A Home for the Marys?

The sound of breaking glass might have been heard beyond our garage walls. An hour of cleaning had yielded a large bag of stuff for Goodwill and a number of items that had no second use. The noise was the crash of an engraved mixed drink carafe with a matching stirring stick and two small engraved glasses. These were wedding presents that were very personalized and never used. The thought that there might be bad jokes in a stranger’s home because our name lends itself to humorous pronunciations didn’t feel okay.

Like many Boomers, our cabinets are crowded with generations of glassware, quilts, boxes of photos and family Bibles. As our parents passed, their treasures became ours to maintain.  Anyone want a few sets of 50^thanniversary champagne glasses with my parents’ names? Again, their last name has a few quirky pronunciations that are better kept out of strangers’ parties.

A crystal statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary we received one Christmas has a sister that my mother owned. They both stand, hands folded, behind wine bottles on a top shelf in the pantry. Taking more shelf space was a beautiful glass Christmas ornament on its own pedestal that was once the most valuable useless item we owned. Add two clear glass platters decorated with horses and sleds to carry dozens of holiday cookies. Plus one that has a lobster engraving, a total mystery. And the green platter with Thanksgiving in a lovely scroll that I never saw used at my parents but came to rest in my home.

That ornament will hang on our tree this year and later fend for itself in a box of its peers. The pedestal is gone. Someone will be thrilled with the glass platters. Maybe even use the Thanksgiving one. Three orphan wine glasses wait to be used on Thanksgiving before starting the next purge. They are lovely, but we already have dozens of lovely glasses. Let a bride-to-be furnish her wedding table with these things instead of throw away items and benefit Goodwill in the process.

But those statues are another story like a box of rosaries upstairs. Is there a Goodwill equivalent for Catholic stuff? The Marys don’t really deserve to be mistreated or become white elephant gifts.

 

 

 

 

 

Thinking About Good Friday

 

Tomorrow is Good Friday, an important day in the Christian Holy Week, which culminates in Easter Sunday, but I won’t be going to the services. Although I have spiritual beliefs, I am not an active participant in a formal religion. It’s odd to feel the pull of a religion I no longer practice.

As a Catholic grade-schooler, on Good Fridays, I spent the hours between 12:00 and 3:00 p.m. in church in a vigil with Jesus while he suffered on the cross. Even if I summoned all of my imaginative powers, I could barely conceive of the pain. Was the crown of thorns like a skinned knee but a thousand times worse? Would having a spike through your hand be like the time my sister stabbed my hand with a meat fork while we were fighting about the dishes? (I don’t recall what I did to her, but I’m sure it was just as bad. Or worse.)

To better appreciate the sacrifice Jesus had made for us, I tried to imagine how miserable he was, but I had so little concept of real pain that torture was beyond my understanding. Instead, I squirmed in the oak pews, kneeling up straight, then slouching, then straightening up, trying to do better for Jesus. If he could be crucified, I could at least kneel up straight for a few hours.

At 3:00, the church bell tolled for Jesus’s death. Our teachers told us that in Jerusalem on the day Jesus was crucified, the earth quaked and the temple curtain was torn. That day, there might even have been an eclipse that darkened the earth for a while. Solemnly, I walked out of church into the sunny afternoon, relieved that the Stations of the Cross and vigil were over, but too respectful to say so.

After church, I was subdued and at loose ends at home. It didn’t seem like I should just play like I always did. Ride bikes, tag, Barbies. For a while I hung around the house. By suppertime—tuna noodle casserole, or fish sticks with tartar sauce, or maybe baked halibut steaks—life felt back to normal. The next day was Holy Saturday, a lighter day when my family would hard-boil and dye eggs. Maybe I’d try on my new Easter dress and shoes and look forward to wearing them to Mass.

More than fifty years later, Good Friday is a nearly normal day. Most businesses are open and people are shopping for their Easter meals, hoping to beat the Saturday-before-Easter crowds.

Despite my nonreligious ways, I often feel a twinge on Good Friday.  At 3:00, I might glance at the sky to see if the sun is darkened and think of Jesus.

 

I Confess…

Unity Minister, Aunt Jo, at Juan Jose’s and Crystel’s christening ceremony at our home.

On Sundays, I could be sitting in a pew. I’m not. I’m writing to you. Crystel is on social media. Juan Jose’ is sleeping. Jody has left to do maintenance on police cars as her volunteer job as a police reserve officer, and then she’ll visit her mother.

Sometimes, I feel guilty about not taking my kids to church.

During the holiday season, when Crystel was little, she’d holler out, “Look, there’s the little people,” when she’d spot a manger in a yard. Spotting the little people became a game we played in the car, as well as eyeing left over door wreaths that lasted well into the summer.

Aunt Amie blessing Juan Jose’ and Crystel

The guilt or the want for the children to create an image of God to their own liking propelled Jody and me to the front door of a popular church in Minneapolis. The preschoolers attended Sunday school while we listened to the service. That was fine until I found myself writing poetry during the mass. Why do that at church when you can do it at home?

We soon joined another church that we thought would be our forever church. We became hospitality hosts and also taught Sunday school. It was teaching Sunday school where I learned that I didn’t like 5^th graders much. Then our kids were 5^th graders and we were teaching them.

Uncle Scott and Aunt Ann

What pushed Jody and me toward the exit door, was having the feeling that we ‘had’ to hold hands and that we ‘had’ to hug people when it came that time in the service. I didn’t mind holding hands and hugging, it was the fact that I didn’t feel as if I had a choice to say, “No”.

When we told Juan Jose’ and Crystel that we were going to quit going to church, they beat us to the car.

Our church is volunteering at Loaves and Fishes once a month. I explained to the kids that our church was about giving and we are giving of our service. They haven’t complained since they know the alternative is finding and attending a church service on Sundays.

Uncle Marty, Aunt Kathy, and Aunt Pat

Sometimes, I still feel guilty. Are they finding God at Loaves and Fishes? Among the homeless? The poor? The people who come for a handout or companionship? Juan Jose’ and Crystel serve coffee, food, or help wash and dry dishes. Crystel may play piano or flute.

Crystel recently asked us what religion we were. I paused, searching for the right answer. “We respect all religions,” I told her. “That wasn’t my question,” she said bluntly.

“Well,” I said. “We aren’t anything.”

She asked about confirmation. Several of her friends will be confirmed this year. I told her that she could be, too, if she wanted to join a church and take classes. She shook her head no. She just liked the idea of getting the money you receive when you get confirmed.

Blessing for Crystel from Aunt Amie

“You were christened,” I said. “Your Aunt Jo christened you and Juan Jose’. Your chosen aunts and uncles gave you a blessing.”

Blessing for Juan Jose’ from Aunt Amie

My hope this Sunday is that my children will recognise God in themselves and others, whether it is Mama Jody visiting her mother, the folks at Loaves and Fishes, or in the people who aren’t anything.