In Church

By Kevin T. McNulty

I recently rejoined my family after my final summer at mountain-top graduate school, and equally, I have also resumed my attendance at weekly mass. Being much out of the habit of dressing in anything more than cut-offs, a t-shirt, and sandals, dressing up for church is time-consuming to say the least, and when it came past time to leave the house this morning, I did my best Dagwood Bumstead impression with a furious and disoriented race to the door.

When my family of five finally reached the church, we were quite late, and my wife, a patient and forgiving soul, was rueful that we would be standing for the entire service. I gave her an apologetic look, and lip-synched what I knew of what remained of the opening hymn. When an usher stepped back into the foyer and announced that there were still seats in the elevated choir box right next to the altar, I jumped at the chance to sit my family there, even if it would feel like we were on stage.

Church and I have history. Over the course of my lifetime, to my fault I have reeled in and out of the habit of regular attendance. I was an altar boy to start, and though it seems almost cliché to say so, my friend Blaise and I sipped wine in the sacristy and never got caught. In the pews on Sunday, I sniggered with my sisters and brother and hid from our mother’s embarrassed glares. When my catholic grade school made us attend regular mass, I hid from the nuns as everyone sang and lipped the words because I have always known that I cannot sing. In the fifth grade I organized a stadium wave that manifested itself by passing on a kick in the leg that would go down and up rows back all the way to the back where the last kid would signal that it had been received by coughing loudly three times. There would then be a simultaneous reaction by all of us, and the nuns would squelch it with shushes and glares. In the seventh grade, we moved all the chairs into the foyer so that we could have a dance. That night I got caught by our seventh grade teacher making out with my girlfriend behind one of those stacks of chairs in the foyer. Luckily it was a teacher who caught us, so we all kind of laughed, nervously.

In eighth grade, when Dominick Patterson was put on the spot by the Bishop Guilfoyle during our confirmation ceremony, and all Dominick could do was studder and yammer, I tried to turn around and whisper him the answer. The Bishop turned his ire from Craig to me, and I thought he was going to break out the sword of Dammacles on me before all my family and friends. As I reflect upon these incidents and others, I sometimes regard the church as if it were a priest itself looking at me with one raised eyebrow, curious about my next move, not quite sure what keeps me coming back.

From our lofty seats in the choir box this morning, I had a view of our church that I had never had before. This church is not the church I grew up in, but since church and I have begun talking again, this has been the place we have conducted the majority of our conversations. From the choir box, I looked out over the priests left shoulder, over the full breadth of the altar itself, through the pulpits and pedestals, over the organist and at the congregation—many of whom appeared to be looking right back at me. As I sat there, I remembered that five years ago I had a very similar view. I was sitting on that very altar that day looking over the congregation that consisted of family and friends of our two families. Benevolent faces and encouraging smiles affirmed my wife and me as we sat there, hand in hand. From my seat in the choir box today, I could see the very spot we sat, the step on which we stood to take our vows, and the planks we crossed to light our family candle.

This choir box seemed to transform our church-going experience. I had never, ever sat in a choir box, and when I looked over at my wife, she was the picture of serenity. My five year old son quietly occupied the attention of my six month old daughter who was smiling placidly and making no noise at all. Our middle daughter, Lily, now almost four years old, sat up straight and pretty, on her best behavior by far. Dressed by their mama, they looked great. From them I cast my eyes back over the congregation, and look back to the crowds still standing in the foyer. I exhale in the comfort that comes from sitting. During the lengthy homily I begin to think about that foyer. Back there, there is a waste deep font in which my youngest was baptized. Back there, there are bathrooms where I have often taken my son or daughter when they were not so well behaved. And down the hallway, where the classrooms are, I have sent my two oldest to their first days of preschool. But as I look back there, I am haunted by one very vivid memory that brings a smile to my face that I cannot conceal from the on-looking congregation before me.

It was a Sunday much like this one. We arrived late as we had on this day, but because seats in the choir box were not offered to us, we found ourselves standing behind the last pew for the entire service. My wife was tired and annoyed. My son was sprawled out on the floor like a cocker spaniel in need of a good belly scratchin’. And my daughter Lily, who was two at the time, was listlessly kicking her patent leather shoe into one of the support columns, blackening its ivory ankles with her sole. We had just come back from communion, and, it was suggested that we all sing a hymn of thanks. As some of us sang and some of us didn’t, my wife motioned to me to pick up my son who was laying down in the middle of the walkway with his shirttails out, his finger in his mouth, and his mismatched socks showing between his shoes and slacks. For appearances sake, I picked up the weighty four year old, and held him as my back continued to burn from holding my own weight in a verical position for over an hour now.

Soon the hymn of thanks ended, and there was silence. This triggered some sort of reaction in my daughter. My wife later explained that she must have thought that mass was over, because as soon as the silence descended, Lily bolted up one of the center aisles. My wife and I both watched her go, and we both agreed in silence that she wanted to be chased, so we ignored her out of the corners of our eyes. When her velocity took her ten or twelve rows further, my wife jerked out of her stance and went after her. I began to smirk. My daughter had disappeared behind the nodding heads of the many parishiners, but I soon found that I could track my daughter’s progress by the sudden turning of those very same heads. My wife halted, but my daughter did not. Heads were turning up through the middle of the church now. My wife resumed the chase, but I could tell by the progress of the turning heads, that my daughter was way out in the lead and still pulling away. I began to laugh giddily to myself as the weight of my son in my arms magically began to lessen. I saw my wife sit down about fifteen rows back from the altar, so I turned my gaze to the altar where I saw my tiny two year old daughter carefully mounting the two step rise. People were gasping and laughing now, and I was having a hard time controling my giddiness. I was laughing and repeating to myself, "Oh no, oh no…" I could barely feel the weight of my son in my arms now.

As my daughter started doing laps around the wooden altar, she added sound to her performance. From the back of the church I could see a smile on her face, and I heard her shrieking with every turn she made; she had the entire congregation laughing and carreening their necks to see the little cherub who had taken over the altar. All the priest could do was smile from his flowing robes and wooden chair. When he heard audience’s laughter, he got in the spirit of the revelry and piped up, "I said let us pray, not let us play." After a congregational chuckle, he looked to my wife (as did everyone) to see what her next move would be. She got up again, and walked with reluctance yet purpose in the direction of the altar, the priest, and my whooping daughter. I remember wondering if she was going to genuflect. But before she made her full progress, my daughter spotted her and ducked behind one of the pulpits. As my wife stepped up the two steps in that direction, I and the entire congregation (of about two thousand people attending the busy 10:30 mass), witnessed possibly the most amazing display of fancy footwork ever to grace the hardwood of a church. As my wife went left, my daughter pivoted and went around the other side which left Joanna baffled. When Joanna tried to go right, my little elf made a juke and appeared on the left. And to the amusement of all of us, barring Joanna and the zealots, it went back and forth at least twice before my wife faked right and went left and was able to apprehend our daughter who then let out a squeal of delight over getting caught. And the multitude joined her in their own little hymn of praise and exuberance. As my wife walked back down the aisle with our little one, they received an ovation that made her smile and blush all at the same time.

By the time she reached my side, I had managed to get a hold of my laughter because I knew that if I was laughing that I might as well meet father at the back of the church and ask for the sacrament of the last rites. I did my utmost to control my face, but I knew I was in trouble anyway. I held my son up high in my arms to make like I was holding up my end of the bargain, but we both knew who got the shaft that day. My wife was mortified by the event, and for the weeks to follow, friends and students of mine came up and joked with us about our little athlete. We would chuckle, I a little louder than her, and we both knew shared a sense of embarrassment and pride.

As I analyze it now, I know that there was a healthy population of parishiners who were mortified and called the event a desecration. But I am not bothered by it or them. I suppose I look at it differently. I see it as the latest event in the on-going relationship between McNulty and church. I see now that Lily may be the one who picks up where her father left off long ago. And though I do not look forward to hearing report of how she was making out behind a stack of chairs, I realize that for better or worse, it is a tradition that must continue.

Joanna and I have laughed about it many times since its occurance two years ago, and though, each time I think of the event I feel bad that my poor wife had to go up there to retrieve her, I can’t help but think, that I am glad it wasn’t me.

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