On the second Sunday of every month, St. John’s has a CCD Mass. It’s an opportunity for the kids to accept some usually-adult responsibility… and a way for them to find out how much goes on behind the scenes every time the Church doors open.
That Sunday a youth choir from a larger, nearby parish graciously provided our music. Well over a dozen kids, complete with four guitars and lots of teenaged girls (much to the delight of my teenaged sons) filled the first few pews.
I was aware beforehand that the kids would be attending. My hubby is the acting Religious Education Coordinator for our parish, a position he's been promoted to, demoted to, or otherwise volunteered for, and we arrived about 45 minutes early. Father had already unlocked the doors and the kids were warming up, their voices filling our tiny church with teenaged enthusiasm combined with giggles and the sheer exuberance of being young.
I love to go to Mass. My day-to-day reality is so filled with teenaged noise and seemingly nonstop activity that the silence and reverence of a hush-filled sanctuary, of being alone with my Maker… even with others in pews around me… is somehow like temporarily being allowed to get off the Merry-go-round of life.
I’ve come to enjoy the muted noises of a silent church. The clanking of tines as parishioners place a soon-to-be-host in the ciborium, the sound of kneelers creaking and groaning… and sometimes crashing to the ground. The rustling of altar servers and the Sacristan; rosary beads brushing against the back of a pew. These are noises that quiet me.
That morning I found the visiting choir's teenaged banter annoying and found myself a bit resentful. I wondered if they understood that the tabernacle, His Real Presence, was within arm's reach. My heart ached for them to come to a deeper understanding that the Christ they sang about was only a few feet away… and behind their backs.
The kids became silent when the rosary, a Sunday morning tradition at St. John's, began. In my typical, staid, forty-something manner, as we recited the ancient prayer, I asked that the Lord guard, guide and direct them as they grow into adulthood. My intentions that morning were good and I know that God will honor my prayers… but… it seems He had something in mind for me, too.
I was praying particularly to the Holy Spirit and the Blessed Mother that if these kids ever experienced, as I did as a sixteen year old, a wane in their youthful exuberance or if the good feelings their music gave them departed for a time, that He would guide them through what I know is a sobering experience. I prayed that He lead the kids to a deepening faith that He is always there, whether or not one “feels” His presence.
After the recitation of the Holy Rosary ended, I allowed myself to simply be still and embrace God's peace… or did I allow God's peace to embrace me? No matter, I shut up (even my silent prayers can become chatter at times) and opened my heart to participate in the Mass…
…then they began to sing.
And something wonderful happened.
It was as if their song opened a place in MY heart that had been locked up tight since I was sixteen years old. He let me remember the youthful delight that singing well and loud and often gave me. Tears ran down my face as I allowed God to put me back in touch with the elation that I experienced as a Protestant teenager, a part of that community Christian choir in the middle '70's.
I found myself singing with them as I realized that a place I’d forgotten, part of my sixteen year old spirit that I locked away all those years ago, still existed.
I still crave the silence and hushed awe of a darkened sanctuary, it‘s red sacristy candle flickering, announcing Christ's presence in a real way. I still love the “old” songs, the ones I can sing without the book.
But that day He re-acquainted me with another love, one of youthful voices energetically singing well and loud and long.
Yup, God sure had a surprise for me.
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Jackie Zimmerer is a wife and mother of four sons. She attends St. John's Catholic Church in the Diocese of Fort Worth, Texas.