen euch über die Entschlafenen nicht in Unkenntnis lassen, damit ihr nicht trauert wie die anderen, die keine Hoffnung haben.
14 Denn wenn wir glauben, dass Jesus gestorben und auferstanden ist, so wird Gott die Entschlafenen durch Jesus in die Gemeinschaft mit ihm führen.
15 Denn dies sagen wir euch nach einem Wort des Herrn: Wir, die Lebenden, die noch übrig sind bei der Ankunft des Herrn, werden den Entschlafenen nichts voraushaben.
16 Denn der Herr selbst wird vom Himmel herabkommen, wenn der Befehl ergeht, der Erzengel ruft und die Posaune Gottes erschallt. Zuerst werden die in Christus Verstorbenen auferstehen;
17 dann werden wir, die Lebenden, die noch übrig sind, zugleich mit ihnen auf den Wolken in die Luft entrückt zur Begegnung mit dem Herrn. Dann werden wir immer beim Herrn sein.
18 Tröstet also einander mit diesen Worten!

Post-a-day 2021

Church, bras, and tangled hair

I was discussing with a co-worker this evening a church that my family attended when I was a baby, and it brought to mind the last time I attended Mass there. We had moved elsewhere for church when I was still quite little, but occasionally still went to Mass there for a while. Eventually, though, we had stopped altogether going there, and always went to one of two other nearby churches. Therefore, it is easy for me to remember the last time I attended Mass at this particular church, because it was a singular event, with no other occurrences within years of its happening.

My youngest brother and I were tasked with going to church together on our own. He was probably 16 or so, making me 12 at the time. I remember how we were hanging out at home, and how he was playing games on the still-new PS2. And I eventually finished getting dressed at the last minute, and we rushed off to Mass.

We ended up having the Mass time incorrect, so we weren’t just a little bit late to Mass. But we stayed, anyway, and attended what little was left of it once we arrived. When we arrived back home, a very unique experience happened, and one which I feel shows how loving we are, my brothers and I. I had worn this top that went on like a tube top – yes, there were sleeves of some sort, or else a sweater that I wore over it, but it went on like a tube top. However, it wasn’t the usual stretchy material of tube tops, but rather a somewhat set-size material with elastic around the top piece to help it stay in place. (I’m almost certain that it had wide-ish straps, but nothing like actual sleeves to it. I remember specifically that I had to wear a strapless bra with it, because of the strap situation, but that is all of which I am certain about the straps – strapless bra required.)

When I went to remove my top, changing out of the nicer clothes and into comfy, regular clothes, I got myself stuck. You know the feeling… pulling it upward first, and, at the pivotal point, feeling the fabric stop sliding and suddenly hold tightly to the width of your currently-expanded shoulder blades… and being incapable of pulling the top back down, because your arms are now stuck up in the air, because the fabric really just doesn’t give almost at all.

So, what could I do but get help? I remember having the slight concern of going to my brother for help, because he would see my bra! my thoughts shouted in whispered tones. It took almost no time to accept the social standard as just that, and then to let it go. I was beginning to panic at being stuck, when I was walking back out into the living room for help from my brother. He easily stopped immediately what he was doing, and came to the rescue. I think it might have actually taken us a good bit of effort to free me, but we eventually succeeded, and I was grateful for his help.

And, what is amazing about this, really, is that neither of us was uncomfortable with the situation. Sure, it was an odd situation – I was already at the point of having been able to dress myself alone successfully for years. But it was still easy for us both, because of our love and care for one another.

As another brief anecdote, I remember a time my oldest brother was babysitting me, and I went to use my mom’s rounded brush, typically used for curling hair while blowdrying, to brush my hair. I did it in a sort of hurry, and somehow twisted the brush while it still had my hair running through it (I had long hair at the time), and began brushing a new spot on my head… ultimately knotting a big chunk of my hair into the brush.

My brother was able to reach my mom on the phone, and she said to check with the neighbors, because the mother there might be able to help unknot my hair. A good, long while later, the neighbor was convinced that my hair had to be cut, in order to remove the brush. I remember my mom’s voice on the phone declaring, “Do not cut her hair,” to my brother. I think it took over an hour, possibly longer, and I don’t remember who finally did it (though my brother, the neighbor, and I all worked on it at times, and my mom might even have had to finish it up when she got home later), but my hair eventually was freed. And I was concerned about ever using that kind of brush in my hair again.

Obviously.

You know, I think those were the worst that ever really happened when my brothers were in charge of babysitting… not bad, I think. 🙂

Post-a-day 2017

Mass, Cats, and Weimaraners

Do you remember Wegman’s Weimaraners, the beautiful pictures and skits of the Weimaraner dogs with human arms? (William Wegman started all of that. Here’s an example.) And we hopefully all know the musical Cats. (Look up some photos quickly, if you need a frame of reference for the picture to have in your head of the style.)

Now, today at Mass, both of these things were relevant. My mom and I have had a somewhat silly time in Mass together the past several years, mostly due to a little book we found at, I believe, a dollar store. (It was a book of comic-type frames, based on The Bible and Christianity, and was entitled According to the Good Book. I can tell more about that another time, though.) We do not actively seek out distractions, of course, but we do inform the other if ever there is something truly worth noticing. This morning, after the priest had pointed out some facts relating to the scene choices of the stained glass windows, my mom leans over to me, and whispers that, “Baby Jesus has adult hands,” and “Saint Joseph is a lion… He was in Cats.”

Momentarily unable to comprehend, I noticed that she was looking at one of the windows. Sure enough, she was right. I let her know that I agreed with her, and that the baby Jesus reminded me of the Weimaraners with human arms. We said nothing more, but both struggled to calm ourselves from the our silent, trembling laughter.

A while later, the little girl in front of us, did something wonderful. She had already tickled us to silent chuckles earlier with an adorable, “Let us praaay,” mimicking even the tones of the priest, immediately after he had said it, as well as her unreal timing with leaning backward in her mother’s arms. During the singing of the Amens after the whole bread and wine changing to body and bread deal, the music powerful and faith being declared strongly through song, we look up to see this little girl facing her mother, held around the waist in her mother’s arms, leaning back as far as possible, arms draped down, hanging limply behind her, and her head dropped back… at the last “Amen”, she raised her arms straight up in the air, as though praying to and praising the great Lord above. It was truly beautiful, despite the comedy of the timing of her actions.

So now, this little girl, just as Mass is almost finished, finds the little envelopes at the end of the pew. The envelopes are for collection (donations) to the Church for a specific cause, and the cause was labeled with a golden starburst-shaped seal on the front of each envelope. When she finds the envelopes, she grabs them, and scoots back toward her older brother, and declares quietly, “I got invites!” The priest says another line or two, and then we hear her say, “Should we go?” I think my mom and I instantly began crying with laughter.

Another few moments later, we hear the brother say, “Your party lipstick,” and we see him doing her lipstick for her with a fake lipstick. I comment to my mother that ‘I bet Cats is playing at the party.’ And we continued crying with laughter.

Now, I am aware that this is not ideal Mass behavior, as we are well taught as children. We are nonetheless human, and so we have our little tidbits of fun at Mass here and there. Besides, it is a beautiful art to find unsuspecting joys in unsuspecting places. And come on, who wouldn’t agree that Saint Joseph must have been in Cats, based on that window?
The Nativity, as portrayed by today’s lovely stained glass window

The “Party Invitation”

Post-a-day 2017

Mass: exercise for the brain(?)

I critique the priests’ sermons at Mass. I don’t mean to do it. It just happens automatically for me. Just like how I automatically correct anything I read, people with whom I talk, and even the conversations I overhear, I critique the sermons at church.

Grammar is one thing, of course, and it is always being tracked in my mind. I regularly use a certain phrasing or structure that I know to be incorrect, but that I know is, essentially, necessary for understanding for the listener or reader. (I also know that errors show up on here all the time, but that’s mostly due to either the previously mentioned reason or the simple fact that I am writing on my phone, as I lie in bed, ready to go to sleep… Not the best time or means for correct writing, I know, but I’m lazy, so it’s often the situation I have.) For the sermons, however, my brain decided years ago to treat them like essays. I analyze their quality in terms of how they connect with the readings, how they connect with the audience (congregation), and how they create an inspiring message and clear means for doing good in the world.

It takes a true writer to come up with a sermon that would earn an A from me. Most of the time, unfortunately, sermons earn somewhere around a low C. Occasionally, there are bonus points awarded for specific tidbits within the sermon, but the sermons as a whole are not so great right now. (This was actually one of my main reasons a decade ago for why women ought to be allowed to give sermons at Mass, even if they couldn’t be priests – not everyone is good at writing and giving speeches.)

This isn’t to say that I actually award points as I am sitting in Mass. Certainly, I do not do that. My brain is just in a sort of passive automatic critique mode, coming up with ideas for betterment in the sermon each time it hits a rough bit. I do take care to focus on the actual sermon, especially since I know myself to do this critiquing so automatically. It’s kind of like background noice, really, and so I only end up fully focusing on it when the sermon is really terrible. (Fortunately, that isn’t too often.)

Post-a-day 2017

Boys’ Choirs

This afternoon, as part of an Oktoberfest celebration, my mom and I listened to and watched the Houston Saengerbund. They are an organization all about promoting German language singing and culture, and they seem quite kind and fun as a whole. However, hearing their name instantly called to mind the name of Wiener Sängerknaben, which is the German name for the Vienna Boys’ Choir.

One of my brothers was in a boys’ choir when I was little. I remember going to their performances and concerts. I loved it. The music was always absolutely beautiful. I suppose it was one of the many reasons I have always looked up to him, thought him awesome. I think it was because of this that I was perhaps a bit more aware of boys’ choirs than the average kid. I grew up knowing about the Vienna Boys’ Choir, and dreaming of how amazing they must be. They were seen almost as gods, when compared to my brother’s boys’ choir, but how could I even imagine such a thing, when, to me, this boys’ choir, the one with my brother, was already singing music of the gods? I imagined the Vienna Boys’ Choir as perfection, and left it at that.

I never even considered hearing them perform. It was that far out of the realm of possibility.

But, of course, since my life is so dearly blessed, this unacknowledged dream was fulfilled. While I was living in Vienna, my mom and I went together to hear them sing. It was the only time I have paid to attend Mass.

When we did some research about it, it seemed all too easy. I could hardly believe that we merely had to buy incredibly affordable tickets to attend Mass at the Wiener Hofburgkapelle (Wowzer, that place is gorgeous, by the way!) in order to hear the boys sing. But we did it, and it was absolutely amazing. I think I could’ve cried during the Mass at almost any given moment, and I might have actually cried when the boys came down in front to sing a couple other songs after the Mass. I don’t actually remember. That wasn’t exactly my focus at the time.

There’s no way to describe the experience appropriately, so I won’t bother. It was a dream that I had hardly even dreamed, and it was being fulfilled. Perhaps you know what that’s like. It was magic being real in two ways: First, in their music, and second, in my being there to hear it firsthand. It was perfection (in the cold, since it was the middle of winter).

Post-a-day 2017