You're Doing It Wrong.

I don't' know if I ever feel more Catholic than I do a mid-day Mass. Outside of consistently still flubbing the "Holy Holy Holy, Lord God of Hosts" (it just doesn't roll off the tongue like the older version did), I know all the moves, and could do them with my hands tied behind my back (except, I am thinking, the sign of the cross. I could still do the sign of peace because at daily Mass we don't shake hands. We wave. Even if the person is right next to you! I think it's an old-people thing). I went to this Mass once after having been up half the night at a Hospice vigil and was feeling exhausted- bleary-eyed and snoozy and a little drunk-like. But still, I knew all the moves, and kneeled and sat and prayed almost automatically. I remember finding that comforting-  knowing all the moves and what to do and how to say it so reflexively made me feel like a part of the whole.

Today, on the other hand, a man walked in just at the beginning of the Homily. I heard my Catholic spine whisper "doesn't count if you're not here for the Gospel!" He is a regular at this Mass, I've seen him before. I watched him take a seat and pull out his rosary beads. The chain was broken on them, so they hung in a long line instead of the usual loop. He sat through the rest of the Mass fiddling fretfully with his broken beads, and whispering. I leaned in a bit to hear what he was saying/praying and heard: "Maryyyy- full of grace the Lord is with thee blessed art thou among women and blessed is Maryyyy.... full of grace, the Lord is with thee..." over and over. He whispered these wrong prayers, wrongly, on his wrong rosary, through the homily and liturgy of the Eucharist. When we stood up to pray the Our Father, he stood up too, and whispered his wrong prayer. At one point, he crunched on a mint- I wondered at first if he was eating one of the beads from his rosary- either way, it's wrong; we're supposed to fast for an hour before Communion. When communion time came, he filed up to the front, received, and then went to stand by the door. When the priest was finished serving communion, the man walked out.

He did the whole thing wrong.

But my heart, my heart was breaking for this man- not pity, not even worry- just love love love. I imagined that Mary, hearing her prayer said wrongly, over and over, must feel so moved by his whispers. I don't know his story, where he comes from or where he goes when he leaves our little chapel, but I know he keeps coming back, keeps whispering Mary's name, keeps receiving Christ. I pray someday that in my standing and kneeling and sitting and waving at my neighbors and praying along with the crowd, I can do it as rightly as this man does.

Pupdate

Hello all! Here's on update on our girl Callie. The update is: there's no update! We sprung for a VERY expensive blood test to rule out (or in), if I've got this right, hyperparathyroidism and cancer. The blood test takes 7-10 days to return (it's been 8 as of today)- and so far, no calls.

If it is cancer (which, if I've got this right, hyperparathyroidism is?) they'll want to do a bunch of ultrasounds and/or x-rays to look for tumors, but if we can be assured that we can keep her comfortable, we probably will not go any further in exploring. She turned ten on the day of her blood test, and I am reading (I know I said no more googling, but what can I say?) that she won't necessarily have symptoms to speak of until she's really getting ready to go. If I've got this right, she will basically experience what an old dog experiences- getting old and dying of natural causes. I think that's a better scenario than lots of time spent at the vet's office trying to find/treat something at her age. 

So that's all the news that isn't, yet. I'll keep you posted. Thanks for asking, and for your good thoughts and wishes for Callie-loo! We're spoiling her in the meantime- a friend saw her last night and said "Callie's looking... healthy...." and he meant FAT. But she's loving life, still being the nearly-perfect pup that she is, and taking every chance she gets to roll in the snow/grass with delight. Lookit that face!!

Dog Is Love

Last week we took our dog, Callie, to the vet because she had developed a sudden limp- for a day or so she would barely put her hind leg down at all, and although she seemed like her sunny old self, after a (short) while we thought we should have her seen by the doc. While she was there, they did a blood test to be sure she could handle the anti-inflammatory meds they'd prescribed her, and by that blood test, the doctors found that her calcium levels were "slightly elevated." We were asked to collect a first-thing-in-the-morning urine sample to see what that could tell us. (Which we did, through impressive teamwork. It must have been quite a scene for the neighbors, and I brought in MUCH more urine than was asked for or needed, but hey- success!)

Google has told us that elevated calcium levels in dogs is not a good thing. We still haven't received the results of the urine test but I did spy a note "decision plan at next appointment" on her chart when I was dropping it off, and I've been carrying around a load of (hopefully exaggerated) dread since then. We have an appointment for her this Friday, and in the meantime, we're trying not to google any more and sorting through the possible endings to this story in our imaginations. 

Last night in the car, Scott said "you know you always say that we can trust God, that God has a plan for us" and I thought to myself "Do I say that? It doesn't seem like something I would say..." 

Of course, I do believe we can trust God, and I do, but that plan thing. I'm not really comfortable with that. Maybe it's just my wonky sense of justice but, if God's plan is to bring a big lovey fuzzy beautiful dog into my life only to give her cancer or kidney failure only 8 months later, then... count me out! To me, that sounds like God's plan for me is to suffer. Not to mention His plan for Callie... I get that good things come out of bad situations, I do. But it would be hard for me to worship a God whose plan for anyone involves pain to make a point or teach a lesson. I've been in countless situations with Catholics who say "I know God had a reason for my sister to die from painful cancer at 25..." or some version of that, and it  does make me cringe. What kind of a jerk God does that? 

But I do believe that God is love. And I love that dog, and I love the love that she's brought into our lives, and it's love that impels me to make sure she is okay, as okay as she can be, and it's love that reminds me of her first owner, who died of cancer and had to say goodbye to that fluffy face. I'm thankful for the love that has come to us through her presence in our lives and willing to suffer for that love, I guess, if that's what's gotta happen, and I'm willing to hope for the best, even when Google tells me not to. 

For some reason, Love makes so much more sense to me than Plan, even though it's an infinitely less definable word. Meanwhile, if you're the kind of person who prays for dogs, keep Callie in yours please! And if you're not, pray for Scott and me! I'll keep you posted. 

THAT'S NOT MY JOBBBBBBB!!!

When I was in high school, I went to one of our Varsity soccer games, in nearby Bath. Soccer was big in our school- taking Football's place as our anchor sport in the Fall. I remember that this game happened on a warm and sunny Saturday morning, and the team we were playing against was very good.
At one point, the ball went out of bounds- way out. In fact, it went out of the boundaries of the field, and down a little slope toward the parking lot. The other team's high scorer was standing at that corner of the field and watched it go. Soon his team mates yelled at him to go get the ball.
He yelled back (in my memory, in some kind of southern accent? It's unlikely, but that's how it sounds in my head 30+ years later) "THAT'S NOT MY JOBBBB!!!" He said it a few times, as his teammates urged him to go get the ball so the game could start again. "That's not my job!! That is NOT MY JOB!"
That phrase, in that accent, has been an inside (my head) joke that still makes me laugh. Something about this team star, muscly athlete yelling "THAT'S NOT MY JOB!" just cracks me up. I can't even remember what happened, or who ended up going to get the damned thing so they could start up again.
I was thinking about it today because this week in one of our trainings, I asked the staff members there, representing all four of our parishes, to commit to being a welcomer at any Mass they attended. Before or after, when seeing someone who needs a seat, when noticing a newcomer- to be the person who says hello to everyone coming in their churches. Most of them raised their hands to commit but some didn't, and I could almost hear them whispering "that's noooottttt myyyyyy jobbbbbb." But of course it is their job, and my job, and yours- not because we all work at churches, but because we are baptized and urged to be disciples who make disciples.
When the pastoral poop hit the fan around here in the 90s and our churches were struggling even to take a deep breath while we tried to stay afloat in the churning waters of scandal, and we all came to the realization that change needed to come to this Church, I saw people walk away, yelling with their actions: "THAT'S NOT MY JOB!" But of course it was their job, and my job, and yours- not because we are trying to keep the Church alive, but because we are baptized and urged to be disciples who make disciples.
I hope that the next time you walk into a church, for whatever reason, that someone will smile at you. If you're late and looking for a seat, I hope that someone will beckon you over to their pew and slide over to give you room. And I hope together we can make the Church a welcoming place for everyone. I'm willing to do what I can to make that happen- after all, it's my job.