Where Does This End?

Stressed?  Look at the kitten. LOOK AT HER!!!!

Among all the wonderful, magnificent aspects of Texas that are admirable, our sense of community is tops.  We are generally friendly and like a good party.  We love our sports, our barbecues, and our communities. A community becomes a tribe.  A clan.  A family.

And a great many of us, Texan or not, count our churches as part of that community.  In small towns, especially, a church becomes the heart of a community.  People come together in prayer, in fellowship, in sickness and in health. Young adults fall in love at church picnics, become a family, and they show up on Sundays with their children in tow.  Small towns have many faults, but their sense of community is not one of them. Which is why the news today, of a white man shooting up a small town church 30 miles southeast of me is so shocking.  The fact that the shooter apparently came from New Braunfels, a place I worked for twenty years, hits me in the gut.

A church is supposed to be a place of safety, of sanctuary.  Historically, people in Europe sought refuge in cathedrals, requesting sanctuary from persecution.  It was considered a grave sin to violate sanctuary, once given.  These days, we don't have the same concerns, but a church is still viewed as a place of refuge.  Safety.  Those who need help, who have nowhere else to go, find themselves at the doors of churches, seeking comfort.  And they usually get it.  Now that sense of peace, that sense of safety, is gone. All those people, raised in their faith to believe that their Lord would protect them from all evil, are feeling very afraid right now. If you can't find sanctuary in your church, your sense of community suffers. The heart is gone, replaced by what?

Where does this all end?  When do the NRA fanatics put aside their frenzied fight over their bastardization of the Second Amendment?  When do the "Liberal snowflakes" stop looking down on those who don't share their opinions?  Why are we even fighting about common sense gun control?  Why is this so difficult?  We are better than this.  We should all be able to be adults, come to the table and figure out what to do.

I wish that I could say that Texas was at the forefront of gun control legislation.  I wish that I could say the Lone Star state was committed to the safety of its citizens, and willing to listen to ideas and possible solutions.  I may not have any answers, but surely someone does.   But tomorrow, after all the empty platitudes about prayers being offered up for Sutherland Springs?  It will be business as usual, with the finger pointing and the blame being flung about. Nothing will happen to stop this from happening again, and again, and again.

Where does this all end?

No Place For Funyons

When I was a kid and my parents took us to church, there were certain expectations for behavior.  My brother and I were to sit quietly, follow along with the service, say the prayers with the congregation, and pay attention to the sermons.  If we did not sit quietly, we got a glare from my dad.  If we continued our shenanigans, we would be escorted out of church and get a spanking.  It was a simpler time. 

As a parent, I don't resort to threats of physical harm to get my son to behave in church.  Zane is wiggly, but he usually tries to be quiet, and usually a glare will make him refocus.  After all, if he wants to make his First Communion, he has to demonstrate the appropriate behavior.  Sit quietly, follow along with the service, say the prayers with the congregation, and pay attention to the sermon.  Larry and I have drilled this into Zane's head repeatedly, and I'm happy to say that our efforts appear to be working.  Mostly.

Last Sunday, at the evening service, we sat across the aisle from one of Zane's classmates.  This excited my son, who is always happy to find someone he knows.  The boy practically did cartwheels trying to get the little girl's attention, while we glared and pointed to the pew.  Zane leaned over and whispered loudly that the little girl was in his class, and I patted his hand and handed him the hymnal so he could find the song they were about to sing. 

I watched the little girl out of the corner of my eye, out of habit:  I always want to know how my son's behavior compares to other kids his age. She was standing quietly next to her mother, just like Zane was standing quietly next to me. Cool.  I was about to refocus my attention on the service, when the girl's mother handed her daughter a bag of  chocolate chip cookies.

Cookies?  At Mass?  I was shocked.  My parents had had a firm "no food in church" rule; it was considered disrespectful, and the faithful are supposed to fast the hour before Mass. I shook my head. They were kids.  Maybe the family hadn't eaten dinner before the service, and this was to tide the girl over until supper. I should be less judgmental, I told myself, especially in the House of God.  But Zane was eyeing those cookies, completely distracted, his hand twitching.  I put my hand on his shoulder, the service was about to begin.  The children's choir started to sing.

That was when the woman pulled Funyons out of her purse. 

Funyons?!!!  No.  That can't be Funyons.  I looked again.  Yes.  Yes, they were Funyons.  The bright yellow bag crinkled loudly in my mind, but nobody else seemed to notice.  She opened the bag and handed it to her son.  I couldn't help staring, but I had no idea that my mouth was hanging open until Larry touched my shoulder and looked at me. 

"What's wrong?" he mouthed.  I just stared at him a moment, before leaning close. 

"THAT. WOMAN. HAS. FUNYONS. IN. CHURCH."  I whispered in outrage.  Larry looked across the aisle, and then rolled his eyes. It didn't bother him. He's Methodist.   My normally tolerant self, however, was scandalized.  It must have been all the nuns in my family history, surfacing in my consciousness, rulers and rosaries at the ready.  I fully expected lightning to strike.  Fortunately God is not that much of a stickler about eating in church.  Maybe he likes Funyons. 

I decided that I was tired, and perhaps not thinking clearly. I was okay with chocolate chip cookies, but I drew the line at Funyons?   I was probably more upset that Zane saw the food exchange; now he would want to know why HE wasn't allowed to eat cookies during Mass, or bring toys. What parent likes having all their hard work erased by another parent?   But repetition is part of learning, and definitely part of parenting.  I'm sure that Larry and I will be repeating our behavior expectations for church, and other events, right up until Zane graduates from high school. 

I plan to bring Funyons. 

RemembeRED: Waiting for the Believers

Prompt: Where is your quiet place? What does it look like? What happens there?

Source: allanbrucezee.com via Tina on Pinterest

I sometimes find myself in Catholic churches before the other worshipers arrive. This is my quiet place. When there are people in a church, the air vibrates with the intensity of prayer and the energy generated by so many devotional hearts beating. There is no quiet during the Mass; paper rattles, clothing rustles, and children forget to use their inside voices. My mind usually begins darting from noise to noise in an effort to identify them all, and the entire service is over before I realize it.

The second I step over the threshold, I am cocooned in the silence. I calmly sit in a pew near the back, close my eyes and pull the tranquil air into my lungs. There is no hurrying to "get things done". There is no "have to". The stillness is a cat curled around itself, dreaming of simple pleasures, but I am no mouse to be devoured. I breathe in and out as the tension in my shoulders eases and my mind halts the constant hamster wheel race. Sometimes I pray. Sometimes I think. In this quiet place, I can just be.

Be still, and know that I am God.

Holy Spaces

San Fernando Cathedral was founded in 1731 and is the oldest, continuously functioning religious community in the State of Texas. In other words, it's freakin' old. When I am downtown, I like to go there to meditate for a bit.

As soon as you enter the cathedral, you feel the hush. Say what you will about the Catholics who colonized this area, they understood viscerally how to inspire the awe necessary to any House of God. The smell of incense permeates the very bones of this place. There is no doubt that you are in a holy space, whatever your religion. The interior is cool and quiet, a sweet blessing on a hot day. There's something comforting about the permanence of a building that has been here for so very long.

I like to sit in the back. As I kneel, I can sometimes feel the prayers of the millions of worshippers who have come through this cathedral over the centuries whispering around me. When I add my prayers to theirs, it feels like my ghostly fellow penitents give my prayers more power, as my words seem to rise like the smoke of incense into the air above me.

What are some holy or sacred spaces that bring you peace?