Looking up in a world of downers

Note: This column appears in the 8/4 issue of The Glendale Star and the 8/5 issue of the Peoria Times

I wouldn’t necessarily call it naïveté, but when I was younger I had a much more minimalistic outlook on life. Sure, I thought about the bad things every now and then, but it never really stuck with me. People get sick? That stinks. Hey, Woody Woodpecker is on! This is, I think, an integral part of a child’s makeup, as no kid should be contemplating such matters.

When I was a teenager, and then a young adult in college, I retained a fundamental understanding of reality, but I was nevertheless, like many of that age throughout history, invincible. Even when news or a particular event would strike my mind as something to consider, I still acted otherwise. With blinders, blissfully undeterred.

Suddenly I am a full-grown adult with a family and a slew of new perspectives and fears, and when unfortunate news is revealed—no matter how far removed from my own day-to-day life—it stays with me in a way it never has before. And whether coincidence or as a direct result of this newfound and rather unwitting and acute awareness, it seems like unfortunate news is revealed more and more often these days.

Should, however, any such news manage to slip past me, my parents, who are in a more advanced stage of morbid awareness, will alert me immediately, usually at the outset of any conversation. Did you hear about (the awful thing) that happened to (good, innocent person)? This, combined with consistent attention to the obits—Did you hear (person I cannot remember from my childhood despite their insistence that I do) died?—makes for pleasant small talk.

It used to be a running joke between us “kids” how the adults at family functions always managed to find the common ground of morbidity. A birthday party or graduation, it seemed, was yet another event to remind them of their own mortality. Yes, there would be cake, but first they must discuss who is sick, and who is dead, and how imminent the threat of terrorism/natural disaster/recent political decision is right now. “Debbie Downers” we would call them, as we lightened the mood by changing the subject to something more comically inane.

But now, like the adults, I too sometimes find myself preoccupied with such matters, unsure if or when to reveal these concerns as a topic to which others can relate (i.e.: this is supposed to be a humor column, right?). Of course anyone can relate—we all share common fears and anxieties—but few ever really agree on an appropriate occasion to do so. As a result, we are often left to our own devices, and solitary occasions like a sleepless Sunday night. Good times!

Luckily for me, and many others I am sure, said childhood was grounded in a foundation of faith, which has served me well, and better each year as misfortunes mount, some resolved, some ongoing, some viewed from afar. And while those who lack it often view faith as a mere coping mechanism—coping is difficult regardless—those who boast it recognize it as something much greater. Truth. Actual reality. To be honest, I don’t know how some people get by without it.

Strife abounds, but faith—like a teenage me, except even more so—remains invincible. And while I may have Debbie Downed this entire paper, the point is a positive one. And that is this: Have faith. Eventually, there will be cake.

Kids & church: A match made in…somewhere

Note: This column appears in the 4/30 issue of The Glendale Star and the 5/1 issue of the Peoria Times

I’d like to take this time to extend my deepest apologies for every eye roll tossed in the direction of any parent whose kids were not behaving quite perfectly in church.

Now, granted, many of these eye rolls were completely and totally justified. I mean, hey -– at what point are you going to remove your crying child from the premises? After the homily is over? Before the next Mass begins? And your other kid has been staring at me for the past twenty minutes. I am out of funny faces and this entire situation has become awkward. Also, Poly-O string cheese in church? Really? Is that necessary?

What I am apologizing for is any annoyance I may have felt for any child not sitting completely still, with his or her hands held together in prayer, pensively contemplating the true meaning behind the Sacraments. I say this because –- I think you can see where this is going –- I am now on the other side. The wild side.

I can speak to this now because I am a foster parent with two full Masses under my belt, one of them being Easter Mass, which, if you survive attending with a two-year old and four-month old, you attain automatic induction into Heaven, as deemed by the Vatican in 1968.

I am not joking in the least when I say that, as a foster parent, my biggest concern was bringing the kid(s) to church. My wife and I decided long ago that as foster parents we would bring any child or children in our care to church each week, because we feel like that is important, to say the least. Since foster kids tend to exhibit a bit more extreme behavior than other kids, we knew this was a risk, albeit one we were willing to take.

Thankfully, we’ve been blessed with two great kiddos. Nevertheless, that doesn’t relieve the stress of approaching those church doors, because, as they say in parenting land (Salt Lake City, Utah), kids will be kids. It’s quite a paradox, too. Because while young children cannot possibly be expected to sit still and understand what is happening, it must also be stressed that church is not a playground where you eat Cheerios and play Transformers for an hour. That is called “going to the bank.”

For us so far, the process has been this: The four-month-old sleeps soundly until the exact moment that Mass begins. Whichever one of us is in charge of the four-month old immediately moves the child out of church, and typically ends up missing the entire Mass thanks to feeding and diaper changes. The other person then watches the two-year old like a hawk for the duration of the Mass. This past Saturday evening I found myself coloring in a Dora & Diego coloring book during the sacramental blessing. Not my proudest moment, though I hope that God understands.

I know I understand. So here’s an honest “I feel for you” to all the parents who bring their kids to church each week because it’s the right thing to do. Sometimes it’s enough to make you ask if it’s even worth it. I was thinking that the other night when I noticed that our two-year old foster child had placed a Dora doll on the bed, and was down on both knees praying for the doll.

So yeah. It’s worth it.

The pews aren’t always softer on the other side

Note: This column appears in the 3/26 issue of The Glendale Star and the 3/27 issue of the Peoria Times

My wife and I are Catholic. We’ve been attending St. Thomas More in Glendale since we moved here, but never officially signed on to be parishioners.

Why? Well, to be honest, we were holding out. For one thing, St. Thomas More is about 35 minutes from our house in Peoria. Plus, the Masses themselves are long, making what’s supposed to be (in our minds) a 50-minute mass an over two-hour-long event. The distance also makes it nearly impossible to attend Mass during the week for any other Holy Days, which we’re rarely aware of anyway. (There are few things more guilt-inducing than when either of us call our saintly mothers back home only to find that they just returned back from Mass because today is, after all, the Feast of Saint Agnes of Bohemia, yet we are home watching American Idol.)

So while we attended Mass each week, we were all the while waiting for a new Catholic Church to pop up closer to our house, where they don’t sing every verse of every song and you don’t have to hold hands during the Our Father.

This has not happened. That it ever will is starting to feel far-fetched. But we have been able to explore some other options in the meantime. For example, we did try attending a different church that was a similar distance away in a different direction. I also got the opportunity to attend Mass at St. Mary’s Basilica in Phoenix a couple of months ago.

The one church, well…didn’t exactly set our worlds on fire. (We were the youngest people there. By 50 years.) And while St. Mary’s was beautiful, the homily I heard was blah (yes, I judged the oldest church in Phoenix based on one sermon), and I couldn’t bend over for three weeks after sitting in the pews there.

So a funny thing happened on our journey to find a new church: we started to appreciate the one we had been going to all along. We began saying things like, “That’s not how they do it at St. Thomas,” and “Why are there dentures in this collection basket?” and “Wake up -- we’re in church!”

We began to realize that St. Thomas More, though not perfect by our idealistic standards, had everything that was really important to us. We feel welcome there, the pastor is fantastic, and every week we walk away stronger in our faith. (There’s also a Dunkin Donuts nearby. I’m just saying.) When our family comes to visit us, we take them to St. Thomas More for church, because that is where they expect to go. We’re starting to know our fellow churchgoers as well, like the couple who always winds up sitting behind us and the guy who goes up and down the aisles to shake hands during the Sign of Peace. And people know us, too. As “the couple who refuses to hold hands during the Our Father.” But still. They know us.

Last week during Mass they made an announcement inviting any visitors to sign up and become parishioners. My wife and I both looked at each other and decided it’s about time. After all, it doesn’t look like anything is “popping up” closer to our house. And even if something did, who knows if it would be as fulfilling. We plan on becoming parishioners, officially, this week. I think St. Agnes will be proud. St. Thomas, too, of course. I think they are friends. I’ll have to ask my mom.

On avoiding physical contact will well-intentioned strangers

I’m not sure what percentage of people who read this blog also attend church on a regular basis. If I had to guess…4%? It doesn’t really matter. As I’ve maintained from the beginning -- this blog is about two things and two things only: stupid sports cards, and religion.

Anyhoo, so I have to discuss with you an aspect of Arizona -- one that is actually among the few things about living here that makes me very uncomfortable.

For starters, it’s almost impossible to find a Catholic Church around here. Back home in New Jersey, traditional Catholic Churches are like Seven Elevens -- you can’t walk three blocks without seeing one. Here? My wife and I have to drive about 35 minutes to get to church every week, which means that our travel time is longer than the actual Mass. The next closest Catholic Church is in Texas.

Stranger still, on our way to church we pass about seventeen other churches. They’re just not Catholic churches. Arizona -- at least where we live -- is a very Christian community. There are many, many Christian churches. Now, I am not here to discuss the inherent differences between Catholicism and Christianity, and why we consider ourselves Catholic (not because I couldn’t, but because it’s not warranted here). But I will say this: I am Irish with a father who is a Catholic deacon, and my wife is an Italian from Brooklyn. Christian church is not an option.

(When I originally moved here I was asking a coworker where the nearest church was, and she began telling me about a non-Catholic church where the pastor wears a Hawaiian shirt and occasionally drives his motorcycle onto the pulpit, and that there was also a Starbucks inside the church. We considered playing a prank on my mother-in-law by telling her that this was the church we decided to start attending, but we were honestly and legitimately concerned that she would have a heart attack, so we decided against it.)

But regardless of the commute, we like our church. It’s not grandiose in its style, with high, vaulted ceilings and dozens of stained-glassed adornments and the smell of incense filling the vast atmosphere -- the kind of church we’re used to and that, quite frankly, we miss. No, our church is flat and mostly bare, very “post modern,” I suppose. In fact, it’s celebrating its 10-year anniversary this year, which makes it one of the oldest churches around. But hey -- it does the job.

But let me back it up a little bit. Several years before we moved here, a trend began in church: everybody started holding up their palms during the “Our Father.” I’m not sure exactly when this started, but apparently I missed the announcement. Thusly, I had always steadfastly refused to take part in this, mainly because a) nobody told me about it, and b) I was not just going to blindly follow the crowd. “God knows how I roll,” was my justification.

Fast forward to a year ago, when my wife and I first attended Mass at our present church. Being that we were attending a Catholic Mass, I knew that things wouldn’t be much different, however, there are certain subtleties that any Catholic who has been to a few churches in his or her day can attest to. Are they going to ring the bell after the blessing? How many verses do they sing? Of course, I was secretly thinking, “Man, I wonder if they raise their palms during the ‘Our Father.’”

Well, they don’t.

They hold hands.

You can imagine my confusion when it was time for the “Our Father,” and I am innocently looking around to see what everyone is doing with their hands, only to have my own hand grabbed by a complete stranger, and raised into the air as if we were on one of those Sunday morning Gospel television shows. (I wasn’t sure if I should tightly close my eyes, yell “Halleluiah!” and start dancing.) I looked over at my wife who had this particular look of fear in her eyes that I have only seen on the occasions when one of her favorite reality shows is interrupted by an election update. So as not to look completely out of place, I was forced to grab her hand as well.

As if this wasn’t shock enough, at our church they opt to sing the “Our Father,” as a means of prolonging the uncomfortableness. Also, towards the end of the prayer, there is a part where everyone raises their held hands even higher. If you don’t know about this part, you can easily separate your shoulder. As this is all going on, I’m looking around the church and the whole congregation is holding hands. I felt like a Who in Whoville on Christmas morning after the Grinch stole all of the presents. Except I wasn’t happy. Because my present was not having to hold hands and I wanted it back. Immediately.

I tried to be optimistic at first, thinking “Okay, maybe they only do this on the 27th Sunday of Ordinary Time, or whatever today is.” But my optimism was swiftly dashed during the subsequent weeks. We did not like this one bit.

This really, truly makes both of us very uncomfortable. My wife -- who works with kids and is always on the lookout for coughs and booger-picking -- will wash her hands for twenty minutes after church because of the “Sign of Peace.” Now she was holding hands with a stranger for two minutes straight. As for me, I mean -- do you know what it’s like to hold hands with another man for a few minutes? It’s the opposite of comfortable. I can’t even focus on the prayer. For one thing, I’m not used to singing it, so I’m always losing my place. More importantly, I’m wondering if my hand is too sweaty and if my handholding partner is going to take that incidental thumb movement the wrong way.

It has gotten to the point where my wife and I have to alternate who sits on the inside of the pew each week. An enjoyable Mass is one that does not necessarily feature an inspirational or thought-provoking homily, but one in which no one else sits in our pew. And even that is no guarantee, because apparently my wife and I are the only two people who find this routine awkward. Yes, several parishioners -- in an attempt to create a handholding chain that will reach around the world -- will cross the aisle to grab your hand! I mean, !!! Sometimes, if you are in the pew aisle seat, the person in front of you, in their aisle seat, will give you a backwards, no-look hand offer! Believe me -- I have seen it happen.

True story: About a month or so ago, my wife was busy with paperwork and we couldn’t make it on Sunday, so I went to Saturday evening Mass by myself. I purposely sat in the back, back corner. I was on the aisle, and nobody was in my pew, or even within range. I was safe. When the “Our Father” began, I suddenly felt somebody on my right side. It was the usher, with his hand held out for me to grab. He had a crazed look in his eye, as if to say, “Now you didn’t think I’d let you sing the ‘Our Father’ all by yourself, did you young man?” I was legitimately scared.

My wife and I have tried to resist. When no one is near us to grab our hands, we do not hold each others hand. This brings us looks of confusion and often disdain -- people wonder if we are fighting, or if we are in church against our own free will. When people are next to us, and the “Our Father” in on the horizon, we try to avoid eye contact, but you would not believe how aggressive other people can be when it comes time to hold hands in church. It’s like they’ve been waiting for this moment all week, and they will not be denied.

Listen -- I understand the meaning and significance behind holding hands, especially in God’s presence. But I just can’t help the fact that it makes me feel very, for lack of a better word…icky. It’s not that I’m so grossed out by other people; I mostly find it, quite honestly, cheesy. And forced. I just don’t like it. At all.

Apparently -- and I only found this out by exploring the possibility of attending a different Catholic Church even farther away -- this is not specific to our present church. It exists throughout the Diocese, possibly the state. There is no escaping this.

I’m sure that somehow it’s my own insecurities and hang-ups that make me feel so uncomfortable to hold hands with a stranger. Unfortunately for strangers, I am not willing to work on this. So if you are reading this, and you happen to find yourself in church this week next to a tall, lanky white dude with a cleft lip -- please look away. It’s not you. It’s me. I have sweaty hands.

And my wife thinks you’re disgusting.


Awww, geez Cindy -- you JUST had your hand in your nose!