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.
