Before marrying Ana, I'd not been to any kind of church service in over thirty years, but, now, as I've reported, we observe the celebration of the mass at Catholic churches on a semi-regular basis.
If Ana and I ever experience tension between us it's when sitting together on the last pew of one of these churches.
Ana takes these church visits seriously and I know she's afraid of me going into blogger mode, asking too many questions, interviewing priests and/or parishioners.
Honestly, it's only out of respect for my wife that I don't do any of those things, but simply stay by her side as she knowingly goes through the rituals of her religion.
So, today, Sunday, in a very small town in Iowa, we attended one of the smaller Catholic venues we've encountered, a brick building with the typical spire extending heavenward. The interior was more modern, less ornate than the huge cathedrals of Chicago, Saint Paul and Des Moines we've visited.
Seated alongside me, next to the back pew, was a man in a battery-powered chair and he was one of only two people I saw approached before the service by either of the two priests.
After saying something to wheel chair man, the priest whispered in the ear of his wife who was sitting directly in front of me.
The wife began to immediately recite the Lord's Prayer, then the Hail Mary, alternating them over and over again.
The few already in attendance twenty-five minutes before the start of the mass would repeat each prayer.
As the church filled the chants got increasingly louder, filling the small auditorium with a rythmic, beautiful sound.
It crossed my mind that memorized prayer might not be the most sincere way to talk to God, but, then again, maybe this was more about the feeling of joining in a worship ritual with 150 of your neighbors, friends and relatives and doing obeisance to God in a way you've been taught since childhood.
For me, the star of the show, the straw that stirred the drink, was the choir boy, not for the seriousness of his singing, but the way he set the whole thing up.
A cross between Dennis the Menace and the "Home Alone" boy, this ten year old blonde performer strutted the aisle with an impish grin while delivering the utensils for the mass.
He knew he was good and that every eye in the church was on him, except they really weren't.
Everyone knew he would get the job done and seemed to take him for granted.
I watched as he lit each candle, not by hand, but with some kind of sacred tool, alighting each waxed stick on the first try, then quickly turning to the audience to see if any had noticed his skill level.
Picking up a ten pound Bible, he handed it to one of the priests, then took a seat on the podium next to the them.
The two priests and the choir boy had a definite camaradarie, a familiarity that was worrysome, not because of anything other than the Church's horrible history abusing these boys.
As Ana and I left the church, one of the priests thanked us for coming.
That had never happened before, although it was something I'd anticipated since we'd started this habit of mass attendance.
Ana elbowed me and smiled.
The elbow let me know it was time to exit.
The smile said that I'd not done anything to embarrass her.
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