Triduumazing! Part I: Holy Thurdsay, Batman!

There are many words in this English language- Words I love to use, say, and write with, but of course, there are some loopholes: Words I can never spell, remember the meaning of, and on some levels, not even pronounce. Among those words I can't pronounce correctly to save my life are synonym (I always end up saying cinnamon), inanimate (Something like Inehmenet), and then, triduum. I usually don't trip over the syllables, but every time I have to say it, I have to say it SLOWLY.
If you're about to name one of the most important times of the year, I say to at least make it something little kids can pronounce. I mean, at least make it something I can pronounce. I know its Latin roots and how important and meaningful the name is, especially in the "tri" for three days and the "duum" because... Well, I think it's just because it's cool to have two u's right next to each other in the same word.
So either for the fact that Triduum is a cool word that I can't pronounce, or that it is, in fact, one of the most important times of the year, so you can expect a three-part series of posts, one for each day of the Easter Triduum.
So my Holy Thursday story starts during mass yesterday, when the washing of the feet commenced. There were two priests, who got six "apostles" each, and went around through the aisles, washing the feet of the parishioners, and somehow my family ended up making up 25 percent of the twelve. Now, I'm an only child, but I do have a big family (I have enough cousins to make up for my lack of siblings) Plus an aunt, uncle, both grandparents, and of course, my parents, totaling the family count to 11.
All of the feet-washees' positions were evenly spread throughout the church, sitting about three rows apart on alternating sides, so they wouldn't all be clumped together and out of sight of the people sitting far away. And that kind of scattered the family throughout the church, but it ended out that my youngest cousin, Mary (4 years old) was put with my Nana to watch her get her feet washed. And I suppose that's about where the story really begins.
Once Father Ted reached her, he knelt down to wash her feet like he had done with anyone else, while Mary looked on, dumbfounded. Her face was classic, eyes wide open, mouth slightly agape, and so many thoughts flashing through her eyes as well as the words that might as she might as well have said: for the first part: What the heck is he doing to her feet? Another thought: Why the heck is she letting him? And last but not least: THIS NEVER HAPPENS IN CHURCH!
From that point, the mass concluded and we continued to tour churches around the city and pray in the presence of the exposed Body of Christ with my parents and grandparents.
But getting back to Mary's astonishment at the washing of Nana's feet, I must say that we can very much take an example from the awe-stricken four-year-old. Wonder and Awe is a great gift of the holy spirit that makes itself present at confirmation, but it's an amazing thing to see manifested in a little girl who hasn't even been confirmed. It was obvious Mary was confused. Wondering what Father Ted was doing to Nana, but I also want to hope that she knew it had something to do with Jesus (we were at church) and wanted to know the connection between this bizarre act and Jesus, and that's the curiosity I wished a lot more people had. How does Jesus make himself known in this? We see humbling acts. A child walking a boy they he barely even knows to the nurse's office after he fell on the playground at school. A woman holding the hand of her elderly grandmother as she walks her down the halls of the nursing home. Even a priest leaning down to wash the feet of the people he leads at church. People see these acts of humbling kindness and probably think well of the helper to themselves, and feel sorry for the person being helped, but I'm willing to bet that a lot of them go on without making the connection between Jesus and those good acts. They go without the childlike curiously of it. If we go about prayer and looking at life the way a little girl like Mary would, there'd be more purity out there, and we'd all be closer to God. Jesus told his apostles to let the children come to him, and that they were the purest of the crowd. So maybe we could learn something from Mary and other little kids like her. To look at life with simplicity and purity. To have a pure soul and unrestrained curiosity of what connections Jesus has between his world and ours.

Pretty Sucky State Appraisals and Why I Now Hate Sulfur

Teenagerdom. The word automatically associates itself with angst, hormones, puberty, and when all that is over, more angst. This post isn't as much about the "altar girl" side of me, but the "teenage" side, the side that seems to only ever be bothered by two things: school and other teenagers. Those are obviously giant groupings, neither of which encase tomatoes or my dog, two more things that irk me to a very great extent, but if I come home in a bad mood one day, you'd have a pretty safe bet that it's one of those things. This week, being bed-ridden with a very unpleasant stomach virus, I was just lucky enough to miss the PSSA's, the Pennsylvania standardized tests. That acronym has been pounded into the heads of us poor PA schoolchildren since our conception, and I'm willing to bet that only half of us know what PSSA stands for. I count myself in the less knowledgeable half, having somewhat of an idea, but none as to which "S" goes first, "standardized" or "system". What I think it SHOULD stand for is the title of this post.
Anyway, being absent for these vitally important assessments certainly will not get you out of them, I learned that the hard way. I walked into school today with the slightest flicker of a hope called "exemption", only to find out that the "testing window" ends in two weeks, and I don't know what I want to do more: lay sick in bed for two more weeks or just take the stupid things. Looks like just taking the stupid things won out, more for the fact that my mom would start to get suspicious after day 10 than actual will. So I finally surrendered today and skipped my first two and a half periods to make up the first half of these dang tests.
Now, since I didn't miss much class time because all of it was sacrificed for the sacred tests, I probably suffered the greatest fallback today while making up the tests, which means I spent 3rd period sitting alone in the hall catching up on reading the Diary of Anne Frank for English. And of course, when I moved onto science the next period, I found that we were burning sulfur as a lab experiment, and for all the non-chemists of the world who don't have any idea of the significance, it stunk. Not just in the way the PSSA's do, but it literally stunk. Like, take the smell of a dozen rotten eggs, multiply it by 10, and you get what my science classroom smelled like today.
The smell was overpowering. One of my classmates joked that he was going to be sick, and of course, returning to school after a two-day, stomach-flu-induced vacation, so was I- literally. I toughed it out for, say, the first half of class and performed the majority of the experiment I missed with my lab partner, Beth, but the smell just became to much for me at some point and I quietly asked my science teacher to be excused and then briskly exited the stinky science room, never realizing how sweet the usually stuffy hallway air could smell. But I still felt sicker than I had in days, and after a drink from the water fountain to try and delay the inevitable, I finally lost the fight with my gag reflex, losing the bread and butter I had for breakfast and the water that never really hit my stomach. So much for making everything up. I got a grand total a period and a half in. So I told my science teacher, who kindly exempted me from the lab (at least I got exempted from something...) and sent me down to the nurse, where, apparently, my stomach still hadn't forgiven me for the sulfur incident. After two instances of blowing chunks, the nurse called my mom to come pick me up. Ten minutes later, I found myself on our family room couch, snuggled in my comforter, watching reruns of Bones for a third time. At some point, I got restless and had to get up and do stuff- let's just say that, for once, I was glad to do my chores. I can actually see the floor in my room, and I count on it staying that way for a whole entire 3 hours. Maybe 4, since I'm going to bed soon.
So no screw-ups at mass or calamities in an alb? I'm sure something along the lines of "what the heck are you talking about here?!" is going through your mind at this point, and I think I'm finally getting to that. There will be times in life where you have to do things you don't want to do. And there probably will not be times when sulfur makes you barf. But luckily for me, I had both, and I'm not being sarcastic. I'm not even being sarcastic when I say I'm not being sarcastic. With PSSA's to make up, stinky sulfur to deal with, and the inability to keep down your bread and butter to wrestle, when the heck did I have time for God? I was too busy fast-forwarding through the recorded Bones episodes on my DVR and fretting about the Pretty Sucky State Appraisals. God? I'm very ashamed to admit that he was one of the last things on my mind in these past three days.
Meanwhile, there's everyone from the little kid, wailing in pain while battling cancer at Children's Hospital to the man that's working his butt off to prove to his boss that he doesn't deserve to get laid off, for the sake of his wife and kids. And you always hear stories about those people- the ones that would give anything for the stomach flu and PSSA's in turn for what they have now- sticking to loving God and trusting that he will bring them through the pain and pressure that they are enduring. Why? Because God is the one that brings you through all of that. Prayer, petition, meditation, trust, and love are the stuff of magic. There are survivors in this world who have stood through harder things unwavering, the ones who have stuck with trusting God to bring them through their suffering. It's hard to endure some things that the world is plagued with, and with that, it's easy to turn your back and blame God for all of it instead of leaning on him. But it's the right thing to do. And in the end, you will emerge stronger, better, and closer with him if you do. So looking back, a little more prayer and a little less complaining and fast-forwarding would have done me good- although I still hate sulfur.

Varsity Catholics at Morning Mass

Morning mass is a beautiful thing- cleansing your soul and getting yourself ready for the day can be a great way to start off a non-Sunday. I would do it every day if I could, but we have to be at school before 8:00 a.m. and that just happens to be when mass starts. I'd do it and be late all the time, but I'm pretty sure I only have a certain number of excused tardies to my name and my math teacher would never forgive me if I always missed first period. And when Saturday rolls around, I'm too tired from the week to wake up at 7:30 to get ready. Vicious cycle? Yeah, I guess you can say that. All I know is that I'm glad God decided to put mass on Sunday because I'm a little more rested from Saturday when it comes time to get up.
Today, I agreed with my dad (who goes to mass every day) that we would go together if I was up in time. He said he wouldn't wake me, but he'd be glad to take me if Monday through Friday didn't come crashing down on me Saturday morning. But of course, it did, and I only missed it by a few minutes. I woke up and the clock read 7:55... So I'm stuck in my room, blogging at 8:30 on a Saturday morning, having missed mass by five minutes.
Now, you're probably asking if I logged on this morning to complain about the fact that I didn't get up as early as I wanted to, I'm not. The thing is: I made the bill last week. Last Saturday, my good ol' alarm clock read 7:20 when I woke up- just enough time to drag myself out of bed and possibly remember to change out of my pajamas to meet my dad downstairs.
Skipping forward to arriving at church, I realized the lack of servers after we walked in and of course, found myself suiting up with an alb from the server-christened, "tall person closet" and a purple rope, then making my way to the Eucharistic chapel to wait for Father Ted, a routine I had gotten myself used to over the past few summers but had since begun to slip my mind. So that left me, clueless on the pew, praying to the holy spirit for the second day in a row (this story takes place the day after my last post) that I wouldn't have to do anything having to do with pants or come down with a sudden case of hiccups. That and actually look like I remember what to do. I'll save you the suspense right here and tell you that nothing went wrong thanks to the help of our friendly neighborhood sacristan and Father Ted. I had a few little mistakes here and there, but for not doing this for seven months, well, I could have done worse.
Now you're wondering where I'm going with this- and I'm getting there. Speaking of some mistakes I made, the biggest was probably getting stranded on the altar: more of an unfortunate instance than a mistake, but a learning experience nonetheless.
So here goes: After they receive communion, one server goes up to the altar and puts the sacramentary and the little plastic stand for it back on the table beside the priest's chair, and since there was only one server, I won the honor by default. I followed the regular protocol, this is a step done in both Sunday and weekday mass, stepping up onto the altar after receiving the precious blood and placing the sacramentary back where it belongs. But the trouble started afterward: I had to get off the altar to go back to my pew and pray, but I couldn't- the line for the precious blood on the side of the altar closest to our pew was completely full. And that was a problem. On a regular Sunday, the line is patchy and there's always a space between the Eucharistic minister giving out the precious body and the end of the precious blood's line that we servers always cut through. But that time, the line extended almost into the precious body's line, leaving no little hole for me to squeeze through. And that brings us back to "being stranded on the altar". Of course, I could think of worse places to be stranded, but if I stayed there any longer, I'd call attention to myself or have to be rude and push through the poor, unsuspecting, prayerful precious blood recipients. So my last option was to balance on the tiny area between the priest's chair and the floor, about a eight-inch stretch of land that, if I sucked in my breath and tiptoed off of, would lead me to the promised land. So considering that, I accomplished what I set out to do, squeezing behind the Eucharistic minister and finally making it back to my pew to pray.
So the story's out. What now? The thing is, I really noticed how intent the blood recipients were on all its glory- heads bowed, hands folded, and eyes fixated on the ground in total humility. It was an inspiring sight, seeing these people so reverently focused on God's true presence that they didn't notice the very tall altar girl standing over them, frazzled as to how she planned to make her escape. I mean this in no disrespect to them, more so awe at the fact that they were so fixated on God. It was a good thing. And then another question presented itself: Why doesn't this ever happen on Sunday? I've served too many times to count during Sunday mass, and I've never been stuck on the altar, so why today? And I knew it: The people at daily mass were, as our parish music director calls them, Varsity Catholics. On busier Sundays when the line is longer, people's heads are up and they'll let us through, and I'm willing to bet that a few of their minds are wandering and thinking "okay, mass is almost over". These are the guys who leave right after communion, but I'll get into that on another day. My point is, we're called to keep Sunday holy, but a lot of people do it because they have to. You know it's the real deal is when you want to- morning mass is by no means obligatory, but there's those 50 or so faithful parishoners that show their faces every day and capitalize on their time there by bowing their heads in reverence and prayer.

Bad Hiccups, Baggy Jeans, and The True Duty of the Cross Bearer

Oh, lent. A time for fasting, sacrifice, prayer, and preparing your soul to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus on Easter Sunday, something that's coming a little late this year. So that leaves lent only to have started last Wednesday, and consequently, my family's first stations of the cross outing last Friday.
It's a tradition for us to tour the area, scanning for new and exciting fish fries and stations services, and of course, pay visits to our favorites from last year. That being said, we always start the road at our home parish's fish fry and stations, this time not only because of tradition, but because I got drafted to serve at the last minute.
This brought back echoes of last year, when I had to serve stations (carry the processional crucifix for 40 minutes) with a healing wrist injury. Of course, this definitely wasn't the most comfortable experience in my life, but I was able to push through and draw a blog post out of it to put on my mom's blog: http://catholicbakery.blogspot.com/. Although I was perfectly healthy, this year's station service brought a whole new front of challenges, the foremost being a severe case of hiccups. I tried to hold my breath, close my mouth, push the hiccups back, even my dad was in on the action, sneaking up behind me every six seconds and saying "boo", but nothing seemed to help. So there I was, clothed in white, sitting in the back room, waiting for Deacon Dan to show up and hiccuping all the while. I dreaded the moment I had to step out and carry that processional cross during a sad, solemn service recalling the passion of Christ, and having a hiccup escape every five seconds. Way to ruin the moment. So I did the last thing I knew to do: I prayed. I BEGGED. Just for that small window of time, God, get rid of my hiccups, so that I may better serve the stations.
And guess what?
It worked.
After about five minutes after my prayer, I realized that I hadn't hiccuped. Not once. And not a moment too soon, because right then, Deacon Dan swept into the room and led me out to the top of the aisle, cross in hand, where I was flanked by John the Usher and my Aunt Diane, who he had drafted to be the acolytes in the absence of more servers. When the music started and I led the small procession down the aisle, I felt confident, at peace, like nothing could go wrong due to my cured hiccups. So in that rendition of "what could possibly go wrong?" something just HAD TO. The first, say, five stations, I was fine, other than the weight of the crucifix held high over my head that started to pull on my arms. But as soon as Veronica wiped the face of Jesus, I felt my pants starting to fall down.
You have to know that I am not one for skinny jeans, or anything tight for that matter. So I like my pants a little looser, and the particular pair were too big on top of it.
So what was I to do? I could make do with holding the cross with one hand while I wiped a sweaty palm on my alb, but hiking up my pants in front of a congregation of at least five dozen? No way. First, there was the total impropriety of the situation, then there was the impropriety of pulling your pants up in public, THEN there was the impropriety of not holding the cross still in the first place! But what was even more improper was having your pants fall down in the middle of stations of the cross. I really didn't think prayer was going to help in this instance, what would God do about this? Send an angel from heaven to come pull up my pants?? But I sent up a little plea anyway, in hopes that they would at least stop at my knees if they did fall down.
But through my pantish plight, I tried my hardest to focus on why I was really here: to relive the passion of Christ and to reflect in prayer on what it really meant. What I was doing here really meant. I was the cross bearer. The priest didn't lead the procession in and out of the church, I did. The ushers didn't lead the bread and wine down the aisle for offertory, I did. So how in the world would one kid be placed in front of the man through whose hands comes the miracle of transubstantiation? Because it wasn't me, it was the cross.
When Jesus walked on the way to Calvary, he was looked on in shame by all of the bystanders and soldiers. They laughed, they spat, the coated him in dishonor as he walked those miles only to be brutally killed. But when he rose, people believed. The cross was no longer a symbol of death, but of life, and that's what it is today. It's a symbol of Christ's glorious resurrection and the ultimate price he paid for us to open the gates of heaven and give us eternal life. And it's not me, or any cross bearer, that's leading everyone down the aisle, it's the cross itself. So that makes us cross bearers the lucky ones that get to carry the symbol that has come to stand for our redemption.

WELCOME!

A big hello to all of the church-goers of the world!
Are you here looking for fulfillment? Insight? TRUE ENLIGHTENMENT??
If you are, then you came to the wrong place.
I'm not here to give deep manifestos on the history of church teaching and the meaning of God's word, rather, the little lessons that I somehow come to know from my crazy experiences on the altar. I've been through lots of mess-ups, many mistakes, and too many calamities to count, most of which were my fault, but somehow, God finds a way to help me learn from my mistakes... and probably not do them too many times more.