I was in 9th grade. It was 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning and my mom was yelling up the stairs for me to get ready. I stood in the bathroom attempting to detangle the nest of hair on my head and was not even dressed yet. "Mary Agnes we are going to be late," she hollered up the stairs. (If you didn't already know, my middle name is Agnes. Mary Agnes. Trust me, I'm no saint - I've been carrying that name around with me like a heavy cross my whole life.) We were not going to be late. It was only 7:03 a.m. now and we didn't have to technically leave for another ten minutes but that didn't matter to my mom. If you weren't five minutes early to church, you were late.
We arrived to church and I walked in the back door to put on my robe. I tied the white rope around my robe and then set up the wine and water and followed the priest to the back of the church. In case you were wondering, I was an altar server. A ninth grade altar server named Mary Agnes. It's good I am not telling you this story in person because my halo would clearly blind you.
I wasn't an altar server because I really wanted to be, it was more so that my mother wanted me to be one. As the baby, and a total mommy's girl, I abided. I served on that altar from the second grade to the ninth grade all for the sake of making her proud. Nothing in the entire world will ever feel as good as hearing her say those words out loud or see them written in a birthday card…"I'm so proud of my baby girl."
Church was never that exciting to me. It was more of a mandatory Sunday activity. Everyone would wake up and slowly put themselves together as my father sat downstairs drinking his coffee in his pajamas till the last possible minute before my mother would explode. "You need to get in the shower and get ready Jim! What's going on upstairs? Are you kids ready? WE ARE GOING TO BE LATE!" Finally she would end up sitting in the car with the engine on waiting for us. The first minute or two of the car ride would usually be silent because she was mad at us for taking so long. Then she would start talking. She loved to talk so she couldn't usually keep her silent treatment going for too long. We would go to church almost every Sunday before we all went off to college. I can't speak for my siblings, but when I got to college Sunday mornings felt like freedom. No church! I could sleep all day. (My college years were not my most productive.) I felt like I never had to go to church again. Then I got home that summer and had to go again every Sunday.
I remember Christmas dinner three years ago. My mother had been re-diagnosed with cancer at that point. My family sat around the table and my father, who usually says the blessing before Christmas dinner, told my mother she should say something first. For a moment, she didn't say anything. This was a woman who was rarely caught off guard and never (ever) speechless but she sat quietly for a second before she said anything. Then she gave a blessing and said that she wouldn't still be here today if it weren't for the strength of her family and for the strength of her faith. She said a lot of other beautiful things too, I remember I was crying and thinking how happy I was that I had thought to press record on my camera before I sat down. I had decided I would record some of the dinner conversation before I knew my father was going to make her say the blessing. I also remember going upstairs after and pressing play and realizing there was no sound. Somehow I had forgotten to press the audio button on my old camera when I pressed record. Did I ever tell you about my dad's whiskey sours? He made a few batches before Christmas dinner that year. They're really good, and really strong.
Two days before my mother was brought to the hospital last year I called to check in with her (for the tenth time that day). It was while I sat with a friend during intermission at Book of Mormon. We talked briefly before I had to go back to my seat and she mentioned the priest was coming to see her tomorrow and pray with her. When I hung up the phone I panicked. The priest was coming? That meant things were really bad. I remember afterwards that my mother didn't say too much about what happened in the room with the priest but she did tell my father it was so nice to speak with him. She said he had mentioned it was even harder for him to give her those final blessings because she wasn't just a member of his parish, she was his friend. The words he said at my mother's funeral were some of the most beautiful words I had ever heard someone say about her. He really knew her. He knew how strong she was, how selfless she was, and most importantly, the strength of her faith. He told the church that when he spoke to her that day about death she said she was not scared. She knew she would be alright. She was just worried about her family. When he told us this I remember losing it. I remember my father putting his arm around me. I remember feeling like I was never really going to be ok again.
I never went to church unless it was something I felt I should be doing, or had to be doing. I attended weddings, funerals, and most Sunday masses with my mom all because I had to or because I wanted to make mom happy. When I woke up on Sunday mornings in NYC the last few years I either put the pillow over my head, sat on the couch hung over with my roommates watching reruns of Friends, or drank my weight in mimosas at brunch. Church was never, ever on the radar.
Then I woke up last Sunday. It was 8:30 a.m. I googled Catholic churches on St. John and found one. They had a mass at 9:30 a.m. I got up, got dressed, and headed out. It was the best mass I've ever attended. The priest was hilarious. The people were beyond welcoming. They clapped. They danced. They laughed, a lot. It was like a faith rager in there. During the homily the priest spoke of his experience at the "8 Tuff," a race held in St. John where people begin on the west end of the island and run up and down the hills of St. John ending in Coral Bay. I knew some friends who were doing the race and was shocked at their abilities. I could barely walk down our hilly driveway here let alone run eight miles of hills. I couldn't believe the priest had done it too. He said at one point he was in the middle of one of the worst hills on the island and bent over holding his knees for a few minutes. Then he looked up at the sky and said "God, send help!" Everyone in the church was laughing. He told us more stories of the race before centering to his point: endurance. It's not about how good you look in the beginning of the race, it's about who finishes the race. It's about your endurance. It made me think of one of the readings from my mother's funeral. "I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith."
That's all life is here. A race. We are all just running (or if you're me, walking) along our course. Faith is what keeps you together, what keeps you sane. It's what my mother was trying to show me all along. I looked at church as an inconvenience. I had to wake up early, I had to sit in a stuffy room for an hour. I had to dress like a mini priest for years of my life. I never realized it was more about the messages they were giving because I was usually sleeping on my mother or father's shoulder. I had yet to master the perfect posture my brother did. He could sit up straight and be facing the alter and you wouldn't even realize he had been sleeping the whole time. Last Sunday I sat straight up listening to every word the priest spoke. I held hands with the old man next to me as we prayed and sang (completely out of key) the hymns. I smiled. For the first time in a really long time, I genuinely smiled. I felt safe there. I felt like Mom might have been right there sitting with me. I was so comforted by the messages and the words of encouragement being spoken. When I left the church I waited in line to shake the priest's hand and when I did I leaned over and whispered to him, "That was the best mass I've ever attended." I smiled and walked away. Then I started to cry.
This Saturday, March 1 will mark one year since my mother passed away. An entire year. I can still smell her lasagna and hear her singing James Taylor as she makes dinner. I can still see her smiling at me when I dance around the kitchen for her. I can still feel her hand in mine as we sat in the hospital at Memorial Sloan one year ago today.
This year hasn't been easy. It's been full of change and lots and lots of tears. I cried through every change. I cry every time something amazing happens because I can't call her to tell her. I cry every time I see my friends getting engaged or married thinking about how she won't be there for my own. I cry when I see friends with their mothers and children. She will never get to be a grandmother, I always think, and she would have been the best grandmother. I cried about almost everything that came remotely close to making me think about her this past year. It was the hardest year of my life.
This year won't be different when it comes to the crying. I know this because I'm my grandfather's daughter and that life, happy or sad, will always make me cry. I will still miss her just as much and time will do nothing to change that. But I do know one thing. The load is going to be a little lighter this year. I'm going to get through it. I'm going to endure. I'm going to do everything I can to make her proud, because somewhere out there in the universe a ball of energy is floating around watching me and waiting for me to do so. I'm going to keep going on my course and it's going to be ok. Because last Sunday I learned how she did it all along. I found out how she got through the pain, the constant hospital visits, the letdowns. I finally realized what it was all along she was trying to show me every Sunday while we sat in that stuffy room for an hour. While I held hands and sang along to the music and smiled last Sunday something really amazing happened.
Last Sunday around 9:30 a.m. I found my faith.
Me and mom after my second grade communion:
The gorgeous sunset from the other night:
A lovely little dinner out:
Roommates minus Liz!
My valentine:
First time ever bartending - on the Kekoa boat.
Solomon beach last Saturday:
Paddleboarding at Francis Bay:
