This Easter, I went to Mass for the first time in many months. Though there were some squirmy feelings as I adjusted to a little church with which I am not too familiar,I experienced homecoming joy when I turned and saw the priest coming down the aisle toward the altar.
"Ah," I thought, "there are still a few people in the world whose job it is to safeguard the sacred. I do not just live in a world of corn flakes and diet pills."
The priest is good and brings his own dry sense of humor to the altar. Also, the older gentleman sitting next to me very kindly oriented me so that I was properly situated when it came time to receive the Host. In truth, I probably didn't need this help, but I'm sometimes anxious in situations like this, where lots of sighted folks are running through a familiar routine and I have to squint through everything. I didn't get in anybody's way or choke on the Host or something, so it all turned out all right.
All right. Ha! I received the Host. It was imperfectly done, as I rate myself for form in this matter, but my hunger and gratitude for it were authentic. And where else does one find authenticity in 21st century America?
Finally, the fine older man and his wife drove me the several blocks to the house when Mass was over. They told me about their plans to spend Easter with their grandchildren and I fell in love with them.
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