Fifteen miles south of the I-80, on the 281, lies the town of Hastings, Nebraska. I found St. Cecilia's on West 7th rather easily and when I parked my car it was spitting rain, but I walked around the church, nonetheless, taking some pictures. This is the church in which my mother was schooled and catechized between 1939 and 1951. A significant portion of her life was spent here doing a number of things, not the least of which was working for the nuns in exchange for voice lessons. As a teenager, she was a regular soloist in the choir; this led her to other singing competitions around the state which in turn helped forge the path to the San Francisco Opera. The prairie, the Hastings squared-off town, and this church--there is my mother's landscape--nearly complete. When I glanced at the schedule, I realized it was only 15 minutes before the next service and while this may be completely inexplicable to certain folks, I stood staring at the doors and the statue of St. Cecilia, keeping company with a couple of fat pigeons, for several minutes while I wondered if I had the nerve to go in. I was in no super hurry to get to Red Cloud, another 40 miles south on the 281, and I did have to ask myself, why bother to make this stop if I were not going to enter? What is this reluctance all about? The hesitation? An elderly woman who was slowly making her way up the steps to go in, turned to me and said "good morning." So I sat near the back and attended mass for the first time in x years. Throughout the mass, I did what I tended not to do when I was a child sitting in church. I listened. I found myself swallowed up by words, feeling that the priest was eloquent and trying his best to connect with the congregation, to offer something meaningful. On the 17th Sunday in Ordinary Time, I found myself moved to tears by the time the recitation of the creed came along and by the end, I realized I was saying goodbye to my mother, who at this time, is nearing the end in a slow, painful way. In ordinary time, I was a traveller passing through, feeling how extraordinary it was to be in this place at this moment hearing the words of song and speech.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
In Ordinary Time
Fifteen miles south of the I-80, on the 281, lies the town of Hastings, Nebraska. I found St. Cecilia's on West 7th rather easily and when I parked my car it was spitting rain, but I walked around the church, nonetheless, taking some pictures. This is the church in which my mother was schooled and catechized between 1939 and 1951. A significant portion of her life was spent here doing a number of things, not the least of which was working for the nuns in exchange for voice lessons. As a teenager, she was a regular soloist in the choir; this led her to other singing competitions around the state which in turn helped forge the path to the San Francisco Opera. The prairie, the Hastings squared-off town, and this church--there is my mother's landscape--nearly complete. When I glanced at the schedule, I realized it was only 15 minutes before the next service and while this may be completely inexplicable to certain folks, I stood staring at the doors and the statue of St. Cecilia, keeping company with a couple of fat pigeons, for several minutes while I wondered if I had the nerve to go in. I was in no super hurry to get to Red Cloud, another 40 miles south on the 281, and I did have to ask myself, why bother to make this stop if I were not going to enter? What is this reluctance all about? The hesitation? An elderly woman who was slowly making her way up the steps to go in, turned to me and said "good morning." So I sat near the back and attended mass for the first time in x years. Throughout the mass, I did what I tended not to do when I was a child sitting in church. I listened. I found myself swallowed up by words, feeling that the priest was eloquent and trying his best to connect with the congregation, to offer something meaningful. On the 17th Sunday in Ordinary Time, I found myself moved to tears by the time the recitation of the creed came along and by the end, I realized I was saying goodbye to my mother, who at this time, is nearing the end in a slow, painful way. In ordinary time, I was a traveller passing through, feeling how extraordinary it was to be in this place at this moment hearing the words of song and speech.
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