A good day

Today was a good day. It was a productive day. And it was a hard day. It rides on the coat tails of yesterday which was hard in that it was Sunday, and I went to Mass. I've mentioned before that Sundays seem to be the days that turn me into a watering pot. Being at Mass is where I feel the absence of my dad very keenly. It's almost so that I'm reluctant to be seen in Church, because guaranteed I'll be crying. I never ever wear mascara on Sundays anymore!

As for today, it is now three months, and that feels like a big anniversary somehow. I felt pretty steady this morning, and decided to make a real day of it. An errand for work took me to the neighbourhood of an old Church I love; I timed my trip so that I could take in the noon Mass and I'm so glad I did! Nothing profound happened...no 'word' from my dad, no warm fuzzies of comfort from the Lord. But that Church is so beautiful, and so old, that the devotion of Catholics past is laid over the woodwork like a patina of holiness. Its location allows for its several daily Masses to be well attended by people from all walks of life. (You can spot the politicos by the cut of their trenchcoats) Confession is offered before every daily Mass, and there is something about seeing people lining up to get right with God that is hope-inspiring. Communion is dispensed in the old way at the rail, which gives me a feeling of connection to all those faithful who have been filling the pews for over a hundred years. The services are always quick - to the point, short and sweet. All the same, I always feel like I'm home when I'm there. Attending Mass there makes me feel Catholic, which doesn't happen in every Catholic Church.

This evening I went to a Taize meeting. (Taize is an ecumenical community of Brothers in France who live simple lives of prayer, simplicity, and service.) I have had the great good fortune to visit Taize twice - and one of those visits was during Holy Week. The experience has remained one of the most vivid of my life. First of all, the physical presence of Taize, a tiny village in rural France with sheep and cows grazing; simple buildings where visitors stay; the simple yet modern chapel where everyone gathers three times a day in obedience to the bells that call us to prayer. There is the humble, gracious hospitality of the community, consisting of the Brothers themselves, and the Sisters who serve them. The rhythm of the days is steady and calm, full of peace, with work and rest in proper balance. Gathering for prayer is something: the bells ring, and everything stops. Everyone leaves what they are doing and we all walk down the lanes and enter the Chapel, which is usually in darkness, except for candles...hundreds of votive candles. The prayer service consists of scripture readings, petitions, and the distinctive Taize singing, which itself is beautifully simple and simply beautiful. You can feel your heartbeat slow, and your thoughts ease their frantic whirring as you sing the refrains over and over, and then there is silence. Lots of silence.

I've been to quite a few Taize style meetings since my visits there, and none have really managed to replicate the original. I think we're too rushed, too busy, too accustomed to noise to be able to authentically reproduce Taize for an hour once a month. However, I'm so glad that people make the attempt, and I'm so glad I was there tonight; a little taste of the candles, the quiet, the music was enough to bring a quality of peace to the core of me that I've been missing lately.

Perhaps my dad and my Dad had something to say to me today afterall.