I’ll start with the end first. When I was leaving the Mass, I saw the church lights shining through the stained glass on the front of the building; the Virgin Mary. I posted the photo after the service. Sitting in the car, I suddenly remembered driving past this church last Christmas Eve and seeing the same stained glass window, lit up, bright and colorful, shining in the dark. It was a surprise in the night sky and I hadn’t realized that there was a Mass going on; all I could see was the Virgin Mary, brightening one of my dark days.

I drove past the church all year since then, paying attention at night to recreate that scene from Christmas Eve, to find that feeling again, and every night I was disappointed. Until Christmas Eve. The first time, I’d only been in that church once before. I bought a Mass card for Brittany and in May attended that service when they said the special remembrance for her. Over the course of time in 2011, I would come back on occasion, when the need arose, and just sit in my car, staring at the big green tree, so much in the traditional shape of the Tree of Life, watch the branches blow in the breeze, and cry. And then I would go home, still not being able to explain to my family (or myself) why Brittany’s death affected me so much.
Christmas Eve went away. The stained glass window went away. The Tree, my special Brittany memorial tree, went away. Brittany never did, though.

I had been depressed, alone and lost. Sometime in the weeks before Holy Week, I would come to the Church and sit in the pew several times while there were no services. I don’t know what sent me there; I just knew when to go, and I would sit alone. Just me and G-d. He listened. And I listened to Him. And boy, did He have a lot to say! Lights and smells and sounds and Scriptures that read my mind. Friends He sent me with messages and songs and love. I’ve never known anyone to talk so much without saying a word.

I started going to Mass that Tuesday of Holy Week.

In the weeks that followed Easter, I went to the nine o’clock Mass three times a week unless I had a prior commitment or an appointment. I was the youngest one in the church. These were the people who had been going their whole lives; pious, the true believers, the devout.

In April, the Deacon let me take the Missal with me to my mother in law’s, so I could read on the days that I wouldn’t be able to attend Mass. A couple of weeks later, C. directs me to take the free book, The Word Among Us. It has all of the liturgies for the entire month. It has the Gospels. It has the daily responsorials. It has the meditations. When I asked the Deacon to borrow the book, I began to cry.

I carry the book with me, and I hide it. No one would understand this. I read it every morning that I don’t attend Mass.

The priest returns from Rome and his first Mass back is May 7th. Today is the first anniversary of Brittany’s murder, and I want the closure of a Mass. I am upset. Where is my priest? I don’t even belong to this church and I’ve become possessive about which priest is going to do the homily. He begins to speak and after talking about Rome, which is so much like my Wales, he speaks a bit about the Holy Spirit, and something he says reminds me of Brittany and why I am here in the first place. I begin to cry. Again. I’m also glad he’s back from Rome. I’m going to like him.

His homilies are soft spoken and humorous – he is very humorous and good natured – but they are also firm. He doesn’t need to tell you what to do with your life, your vote, your heart; he tells you what Jesus did, and then you do what you do with that in your mind and you can feel what he’s trying to say. He’s not beating you over the head with any kind of should and must, but continuing to welcome warmly with a “let me tell you what I believe; what do you think?”

In July, I meet with him. I have a stupid question, and I say that to him. “I have a stupid question.” After he hears it, he agrees with me; it is a stupid question. He doesn’t quite call it that, but we laugh and he gives me twenty minutes, letting me babble, asking me questions about myself and my family and why I’ve come here and not anywhere else. He’s a nice man. I tell him he’s not what I expect of a priest and he laughs at that also. He is not insulted. He is a cross between Father Mulcahy and Sheldon Cooper. I don’t tell him this.

I never paid attention to Jesus as a child or really up until the point that Job sent me to the church to meditate on one or two desperations. I pay attention now. There is a life size Jesus nailed to a wooden Cross in the chapel. I’ve never gone up to it, so I really don’t know, but I think He’s life-sized. Sometimes, I will have a thought of agreement or a question about my own faith and I can feel him looking at me.

I look back, but He hasn’t moved.

So many things between then and now that stand out in my mind.

A few weeks ago, the priest, Father J. came over to me in the parking lot, put his arm around me, and asked, “Are you Catholic yet?” I laughed and I think he thought he made me uncomfortable, but the only reason I may have seemed uncomfortable with the question is because I’ve become more comfortable with Jesus. I could never say his name in prayers at all, and if I spoke about him in passing through my life or as a topic of conversation, I’d cast my eyes downward as if I weren’t supposed to talk about Him; to keep Him hidden from my life.

The question hit a little too close to home, but of course, he couldn’t have known that. I’ve never expressed a desire to convert.

I have been thinking about it, though. I’ve only barely mentioned it to one person, and I’m still trying to have a conversation about it. To my logical mind, it seems the next natural step.

I mean why am I still going to church? What does it mean to me? Was it just a place to hang out while I waited for me to piece my life back together? Why the church and not the temple? That question is actually easy.

I knew they would welcome me.

And if not overtly welcome me at the beginning, I knew that they would not turn me away. I know that I can speak to the priest as a convert, as a non-religious person or as a Jewish person. He would see me, and he would support me, and I know this, not because he said it, but because I just know it.

Most of my life I’ve had that simplistic view. The very literal, whatever will be, will be. I worry. I angst. I get terrified and I fret. But I always fall back on everything will be alright.

And overall, that is Father J’s message. Every sermon. Here is what Jesus did. Here is a story from my childhood or someone I know. Here is what they did. Here is what I’d recommend. Now, go forward, and with Jesus’ help, everything will be alright.

You don’t have to believe it. You don’t have to say it out loud. But it will be alright, and I’m here to help.
Back to Christmas Eve.

The church was packed. Every seat filled. Every space for standing filled. I’m given a program and I greet the Father. He is surprised and happy to see me. He takes my hand and squeezes it. I think this is the most intimate thing that can be shared with someone not your lover. It’s only the second time I feel this surge of love from someone, agape love. He leaves his greeting space and finds an usher, telling him that I must have a seat. I insist that I do not need a seat, and I greet the usher. The look on his face says what I am already thinking, has the priest even looked into the sanctuary?

I put my hand in front of me in a stop sign motion so the Father can’t see and I tell the usher, no, it’s fine, there are others who need to sit. The usher laughs and puts an arm around me, thanking me for understanding reality. A second usher has missed this exchange and has convinced a man to give me one of his saved seats.

I am in the very last pew. The church is dim. Lights are off, but there is a light over the altar. There is a nativity scene that I can’t really see. All the altar cloths are now white, changed from yesterday’s purple. There is a large Christmas tree covered in white lights above the choir, who are singing one carol after another. There are wreaths with white bows filling every empty space on the walls that don’t have statuary. There is such a sensation of true Christmas and I feel the emotions surge up from my soul.

The procession began, and the choir began to sing Silent Night. The churchgoers joined in, as did I. This is the first time I’ve sung this song in its entirety, including Jesus’ name in the song about his birth.

This is a very musical service, and I love it. I’m very busy looking around, pleased that I know the Mass well enough that I don’t have to wait for the others to give me my cues. I know when to stand, and am thankful when the Father tells everyone that because of the numbers, we are to remain standing rather than kneel (which I still do not do).

Many people leave after Communion, although the church is still quite full. When the Mass is ended, I approach the Deacon, shake his hand and wish him a Merry Christmas.

I wait patiently behind an older man to speak to the Father, just to briefly wish him a Merry Christmas. I am happy here. I am surprised by my level of comfort. I reach out to shake his hand, and he doesn’t hesitate, he puts his arm around me and pulls me into a hug. I inhale deeply of the feelings this brings on, and I almost burst into tears from the emotion of it all.

I’ve decided to meet with him after Christmas.

This is such a difficult decision; I don’t even know if it is actually a decision as much as an exploration and I hate how much like a politician that sounds like. I feel as though all of these spiritual feelings are a betrayal of many. How will my family react? As it is, it’s causing marital issues. My parents are gone, but I still feel them. I wonder if I’d be so adrift is they were still here to guide me.

I’ve been trying to talk about so many of these feelings with someone, someone who can talk me through it, to be my soundboard, to be my advisor, to hold my hand, the only one I can actually speak to about this.

But this desperation, this loneliness doesn’t matter as much as Christmas Eve Mass, which was magnificent on so many levels, not the least of which was spiritual. It was the first time I celebrated a Christmas Mass; the Mass of Jesus’ birth; the beginning of his life on Earth. It’s so profound; so big; I almost can’t fit it all in my heart.