Be Not Idle

I went to confession on Saturday. It’s the first time I’ve gone that I haven’t felt uplifted when I left.

I headed out early because I’ve arrived a few minutes after 3 pm and the priest is already gone. (At such times, I have considered  pounding on the door of the rectory and offering to pay Father overtime. But I really don’t want one of those horrible penances that I used to hear about in grade school.**)

Today there was no danger of the priest going home early. The lines were long and there were two priests. Despite all the people, the church was very quiet. The gurgle of the radiators sounded loud and there was a woodpecker tapping somewhere outside. 

A beautiful child with almost-white hair and delicate fingers watched everything with huge eyes, but said practically nothing. He or she climbed out the pew once to stand in the aisle and slowly twirl around as only a young child does - twirling because it’s fun to be a little dizzy, but slowly because balance is such a hard thing to keep when you aren’t even two years old. The only sound the child made was a delighted “ah!” when its brother returned from confession; the boy received a huge back-patting hug from the younger child.  (Which, when I think about it, is probably the appropriate “welcome back” for a repentant sinner.)

I didn’t mind waiting. Holy Cross is a beautiful church. It’s even more impressive now that I know so much of what I see is an illusion. It used to be plain wooden interior save for the statues and windows. During the Depression, a painter was hired to paint the interior.  The “marble” pillars are wooden - and perhaps plaster, judging from the cracks near their crowns. The golden patterns around the altar are gilt. 

My favorite window is the one facing north. It depicts Jesus reaching out a hand as Peter begins sinking into the water as he attempted to walk to Our Lord. In the right panel is Noah’s ark with a dove flying above it. To the left is a tall-sailed ship. At the bottom is the exhortation “Pray for our sailors.”

I was looking at the stations of the cross - specifically Jesus Is Nailed to the Cross - when a lady came up behind me. She put her hands on my shoulders and leaned forward to talk to me. ”This isn’t the line for face-to-face, is it?”

“No,” I said. “That’s the other side.” She sat behind me. Anonymous confessions are preferred by us Hard Cases. If the priest recognizes us, he might think we’re sinners. ;) 

We were a motley crew, as sinners always are. A white-haired lady walked up the aisle with the deliberate care of the fragile. A brawny 20-something man still wore his red work apron as he sat next to his mother. A couple came with their three little children.

It got a little noisier when one of the gentleman went to the other side - the Mary side - to go face-to-face. He was 87 and, apparently, nearly deaf. Everyone smiled as he loudly began his confession. Several people nearby moved away discretely.    

As for my confession, I must admit I was disappointed. The visiting priest actually stopped and explained that I’m not lying if the person has no right to the information AND  silence would be seen as incriminating.  I’ve read about that, of course, but it was still a little startling to be told that in confession. What compounded it was that he later explained that one shouldn’t feel a duty to attend Mass, but to do it out of love. (As my favorite little guy would say, “Can’t I do BOTH?”)

 I think I know what he was trying to say, but it sounded rather as if he were a lawyer who was advising me not to plead guilty but cut a deal. Maybe he’s one of those priests who want to put people at their ease so they don’t leave the Church.

 The penance was nothing: think about what God wants of me and say an “Our Father” sometime during the day. And here I was worried about an Old School penance of novenas and sacrifices. Or maybe I was hoping for it, hence my discontent. 

**Example of one of those legendary horrible penances:

A habitual gossip kept confessing the same sin to the priest. Finally, he gave her a different penance.

“Take a feather pillow and climb into the bellfrey,” he said. “Scatter the feathers to the winds. Then climb down and gather those feathers wherever they’ve fallen.”

“But, Father,” she protested, “that’s impossible! I could spend my whole life and never find them all!”

“Just as you could spend your whole life trying to take back every bit of gossip you’ve scattered around this town,” said the priest.

Julia at Happy Catholic (see my blogroll) posted one of my Grandpa O’Rourke’s favourite jokes. Here’s another.

****

Two Irish brothers, Pat and Mike, put their money together and bought a fine cow. She was a prodigious milker and always gave birth to twins.

“We’ll split it down the middle,” said Pat. “You choose which half you want.”

Now Mike was sly, so he said, “I choose the back half.”

Pat couldn’t go back on his word, but he soon regretted the bargain. He had to feed and water the front half, but Mike got the milk and the calves from the back half. Pat had to lead the front of the cow to pasture and into the barn, but Mike got the manure for fertilizer.

Finally Pat was fed up, so he went out one morning and killed the cow. Mike was furious and took his brother to court. The judge asked Pat, “Did you slaughter your brother’s cow without his consent?”

“No, Your Honor,” says Pat. “I killed my half. His half died.”

Fill us with Your love that all our days we may sing for joy. - Psalm 90:14

For a few days, I have heard the familiar chirp of the robin. However, the first robin of spring is never official until I see it. Yesterday I finally did.

Often people make disparaging remarks about the climate of the Midwestern States. They speak of ice and snow as if those were all there are to life here. But there’s a beauty to autumn - the changing of the light, the particular crispness of the air, the glowing color of maple leaves against a gray sky - that’s more pronounced than in warmer climes.

I spent one spring in Florida and noticed that the season wasn’t as astonishing as it is Michigan or Ohio. When crocuses poke out of the snow, even if it seems too early - perhaps ESPECIALLY if it’s too early -  joy alights in the heart. Even if you like winter, there’s still a certain childlike sense of anticipation for those first signs of spring.

 Perhaps the best example I’ve ever had occurred when I was taking classes at Wayne State University in Detroit.  It was early February, an overcast day in which the only brightness seemed to be the dull white of snowbanks. I was walking past  the School of Education when I heard a robin singing. I stopped and looked for it.

I wasn’t the only one.  The sidewalk was dotted with people, heading in different directions, and several paused. The robin was on a bare tree, singing its song to attract a mate. Someone commented that it was the first robin; another that spring was coming. We smiled at each other as we went on our way.  No matter the forecast, we knew winter was at its end.

Looks like I’m going to be “doing Easter”, as we say. I have never cooked a turkey before, so it looks like ham wil be the main course. Unless I find myself with enough time to make lasagna - even though that’s breaking custom. Lasagna, as everyone knows, is the traditional Christmas Eve dinner.

Oh, you didn’t know that? 

It’s funny how things will become customary very quickly. Sometimes the traditions have little to do with the point. What the heck is up with those “Easter” bunnies?  Why do “spring cleaning” when coal-caused grime is no longer an issue? When was the last time anyone kicked a football made from pigskin?

But I digress…

Lasagna began its ascent to Christmas Eve glory because my mother wanted something she could cook ahead of time and set aside, rather than adding to the volume of cooking - and stress - of Christmas Day. Still,  there is an elegance and ceremony to it. Everyone dresses for church and the table is neatly laid with the best linen, “good” dishes, silverware, and candles. Wine is served (St. Julian’s winery in Paw Paw, Mich. is a favorite source). The lasagna travels from oven to table in a casserole basket woven of gold-toned wire. Afterwards we go to Mass and - before or after - we open our presents.

My father made pancakes on Christmas Day - the simple yet festive breakfast of the lumberjack camps.  Although he had moved out of the U.P. (the Upper Peninsula of Michigan), no doubt his Yooper blood gave him the power to make the special blueberry pancakes. Mmmm…

My family doesn’t pig out on Shrove Tuesday, not being of Polish descent and therefore bound to consume paczkis (POONCH-keys), otherwise known as the Donuts of Doom. Imagine a jelly-filled donut with enough lard to choke an ox. In the Detroit Metro area, it’s a cross-cultural event.  Self-deluded locals call it “Paczki Day” because they can’t bring themselves to call it “FAT Tuesday”.  (And nutritionists wonder why Detroit is one of the fattest cities in the nation - it’s all the paczkis!)

 To my family, the end of Lent is marked with a feast.  It’s the blow-out. The appetizers range from cheese to pickles. Beer and pop (aka soda pop) are the beverages of choice. The dinner, served at 2 o’clock, is arranged on a circuit through the kitchen and into the hallway. First are the meats, usually a ham, Swedish meatballs, and sometimes a beef dish. Then comes the salads: greens, mixed bean, coleslaw, and potato. There’s zucchini bread (courgette bread to my UK friends), fluffy rolls dusted with flour, real butter…. The desserts can be anything from dirt pie to bunnycake - and frequently both. 

 Supper comes later, when bread is brought out and everyone makes sandwiches of their choice. I especially miss Grandma O’Rourke’s homemade bread, which has seldom been matched by any baker.