I rise early to take Rocky out for a pee and use the
opportunity to plant the daisies that I brought from home. Victoria’s mom has
sensibly left out fruit, bagels, and several flavors of cream cheese for the
breakfast crowd so she can tend to the all-important preparation of the young
communicant. (Not that we need much to eat after last night’s home-made feast
of arrachera [flank steak], tortillas, guacamole, pico de gallo, beans, rice,
and confetti salad!) And here comes the young lady now, descending the stairs
to greet an admiring audience of family members.
Dressed as a bride of Christ, Victoria wears a glowing white
full-length dress, white tights and white patent leather mary janes—with the
finishing touch of a tiara and veil, she’s a vision of piety and innocence. Her
auntie Veronica prepared her hair this morning using a curling iron, in
ringlets like Shirley Temple, with cousin Ava in attendance, wearing her own
sparkly, graceful outfit of white and blue crinkle cloth. Grandma Olivia and
Grandpa Luis have made the trip down from East Chicago. It’s a rare treat for
Dave and me to visit with those dear homebodies who gave birth to our son Jesse’s
Latina bride Maria Elena.
A shower of congratulatory cards and gifts ensues, then
family piles into vans and caravans to St. Thomas Aquinas, dropping off
Victoria and her excited mom at the back door of the church before parking in
the capacious garage next door.
For Jesse, this is his first time entering the Catholic church
his wife and children have been attending for two years. In his suit, he looks
like a million damn dollars, as David Letterman would say. As we stroll toward
St. Tom’s, I notice his once fiery red hair has become more subdued and faded
to white at the temples, but I still see the little boy who mowed the
neighbors’ lawns with a reel mower that towered over him and who liked to read Black
Stallion books.
Our entourage enters the church and finds our assigned six
seats—for the communicant, her parents, brother Jimmy and cousin Ava (counting
as one), and grandmothers Olivia and Wendy. Grandfathers Luis and David take a
seat off to the side with Aunt Veronica and Uncle Al, where Uncle Al kindly
interprets and comments on aspects of the service for the benefit of David, who,
like me, is unschooled in the intricacies of Catholic ritual.
The service commences with music—a children’s bell choir and
a piano accompanied by acoustic guitar, flute, and base guitar—and soon there
comes a procession the thirty solemn communicants, adorable boys in shirts and
ties and girls in white gowns and headpieces, enough to choke up a mom or two,
in particular the one in the pew next to me. Our Victoria joins us at the end
of the row marked with a handmade banner bearing her name. I wonder how many
times this ritual of first holy communion has been carried out among all those
assembled, this rite of bonding the children to the church and its community,
this culmination of a year of study which fits them to become bona fide partakers
in the holiest ritual of the church.
Then begins the singing of hymns, the reading of assorted
passages of the gospel, the sprinkling of holy water over the worshippers, several
prayers, a mini-sermon geared to the young honorees of the day, and the reciting
of a creed that sounds familiar from my own Protestant upbringing, but with
expanded wording and the addition of the Virgin Mary.
Finally, it’s time for the main event, the approach of the
communicants and their families to the front of the church to receive the body
and blood of Jesus Christ. Accompanied by the congregation’s hymn singing, we in
our pew await our turn. When it comes, we take our places before the waiting
priest and Eucharistic assistant, those of us not taking the wafer and wine having
been instructed to cross our hands across our chests to signal our
nonparticipation. Victoria takes the wafer from Father Patrick and crosses
herself, then takes a sip from the chalice of wine, which the assistant wipes
with a cleansing napkin between supplicants. Unfamiliar to me, the ritual is
all a blur, but then it’s over and we’re back in our pew to join the singing
while everyone else takes their turn.
The wait is not inconsiderable. Next to me, my grandson
Jimmy exercises extreme self-control to get himself through not just the rest
of the communion taking but also a speech by the Mayor of Lafayette exhorting
us to become engaged in the community by volunteering to assist persons in
need. I’m proud of Jimmy for coping, and my mind drifts to the study and
preparation he will undertake for his own first communion two years hence.
Afterward, it’s an extended photo shoot back at Jesse and
Maria’s house, featuring various combinations and permutations of Victoria with
grandparents, parents, brother, cousin, uncle and aunt. The sun is so bright,
everybody puts their heads down and on the count of three raises their head,
opens their eyes, and smiles for the camera. “Graceful hands” I keep
stage-whispering to Victoria, who’s fidgeting in her lap with her fingers,
newly manicured French style with white half moons to match her outfit.
History
will record that we took at least thirty photos to memorialize the occasion before
heading out for the grand finale, lunch at The Trails restaurant, where
everyone piles their plate with whatever they want from the several sumptuous
buffets before dispersing to their respective dwellings in East Chicago, West
Lafayette, and Indianapolis.
What a glorious day—a spiritual experience for me, not in
the religious sense, but in the sense of appreciating Victoria’s journey
through a rite of passage that is important for her mother’s family, of seeing
my husband and son honoring Victoria with their presence despite their impatience
with organized religion, and feeling the love and pride shared within our
family and within the other families present—a richly rewarding day for me, a
proud day for Grandma.
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