I went to church yesterday, as I do almost every Saturday afternoon. Saturday mass is different from Sunday. It's shorter, it's quieter, it is, I guess, for people like me, who aren't morning people. Alternately, I imagine that for some, it might be one of many masses they attend through-out the week.
But there are fewer people in attendance. That beckons me too.
I arrive in advance of the start of the mass. Others do too. They do that, I imagine, for the same reason I do; to reflect, to let their guard down, to go to that place of surrender where you remove the veneer of the city outside and let the beauty of the building calm you. Voices can ruin this effect for me. I was reminding myself to pray for patience yesterday as a woman played catch up with someone she hadn't seen in a while. I briefly considered not staying for the service as my frustration level was rising, and my patience for hearing her voice was wearing thin.
I took a deep breath, calmed myself. Stayed in my seat. Faced forward, and continued with my own prayer and stopped hearing her.
The sermon was so worth staying for.
It was given by the Monsignor, who doesn't do alot of the masses as guest priests often attend at this large parish.
The Monsignor has a melodic voice, full of inflection and tenderness. His sermon was, fittingly enough, about death. About what happens after we die, that eternal, unknowable mystery. About our names and who we are, our identity after the death that we will one day all face. Those who will remember us. The other place we will go to, be it in our imagination, be it created by something, someone, that entity that we subscribe to, that we believe in. That seems to mean different things to each and every one of us. Talking about this in casual conversation can offend, frighten, and turn things to awkwardness. Deep conversation is required for this subject. I talk about it with certain people only and with these certain people, few words are really needed. The silences say it all sometimes.
I continue to look for the signs, as they are sent to me, and they are. The proof, even though I don't need proof. I am the proof. You, too, are the proof.