Mass Exodus

OK, so it's Easter weekend and I am Chica-less, so I am in a less-than participatory mood. I'm not coloring eggs by myself, for with my luck I'd hide them all in a Pinot-induced haze, and then when that last bugger just can't be located, wind up with a horribly stinky aftermath in a few weeks. I went out today to get basket-goodies, and found out that the day before Easter is officially too late to purchase holiday-themed-sugar-nuggets. I was able to find one small bag of jelly beans, really bad foil-covered chocolate eggs, but scored big-time at Kroger with the purchase of king-size Reese's peanut butter eggs, which are hands-down the best candy of all time. Did you know they make edible Easter grass now? I didn't buy it, but it was pink and imported from Germany, just thought you'd like to know.

It's probably all for the best, because I've never been a big Easter person. Conditioned since childhood, I can't get past the notion that Easter is a strictly religious holiday. Therefore, I don't decorate inside or out, and the Bunny only brings small unwrapped gifts and candy. Easter for me was always a veritable marathon of masses--I was the kid who actually had to sit through the entire 3+ hour Good Friday mass, all the while wishing I could be magically transported into my friend April's fabulously Lutheran family, who always had lots of chicks and bunnies and pastel colored ceramic eggs decoratively placed throughout their house and who never had to go to church 4 days in a row.

In case you haven't gleaned from my carefully placed hints, I grew up Catholic. Very, very Catholic. I mean, we didn't have statues and pictures of the Bleeding Heart of Jesus everywhere or our very own confessional, but we went to mass every week and every Holy Day of Obligation, without fail. No excuses. Period. Interestingly, my parents did not send me to Catholic school, but I went to CCD at St. Ann's every week until I made my Confirmation, and only got to stop attending when I went to Catholic high school (hmmm, I guess I really didn't win a battle there after all). I remember when I went to Marquette, my big "Aha, I'm really on my own" moment came not when I appreciated I had no curfew, or that my wicked bad fake ID would work at the Gym on Tuesday nights (OK, maybe a little of those), no it was when I realized I did not have to get up and go to mass on Sunday. Honestly, I haven't really been back since then. Oh, don't get me wrong, I did the whole big proper Catholic wedding thing, joined a parish wherever we were living (Catholics in the D have really great AAA insurance rates), and the two oldest Chicas have dutifully made their First Communion. In terms of a monthly or even bi-annual attendance rate though, it's just not happening. I am officially a lapsed Catholic.

Now I fully admit that most of this is directly caused by my aforementioned lazy-assitude, for it only makes sense that my spiritual house would be as ill-kempt as my real-life one. But somewhere along the line, I became very disillusioned with the Catholic Church, and I haven't been able to get myself back on track. I have a really hard time sitting in church with my adored daughters, looking at the priest working and preaching, and saying "See that guy down there? You can NEVER do that." I won't deign to step further into the politico-religious maelstrom that always accompanies these conversations, we'll just say I have my reasons and leave it at that.

I've tried to look into other churches, I really have, but they just aren't the same. They don't have Mary or the saints, they say their prayers differently, and they sit the entire time--none of the Catholic up and down, sit, kneel, stand. I may dabble, but I always go back to what I know. I remember feeling completely lost and devastated after 9/11--I went into St. Michael's down the street every day for almost a week. I never went to mass, I just sat. I sat and smelled the familiar smell of leftover incense and candle wax, felt the hard uncomfortable wood of the pew dig into my back, even banged my knee on the missal holder. I held my wiggling baby, fed her Cheerios out of a baggie, and cried. It was a long time ago, but I still remember that I ultimately felt comfort, even home. Yeah, it helped.

I hear that many adult Catholics wrestle with these same issues, and that ultimately they find their way back to the Church. I hope I do because I miss it in a way, and I'm pretty sure my soul is in dire need of some savin'. Until then, I'll just snuggle up on the couch tomorrow morning, with my coffee and peanut butter egg, and watch a little bit of Benny 16 before I switch on the Master's. I'm sure it's totally OK , because there's an Angel in the lead, St. Tiger of the Woods et al will be praying, and hey, there's even an Amen corner. Mass or no mass, I have so got this covered.