DRAFT: This module has unpublished changes.

Dressing Up for Church

 

Paul sat in his pew after Communion, because the cushions on the floor hurt his knees too much.  As a twelve-year old seventh grader at St. Tarcissus’s, he had just staggered up the aisle with his fellow Vikings to receive communion.  Receiving communion was a requirement as a Catholic student at the school.  When he first received communion at seven years old he was so nervous he became confused as to whether he should put his left hand under his right or his right hand under his left to receive the small wafer. 

 

The aesthetic value of the church always amazed Paul.  It wasn’t that big but it was beautiful in its sacredness. The baptismal fountain was paved with stones: teal, grey and chestnut.  When he and his classmates would pass it on hot near-summer days sometimes he would dream of jumping in it and sticking his head under the running water that flowed like the wine Jesus made from water (he had learned this from Religion class).  Paul hated going to church during school because he felt oppressed, like he was just another child forced into listening to Father Steve or Father Dan talk from the cheap podium that stood off centered at the front of the church. As if the priests were talking to people who only memorized the Lord’s Prayer and felt nothing behind it.  When Paul went to church with his Mother and sister he felt like a real person; a person who’s favorite song to sing was “On Eagle’s Wings,” that he sang while gazing out of the cloud adorned windows.

 

There was a sense of seriousness that went along with going to church, whether if he was at school or with his family.  St. Tar’s was a Catholic preparatory school. It was the type of school that generations of families attended with a sense of pride.  The classrooms had banners and decorations paid for by teachers because of low funding.  During Advent over the loudspeaker the principal led prayer as Advent candles on wreaths were lit.  The tradition of all of these things made Paul feel content, at home.  But once the bars were pushed to enter the musky-smelling lobby of the church, a sense of old ways and importance enraptured him. 

 

The height of the ceiling was so high it could have been heaven itself, with its wooden beams cascading angle to angle, in five different directions; from the baptismal fountain, to the Stations of the Cross, to the front of the church where priests stood tall talking into microphones, to the organ, to the exit.  Paul was baptized at St. Tar’s on March 23, 2000.  His godparents were his Aunt Maureen and his Uncle Henry.  Paul had read one day in his Religion class that some people were baptized in whole bodies of water.  After reading this, he tilted his head carefully, raised his hand, and asked a-matter-of-factly of his teacher why babies get baptized when they can’t choose for themselves if they want to be.  The teacher didn’t give a satisfying answer.

 

When Paul woke up at 7:30 on Sunday mornings, his Mother laid out his church clothes on his bed: khakis, an ironed, starched shirt, a bow tie.  His eight year old sister Laura beamed and twirled unabashedly in her pleated dress and mary jane’s whenever Sister Gertrude or Father Steve would say hello after church. In the winter their Mother would put navy pea-coats on both of them, and after church they would whirl about in the parking lot as snowflakes would stick to their coats like feathers.

 

Going to church during school was something he dreaded.  The whole routine over the years became too much for him to handle.  Single file line.  Fill up the pews.  Listen to sermons.  Sing. Receive Communion.  Pray.  When he attended church with his family he could dress differently, but now, that day and every school day at church, everyone was in plaid, grey and blue. With his family at church he felt a sense of unity, but only with other students, he felt it more of a required thing. Conformation and repetitiveness tumbled in like storm clouds as he sat in the pew. As it became apparent that he was the only student sitting in the pew and not kneeling, he kneeled down and folded his hands as to look in prayer. 

 

The fire alarm went off just as the eighth grade secretary and treasurer of the student council’s cigarette butts found their ways down a toilet of the boys’ bathroom.  A screeching noise began to fill panicked teachers’ and frightened students’ ears.  Father Dave dropped the Communion wafers on the carpet and stood with all of the other teachers and clergy stoically, as there had never been a fire alarm in church before.  Chaos consumed the building.  Single file, Single file, teachers repeated frantically, grabbing students by the arm, holding open the heavy barred doors.  The pandemonium didn’t affect Paul like it did the other students.  He stood up next to his pew, dazed, his eyes glazed over.  The blinking strobe lights and shrieking sound passed over him like waves of water.  Come on Paul, said a curly redheaded girl, There’s a fire!  Student after student, some climbing impatiently over pews, pushing, shoving, and achieving the exact opposite of conformation, of repetitiveness, made it to the courtyard outside of the church.  Paul was the last one to safety.

 

That Sunday at church, Paul wore his church clothes proudly and sang as loud as he could, and afterwards played tag with Laura in the courtyard.

DRAFT: This module has unpublished changes.