Last Easter, we couldn't even go to Mass. Instead, we watched it, live streamed from the Basilica of the Sacred Heart on Notre Dame's campus. On Easter and every other Sunday during the endless quarantine, we following Catholic TV and performed the rituals of our faith in our living room. At the end, we would say a prayer to receive the body of Christ in spirt. The prayer concluded, 'never let me be apart from you again.' Except every week, we were apart. Again and again and again.
Finally, Covid numbers decreased, regulations relaxed a bit, and our church opened its doors with limited capacity. The moment I heard that news, I made my reservation and walked into Church with tears in my eyes. They stayed there throughout Mass, welling up a little more as I received communion.
While the outward, stereotyped parts of my faith are very evident: I used to have and wear a t-shirt that said, 'everybody loves a Catholic Girl'. I went to Notre Dame. I have five kids. All named after Saints. They go to Catholic school. I can often be caught whistling or singing a church hymn. I wear a Marian medallion around my neck. And this week, I just had to show everyone at work the picture of Mary in her First Communion dress. Gown and veil by David's Bridal. Antique pearls from my Godmother. Hair and makeup by me. Bruise on her right arm, likely from Bobby.
My relationship, my practice, all the stuff behind the stain glass windows, beyond the human institution of the Church and its flaws and failures over Millenia, is very personal. But central to my character.
When I studied in Rome in college, I took a theology class that was called Foundations of Christianity. In the classroom, we studied the Mass and the early Christians, and we debated sought after mysteries like the transubstantiation and questions like, 'do dogs go to heaven?' I can remember that one being highly emotional. But it was the field trips that were particularly impressionable. We went to ancient tombs, into the Scavi of the Vatican and down the street to the Church of Santa Cecilia, where we descended under the building to see remnants of Cecilia's ancient home, including bricks dating to 34 AD. In that Church, the Mass has been consistently celebrated, even through persecution and plight, for 2,000 years.
Walking in the footsteps of Cecilia, as well as Peter and Paul and the other apostles, gave me conviction. It opened my eyes to the mysteries and marvels of Catholicism, it excited and engaged me, and it connected me to my faith in a way I hadn't before. It made me truly understand the signals, the sacraments, the rituals of a practice that I had done on autopilot for years. That connection opened the door to learning, praying, and listening more. To taking a step outside of what I wanted. And reflecting more on what I was called to do.
Today, prayer comes in pieces, Mass with an element of distraction, faith with a lot of blindness, but it's there, guiding my day by day. Without concentrated time to contemplate, I do worry that I'm not any closer to a calling. But somehow I have strength to get through each day, and that has to be a sign that I'm doing something right.
And maybe part of that, is just sharing my faith. Living it in my house, practicing it in the community, being guided by it on the job, passing a similar zeal for it onto my children. And over the past five weeks, there has been a lot of sharing and passing it along.
We got to go to Easter mass, all together, as a family of seven, filling up nearly an entire pew.
And last weekend, we feted Mary, as she received her first Holy Communion as well.
