why do i keep going to church expecting different results? there is no meaning for me. i now know i am well and fully insane.
perhaps, under the guise of youthful innocence, meaning is easier to obtain. that's one reason i keep going back: when i was a child, church was a place full of meaning. now it's just a building filled with people, a building filled with agendas and beliefs and assumptions of character.
i go in by myself this morning, sit down and do what i usually do: pray for my family and friends just to have a good week. and then i pray someone will find me. i have little hope of finding someone so i specifically ask for something i know is barely in the realm of possibility. some days i have my daughter with me: on those days she looks forward to the "children's mass": as she is shuttled off with a few other children for god knows what. she's gone for only 10-15 minutes in the middle of the service: enough time for kids to miss the two readings, the gospel, and the priest's homily. but back in time for collection. anyway, that wasn't today. today it was just me.
there is the momentary realization of all the people around me: the coughs behind me, the occasional displeased child, and then i begin to calculate random observances: how many people sharing breaths with me have the flu? how many women in here enjoy sex? how many are happy? how many are here just to make an appearance? most days i count myself i suppose.
the rest of the time is spent encased in ritual or staring at the "good" girls who are there each week (and probably there on the weeks i'm not). the back of their heads mostly, as i customarily occupy a spot near the back. i search out the couples, some of whom have sons and daughters in my child's class, and yearn with every fiber of my being for an iota of that companionship, that stability, that foundation. not in the cards.
the core purpose of the occasion lies in the pew: my personalized offering envelope with a check written to the church. this lifeline of monetary obligation entitles my child to a reduced tuition at the school. the rationalization is that they do good work. the realization is otherwise.
intense, provocative stress envelops me over the same central social focus of the occasion, as always: i despise the sign of peace, the portion of the service wherein everyone shakes hands and says "peace be with you", their half-hearted, droll blessings bouncing, beading and finally pooling around my feet like raindrops against a wall. obsessively i try to warm my hands, remove the nonexistent boogers from my nose, put on a happy face well in advance. smiles all around.
i stand to process down towards communion -- which i probably shouldn't even be receiving, as i'm divorced and not annulled, so i'm living in a state of sin -- and smile at the rarest of acquaintances, towards the eucharistic minister who administers a wafer of bread. all customs observed.
i duck out a little early, and miss the announcements and the second collection. but no worries, i take a church bulletin on my way out: this is my "proof of purchase" in case my mother has doubts about my attendance.
and then i drive home. "yesterday" comes on and i cry a little and sing along, because i long for yesterday as well. but in this case, i don't miss someone else: i miss me.
