"But that's Derby Saturday!" I exclaimed, aghast. {I foolishly thought that this was also a high holy day nation-wide; however, Yankees from the barbaric Buckeye State apparently don't understand this tried and true tradition}. My cries went unheard and the date was marked in ink - on the morning of Derby 2014, ten {mildly} holy 2nd graders would receive Jesus in Body and Blood. I vowed to make it an event to remember and trusted in the Religious Education office to steer me in the right direction. {Little did I know, they couldn't steer a rotary bike - much less a sacramental mass of this magnitude}. I was, as they say, up a creek {without a priest or paddle}.
As the day approached, I jumped through a variety of ill-timed hoops set by the Church Office. I found Baptismal Certificates {twice}, filled out order forms for educational paraphernalia {three times}, and asked {a million bajillion times} if there was anything else I needed to do for the preparation. I organized a parent informational meeting for Father to instruct parents and students on requirements {he didn't come}, I emailed him questions {he didn't answer} and I finally cornered him after Mass to demand First Penance for my ragtag band of lambs. {That was a fiasco for another day}. Still, I asked what else I could do - what the Mass itself needed, and I was told that it was "taken care of". {Famous. Last. Words.}
Fast forward to the week of First Eucahrist {and the week AFTER Spring Break}. I open my email to find a missal from the Church Office full of questions concerning the Mass that is to occur in FIVE days. Who's doing the music, who's officiating, who's doing the readings, what are the readings, how many First Communicants, do you want fries with that??? {The last one was NOT included, but would not have shocked me anymore than the first fifteen}. I was flabbergasted and furious - for months I'd begged for these instructions, only to receive them in the eleventh hour. I would need to {forgive the football expression - Coach's Wife, y'know} THROW A HAIL MARY.
In true Southern style, I whipped together a pretty impressive presentation. A reception, decorations, exquisite music {complete with Southern melodies... "Let Us Break Bread Together", anyone?!}. I was patting myself on the back for a job well done, despite a wrench {or five} in the plans. I had even planned an outfit that spoke to my Southern roots {and the holy occasion I was missing at home}, wearing a turquoise fascinator with last year's Derby dress. {This elicited confused looks from many parents and an adoring "Yes Ma'am" from a "Church Lady" helping with the punch}.
Father First-in-Line had presided over a shoddy rehearsal the day before First Eucharist, and lucky for me, I'd planned for that. My students had been practicing the procession all week and had it down to a science. I wasn't at all worried when they began their slow crawl down the aisle, and I even remained relatively calm during the Liturgy of the Word. Then, Father left out the Creed. {Big deal, think the Protestants}. But it WAS a big deal, because I'd broken my BACK to have them memorize {or at least impressively fake} the Nicene Creed. It was a tradition - an expectation - a necessity. And. he. left. it. out. My irritation began to spread...
Although I'd tried to beg off, it had been decided that I would serve as the extra Eucharistic Minister. This always makes me nervous, even more so due to Father First-in-Line's ultra-conservative, pre-Vatican II, put women in the back of the Church way of thinking. He had insisted on using a communion rail, and I'd had to look up the protocol in the original Gutenberg Bible {a slight joke. but only SLIGHT}. I was genuinely worried about my 10 lambs on the rail, but figured they'd be fine for the short time it took to minister the sacrament. So, relatively unconcerned {but moderately incensed}, I approached the altar prior to communion and was met with a look from Father that would take paint off a fence {a Southern euphemism}.
He kept glaring at me, and muttering something incoherent. My anxiety level was hurtling skyward as I sidestepped to the right and left, trying {in vain} to deduce where he wanted me. He kept throwing his head towards the front of the altar and so I quick-stepped {in sky high heels and a sheath dress, with full flowered fascinator} as subtly as possible {in said outfit} to gingerly kneel beside the servers. {My perky Pure Barre "ledge" to the congregation}. Father was still grimacing and finally gnashed "THE CHILDREN" - meaning, they should be at the rail.
It was at this point that the full vitriolic weight of my fury unleashed and I shot him a look that would not only remove paint, but burn the fence to ashes as well. I turned with as much pride as I could muster and beckoned frantically for the lambs to hit the wood. Not only had Father made me look like a moron, with my backside on full display, but he'd now placed ten 7-8 year olds on a wooden rail in front of {literally} God and everybody for roughly ten more minutes of ritualistic preparation. We were {to use another well-known saying} "dead in the water".
My delusions of eucharistic grandeur died slowly as one well-dressed lad picked his nose; one little lamb picked at her stocking, and one indigent picked his butt. I cringed as they sagged out of prayer position into puddles of navy blazers and white veils. My own traditions and beliefs came crashing to a halt when I was also {strongly} encouraged to take communion on the tongue - something I'd NEVER done in my life. Finally {blessedly} it ended and I valiantly stuck it out through the reception that followed. Mercifully {although horribly for the kids}, Father didn't attend.
Later, I saw Father First-in-Line and before I could turn in the opposite direction, he approached me to tell me he wasn't "angry with me" for how First Eucharist "turned out." I bit my tongue immediately and tensed every fiber of my being. I thought about my Catholic upbringing - of my own First Eucharist experience. Of the special music piece {If I Were a Butterfly}, my mother's insistence that I couldn't wear a veil or white shoes {you're not a bride and it's not Memorial Day yet}, and how important I'd felt when Father Clarence Howard had come {briefly} to my First Communion reception and drank some of my Granny's sherbet punch. I thought of the priests who celebrated with me at Confirmation, at weekly Mass, the nuns who schooled me on the saints and the sacraments. I remembered the nun who gave me my first teaching job and the priest who married me and Coach John, and all the ones whom I'd loved and wished could have co-celebrated. And I did what {I hope and pray} would make them proud.
I turned around and stood erect, gave a piercing stare, and said in my most regal and no-nonsense nun tone {Thank you, Sisters Teresa, Charlene, and Michael Marie} - "You don't have anything to be mad about." And that's the Gospel truth.
XO,
I visualized this entire process and it had me rolling. If I didn't know you, I'd never believe someone could manage that situation with class. You're amazing. P.S. my granny made one hell of a sherbet punch too.
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