I had this plan for Simbang Gabi, the nine 5 a.m. Masses we celebrate at my parish starting December 16 and ending December 24. I was going to contemplate what God was calling me to do with my writing. What’s more, I was going to keep up with that little daily Advent book my parish gave out.
For a lot of reasons, that peaceful, contemplative thing hasn’t happened at Simbang Gabi. I’ve sleepwalked through at least one Mass and to be honest, closer to three of the four. And I’ve spent less time with those Advent readings than I’d hoped and usually am a day or two behind.
Who was it who said people plan, God laughs?
Still, maybe there’s been some progress made. I’m not screaming and yelling at random fellow parishioners about how my Advent hasn’t gone precisely as I had planned, the way I reacted when my plans for Easter Sunday 2006, my first back with the Church after a 30-year absence, fell apart. Here’s a bit of a look at that day:
“We are never doing this again!” I shrieked as I entered the sacristy, looking for someone to kill. Mike, a mild-mannered fellow Parish Council member who was talking with someone, would fit the bill fine.
“Happy Easter, Melanie,” the person to whom he was speaking, our pastor, said as he turned to me.
“Happy Easter, pastor,” I said through gritted teeth. “Mike, a moment when you’re done?” I left and stood in the chapel outside. Mike joined me after a couple of minutes. “Happy Easter, Melanie. What’s up?”
“Happy Easter is what’s up! The 7:30 Mass was a disaster!”
“What happened?”
I had arrived at 6:30. In addition to my usual greeter duties, I’d be filling in as the person who turns on the microphones, lights the candles, prepares the altar setup, and helps the priest as the bread and wine are consecrated. I’d had ten minutes of training and a seventeen-page handout and figured I could handle it. And there was a certain amount of vanity in being one of the first women in our parish to assist at the altar.
I did the first five minutes of setup just fine. Then, it became painfully apparent I had no clue what I was doing. I didn’t know the terms for the cups and the cloths, and my notes and the handout didn’t always agree.
I didn’t want to let down God or the parish. But I had consecrated hosts in my hands in the sacristy when the celebrant arrived, and I was pretty sure I’d be going to hell for that alone.
“It’ll be OK, Father,” I said, my voice quavering. “We’ll get through this.”
He answered some of my questions and showed me which chalice he preferred. After a few minutes, he spoke up.
“Melanie, you have so many jobs today. I wonder if it would be all right to ask Tim to help me at the altar?”
I breathed a sigh of relief and went to the microphone to welcome the huge Easter crowd. Then, as I sank into my seat in the front row, I realized I hadn’t seen the man who was supposed to fill in for our regular usher. The enormity of the task hit me—every inch of every pew filled, every chair in the church and the upstairs overflow room filled, people standing everywhere. Not even I, the eagerest of volunteers, could do this all myself.
I saw a parishioner who lived in my apartment building and a young man I knew from a program for returning Catholics. “I need you guys to help me, please,” I whispered, pointing at the collection baskets.
“But I’ve never done this,” the young man said.
“Neither have I.”
Once the money was collected, the young man and I headed for the sacristy to label the contributions and put them in the safe—except that the safe was still full from the Good Friday and Easter Vigil services. I groaned and locked up the labeled envelopes in a closet. We walked back into the sanctuary just in time to be the last two people in line for communion.
I told Mike the whole story. He didn’t seem as outraged as I was.
“We do need to do something about training volunteers and scheduling,” he said. “I’m sure the parish council president would welcome positive suggestions.”
If I’d had to decide right I would have left the parish. It was just too disorganized. I’d had a vision of how my first Easter back would be—perfect, holy, awe-filled. It had not included missing nearly all of Mass to deal with the collection and other issues.
I was home from work the next day, and decided to try Mass at another church. The interior wasn’t that different—bricks and wood, with a modest altar and a crucifix. And yet, the feel was different. As I prayed, I thought about the people like the pastor and our celebrant Easter morning, like the two people I had pressed into service, like Mike. They weren’t perfect, and neither was I. But that messy family was where I belonged.
And so, nearly five years later, I’m still there. I’m gentler with people. I’m gentler with myself. And, I hope, I’m gentler with God when he doesn’t operate on my timetable.
