This is an excerpt from Jen's piece, which was prompted by her youngest brother's reflections on his upcoming Confirmation. These vignettes explore experiences of worship, one in her childhood church and the other on a DeColores service trip to Mexico with the campus ministry program at Loyola Marymount.
For as long as I can remember, Sunday Mass was a regular part of my family’s routine. My mom likes to tell how much I loved going to Mass when I was about two years old. She describes how I would try to sing along, standing as best I could atop that wooden bench, my arms outstretched, waving and clapping in time with the cantor’s; how I would bow my head with the rest of the congregation as they recited communal prayers, my own lips moving with the rhythm of theirs, not quite shaping the same words, but sensing that something holy was happening in these people coming together, and wanting to be a part of it.
I have fond memories of Masses at St. Irenaeus when I was growing up. The nubbiness of the ratty brown carpet over the cold linoleum in the parish hall where we had children’s Mass, how privileged I felt to sit with my brother so close to where the priest gave the homily. The almost overwhelming smell of incense that seeped into our clothes during Lent, how it still reminds me of fishstick Fridays when I was seven. The procession of candles and the pilgrims who carried them on Holy Thursday, how small I felt walking out of the church amid all those flickering lights. What it was like to be a part of the chorus of voices—Jesus, remember me when you come into your Kingdom— echoing through the neighborhood, as we made our way to reverence the Eucharist before Good Friday. I was only beginning to understand what it meant, knowing that it was bigger than me, than my family, than our community. Something in all of that made it transcendent.
Mass was a part of my family’s routine, but it was more than that, too. It was a reminder of sacred time, a holy deep breath that readied us to plunge back into our day-to-day.
I have fond memories of Masses at St. Irenaeus when I was growing up. The nubbiness of the ratty brown carpet over the cold linoleum in the parish hall where we had children’s Mass, how privileged I felt to sit with my brother so close to where the priest gave the homily. The almost overwhelming smell of incense that seeped into our clothes during Lent, how it still reminds me of fishstick Fridays when I was seven. The procession of candles and the pilgrims who carried them on Holy Thursday, how small I felt walking out of the church amid all those flickering lights. What it was like to be a part of the chorus of voices—Jesus, remember me when you come into your Kingdom— echoing through the neighborhood, as we made our way to reverence the Eucharist before Good Friday. I was only beginning to understand what it meant, knowing that it was bigger than me, than my family, than our community. Something in all of that made it transcendent.
Mass was a part of my family’s routine, but it was more than that, too. It was a reminder of sacred time, a holy deep breath that readied us to plunge back into our day-to-day.
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At the beginning of my senior year of college, I joined other students on a weekend service trip to an unincorporated community near Tijuana, Mexico. After crossing the border that Saturday morning, we traveled to the site where we would join members of the community in laying the foundation for what would become a one-room schoolhouse. When we arrived, the air was thick with dirt and dust. While some of our group protected their eyes with t-shirts and bandanas, others of us were ushered into a playroom with the children. Although, admittedly, I was somewhat relieved not to be working outside, the idea of spending the day in that room with so many small children was a daunting one. Settling into a chair that brought my knees too close to my chin for comfort, I shared crayons and paper with one of the little girls. “Mariposa,” she explained, pointing to her first piece of artwork. Above her butterfly, I colored a bright sun. “Sol,” we agreed.
As the morning went on, we tired of this game, and I tried to think of activities I enjoyed at her age. Recalling the countless recesses my friends and I had spent playing pat-a-cake and singing the silly songs that went along with it, I turned to my new friend and instructor. We arranged our awkward chairs to face one another, and I clapped my hands together once. She responded in the same way, and eventually we clapped slowly and at the same time. “Uno,” I said and clapped her right hand against my own. “Y…,” I said, clapping close to my chest, “…dos,” clapping our left hands against one another. Soon we found our rhythm, singing, “Uno y dos, uno y dos, uno y dos, unidos, unidos, unidos.” One and two, one and two, one and two. Together, together, together. Together we became a part of something bigger than each of us could be individually, and the bit of transcendence from Holy Thursday liturgies was present again.
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