Letting Go Of Bitterness To Reconnect With Loved Ones

Setting foot inside a church again

I attended my uncle’s funeral mass a few days ago in the Catholic church of my childhood. I hadn’t seen the inside of it since my father’s funeral. At that time, I’d had a falling out with my parish church, felt disillusioned, yanked my kids out of the Catholic schools and never attended mass again. Frankly, I felt that the people in charge had significantly screwed things up, making it more about money rather than redeeming souls, but that might be a story for a different time.

The morning of the funeral, I was cleaning out a closet and came across some of my mother’s things that I’d stashed away to deal with later. She, too, had left the church for her own reasons, but clung to her faith. And there, nestled among some of her trinkets, was her rosary.

Suck it up, she was saying. Go be with your family.

Still pissed off, I never wanted to set foot in that church again, but I loved my aunt and uncle so I did, in fact, suck it up. In truth, I dreaded the hour spent standing, sitting, and kneeling, and didn’t want to hear how my plethora of sins would be forgiven, just because some man said so.

Upon entering the reception area, instead of the usual depressing dirge of organ music, I heard a pianist playing lovely, classical music. It sounded happy and playful, similar to something by J.S. Bach, but was nothing I’d ever heard before. My uncle had been an accomplished pianist, so I wasn’t surprised to learn later that it was one of his own compositions.

Cheered a bit, I saw light streaming through the high stained-glass windows to the floor of the altar. If you looked closely, you could see particles of dust dancing there, like little angels playing with the light. I remember watching that light as a kid, bored and itchy sitting in the church pew, and I smiled at the memory.

A few large, but muted floral arrangements sat before the alter. Pale blues, pinks and yellows sat on either side of my uncle’s picture. It had been taken years ago, the way I’ll always remember him.

Most of my 24 cousins sat in the church pews (Catholic, remember?), so I took my place among them. I hadn’t seen some of them in years and looked forward to the reception after the funeral so we could catch up.

The priest wore white robes, a symbol of hope and redemption. It amazed me to realize how many of the rituals I remembered, and sitting there with my family, I felt like a little kid again.

My aunt looked radiant in a cranberry-red sweater and black slacks. No sorrow there. I could tell that she loved having us all together again in one place, happy to send my uncle off to heaven.

Everything about the occasion was upbeat and cheerful. Speakers told stories about my uncle’s penchant for chocolate chips, trying to fix broken sprinklers while making the problem worse, and the music that he played almost until the time of his death. I’ll remember his music the most, since he played Mozart, Bach, Handel, and Debussy, brilliantly every time I visited on the weekends. I always wished I could play as well as he did.

When it came time for communion, the pianist played another of my uncle’s compositions, and the priest invited everyone up for a personal blessing. He invited those of us who’d lapsed and those from other faiths. I heard no judgement in his voice, no “us vs. them,” as I had during the time after my father’s death. No messages about true faith, money or sin. Just love.

At the reception after the mass, my cousins and I remarked on how much we remembered of our Catholic upbringing. Almost none of us attend church anymore, but that day we all talked only about the good things.

We laughed about the crazy nuns and the itchy uniforms, but also about the spectacular Christmas masses, the feelings of comfort and home, and the message of faith, hope, and love. The mysticism of the church will always be there lurking in our memories.

In spite of my feelings about Catholicism and organized religion in general, I can still recognize the peace and comfort offered by some of its teachings.

And, I can hear my mother saying, “You don’t need a church to have faith.”