Nevertheless, I woke up Sunday morning in sweaty terror when I suddenly realized I was going “on stage” in two hours and had no idea what the choreography was. Did I miss a memo somewhere along the way? An instructional video? Psychic dream? Where was I supposed to stand? When was I supposed to get up? Sit down? Was I supposed to memorize anything? Would they make me kneel? What if I couldn’t get back up? What if ate something gassy for breakfast and, upon kneeling, embarrassed myself in front of friends and neighbors? Or what if they made me stand on a pew like they did with the kids? I could totter. I could fall. Worse, I could fall onto somebody’s children and crush them. Would I go to jail? Would I have to move? How would I sell a house in this market? Would my employer let me transfer?
This was just all too much to try to work out before breakfast.
So, after a couple of eggs, some toast, three Aleve and about half a bottle of Beano, I put on my white blouse, white pants, white shoes, and wondered if my Aunt Tata was weeping in her grave because I was an adult woman wearing white before Memorial Day. I think I’ve already made it clear that I avoid the color white about as much as Cleveland sports fans avoid optimism, so I had to go out to the mall the day before to buy the blouse and pants. My sister Barbara (aka: “the brains of the family”) talked me into a very summery, white, gauzy thing that felt like I was wearing a Kleenex. When I pointed out that it was a little flimsy, she suggested that I’d thank her later when I was roasting alive inside of my robe. Arguing with Barbara is way too tiring even when I’m at the top of my game, so I bought it.
Barb, Mom and I drove to the church. The plan was for Barb and Mom to sit in the
back in case either woman needed an unencumbered escape route to the bathroom
while I (as befitting my starring role) sat in the front. I said goodbye to
both women and went to classroom 103 where I put on my garment and waited for
Georgette. (Or “Jet,” as she insists we call her.)
Now – at St. Mary Magdalene - the general consensus is to
not tell the newbies too much ahead of time so we won’t worry too much. To
leave us in ignorance is intended to be an act of kindness and mercy. Unfortunately, this strategy crashed and burned all over us. As Jet and I stood around looking terrified, Deacon Carl
walked in, informed us we were going to be in the procession (huh?), and
quickly ran through the sequence of events.
First, we would carry candles (huh?). We would sit in the first set of
pews – Jet on one side, myself on the other – and our families could sit with
us. (Family?) I think Carl might have
wondered if I came from a family of hunchbacked lepers, because he looked a
little concerned when I insisted that no, my family was sitting in the back of
the church and yes, that IS where I wanted them (I’d rather not move them up, don’t go
there, leave it alone and thank you very much). He said Father Ron would call us up, light our
candles, say some stuff, and anoint us. He'd
talk some more and recite the creed. Our sponsors would give our
confirmation names, we’d blow out our candles, and there was possibly more –
and in a different order – but I don’t remember. Easy-peasy, right? The only thing we’d have to remember is when
to say, “And with your spirit” in response to the father saying “Peace be with
you.” This is something I say at Mass every Sunday, so I figured hey, no
problem, at least I’d nail that. I was, however, a little concerned about holding an open flame, given that I'd just emptied a half a bottle of hairspray that morning.
So we line up for the procession, and then – at the last
minute – Carl tells us that we’re going to carry the offering up to Father Ron right before Eucharist and hey, don’t worry, the usher will let us know when
to walk back to get it (excuse me...I'm sorry ... we're doing WHAT now?) Jet and I looked at each other, secretly
praying the other would look wise and knowledgeable all of a sudden, but both
of us were hideously disappointed. I was stupidly wondering if by “the offering” he
meant the bread and wine. And, oh yes, I wondered if it would be considered bad form
to take off running toward the parking lot, screaming and waving my arms like
some giant demented Casper.
I’ve been a sales rep. I’ve talked to classrooms with
hundreds of students. I typically don’t get stage
fright; in fact, I love “performing” in front of a captive audience (or a not-so-captive-shut-up-so-we-can-go-to-lunch audience.) Here in church I was surrounded by love,
acceptance, and happy, joyful well-wishers who I really didn’t need to
impress. Nevertheless, walking up to my
pew, I kept re-living one of my worse anxiety dreams: I was starring in the
high school play, hadn’t gone to any rehearsals, hadn’t memorized a single line
and I had to deliver a soliloquy from "Macbeth" in five minutes.
I finally got to sit down in my “altared” state and exhale
while the actual Mass went forward, but I became increasingly aware that I was,
as Barb predicted, burning up inside all that polyester. Now … I’m not very menopausal. I’m perimenopausal (which means all the real
fun is still ahead of me). But I am
occasionally getting hot flashes … usually when I’m exercising, stressed out,
or getting ready to convince my boss I'm not crazy.
My face turns red and, like mid-day heat rolling off the sand dunes of
the Sahara, the top of my head radiates steam. (I think this is why that cranky old bat in "The Wizard of Oz" really melted.) I know I’m supposed to be full of joy
and inspiration and craving a connection with the Holy Spirit, but all I can think
about craving is a bathtub filled with ice.
So then it was our turn…and I’d love to tell you that
nothing got screwed up. But that would
be a lie because, friend, just about everything got screwed up. I can
even give you a list:1) I forgot to blow out my candle (Deacon Carl finally figured out that I had forgotten I was supposed to do this and blew it out for me.)
2) The first time I sat back down, I didn’t sit in my pew – I sat In the row of chairs in front of my pew. I kept wondering where the heck everybody went.
3) My sponsor – a darling lady – gave my confirmation name as “Gabriella,” when it was actually “Gabriel.” In truth, I was sort of relieved the screw-up fairy wasn’t only targeting me.
4) Remember I mentioned the creed? Nope – wasn’t just the priest saying it. We were supposed to chime in. I remembered about half of it – the rest I
sorta faked my way through by moving my lips and trying to look poignant.
5) Oh, and remember my one big line?
“And with your spirit?” Yep... I screwed
it up. While Father Ron was talking, I
lapsed into the sort of trance that comes from heatstroke, so when he
looked at me and said, “Peace be with you,” I panicked because I had no clue
what I was supposed to say. So,
naturally, I responded with “And also with you,” (which used to be the response
until the church changed all the words a few months back.) I caught myself, said, “And with your
spirit,” and burst out laughing.
I think, looking back on it, the imperfections made the
whole thing a lot more beautiful and definitely more real, so I quickly made my peace with all that. I’d rather have a real experience than a
perfect one. And, on a higher note, the actual first Communion went off without a
hitch. I had been certain I’d forget to
bow or say “Amen” after Father Ron said, ‘Body of Christ” and, worse yet, would either
choke on the body or drop it on the floor. Nevertheless – I managed it okay,
and friends and family afterward said it was all very beautiful. If I ever get
a video, I’ll try to post it, and then you can tell me if they were all just
being kind. J
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