“What’s THAT about?”  Terri would say whenever she somewhat disapproved of something but was willing to entertain explanation of why it was the way it was.

One of the challenges facing me is finding a Catholic Church to attend.  After so many years at one parish, I dreaded that as much as finding new doctors and dentists.  True, the Mass is the same all over the world, which is a very comforting and wonderful thing about being Catholic.  Depressed in Wyoming?  Mass at St. Mary of the Open Range will take you back to the safe place in your heart.  Bummed out in Anchorage? Mass at St. Mary of the Snow will warm your spirit up.  Freaked out in France? Mass at St. Joan of Arc will calm you down.  Every parish has its own style though, it’s not all that easy to pick one in which you feel at home.

Tonight it is Holy Thursday.  I decided upon the closest parish to my home.  The website makes it sound up -t0 – date and open minded.  Just the ticket.  As I drove to the evening service, I asked Terri to be with me.  Terri and I were in agreement that Holy Thursday was our favorite night of the liturgical year.  During Holy Thursday services, the ritual of washing the feet is practiced, all over the world.  Different parishes do it different ways.  At one parish I attended the pastor washed the feet of 12 volunteers.  At St. Perpetua in Lafayette, we washed each other’s feet – you would wash mine, then I would wash the next person’s.  It is a beautiful ritual, and it was given to us by Jesus himself.  At the Last Supper before he died, he washed the feet of his Apostles.  Peter protested that he was not worthy, but Jesus insisted.  Terri and I loved that this was our lesson from Jesus.  We must kneel down and care for others.  This, for us, is the key point of being a Christian.  Also, too, we must have the humility to accept being cared for by others.  Neither is easy.

Tonight when I walked into the church here in town, I took the handout  with the evening’s prayers and songs and sat down.  The pastor’s message on the front page did not bode well for me.  The theme was “goodbye.”  That Holy Thursday is all about Jesus saying goodbye.  That new beginnings start with goodbye.  The message went on to encourage us to consider our own goodbyes – a dying friend? Leaving a home that no longer is?  Dealing with transitions?  I moved to a seat far from the crowd so I could make a quick exit if it got to be too much.

I was seated near the choir, and got a bit wary.  We have wonderful music at St. Perpetua, our pastor insists upon it, but it is what I would consider appropriate.  As I looked over and saw the drum kit behind the choir I was reminded of a Newman Center at University of Missouri in Columbia where the music during Mass sounded like we were at a football game.  Even my mother agreed to leave and consider our Sunday duty complete.

Al is working long hours, but I looked up to see his wonderful shaved head from across the church.  I took him back to my little corner and sobbed quietly.   Surely I would be safe with him there now.  Soon the Mass began.  The drums were not involved but each chorister had their own music stand and their own mike.  It was decidedly loud.  The lights on in the church are somewhat garish.  To be fair, this is a new community and the great hall is the worship space — church to come in the future.   But I missed St. Perpetua, where the lights are subtle at night and the atmosphere on Holy Thursday is, well, holy.  I just called on Terri and figured she’d be rolling her eyes with me.  Seriously, though, I was ready to move on to another service at another church that began at 8 p.m.

Before I knew it, the Gospel had been read and it was time for washing of the feet.  I always think I am not going to participate, and I always do.  This time I really  didn’t want to. Terri and I frequently washed each other’s feet and one year we even knelt down to wash her daughter’s feet together.  It was one of those moments you know you will never forget for its spiritual power.  The last time I held Terri’s feet in my hands was at the moment she died.  I felt her pulse fade away under my hands.  Her feet are the last thing I will know about her forever.

I went.  As I stood in line to get my feet washed (in this parish, the priest and parish staff and lay ministers washed the people’s feet), the trouble began.  I started to cry.  I couldn’t stop.  I hid it as best I could, wiping my eyes frequently, but by the time I sat down in the chair and slipped off my sandals, I could do nothing but put my head in my hands and weep.

Everyone sits in that chair in a unique state of mind.  Kids feel rather silly.  Some adults do, too.  This is not a day and age when we generally wash each other’s feet.  Some come with joy.  The people before me belong to the parish, they smiled at their friends who were doing the washing.  The washers looked at me for a smile of recognition when I sat down but all they saw was a person in deep grief.  The woman gently rubbed my feet with lemon, poured cool water over my feet.  The man gently towel dried my feet.  I said thank you but could not look at them.  The man held my foot until I looked him and he said “Thank you.”  See, that’s what it’s all about folks.  They were healing me, and in doing so they were healed.  It doesn’t get any closer to what my definition of Christianity is than that.

The Mass continued.  The music situation didn’t get any better – I mean the singers were all perfect – and loudly so.  The pianist never started with anything but a LOUD downbeat chord that made you jump out of your skin.  Now my pastor at St. P’s would probably joke that we cantors could use a strong downbeat, as we frequently miss our entrance. No chance of that tonight.  By the time the Holy Holy Holy rolled around and that jarring two hand chord downbeat hit the air I was holding back a giggle.  Terri probably had plenty of people asking her to be with them tonight.  Maybe she just managed to arrive at my side.  But I swear she was laughing with me and saying “what’s THAT about?” We would have joked about it all the way home.

Finally, the Mass concludes with the Blessed Sacrament, the Body of Christ processing out of the church to an area of repose.  There it will remain until midnight tonight.  Terri and I would sit in that area for a long time after Holy Thursday Mass.  It is reminiscent of Gethsemane, where Jesus prayed the night before he died.  It is a powerful moment of ritual for me and was for Terri.  I missed her body there tonight, but I didn’t miss her spirit, she was right there with me.

I have a little card that I keep – it says: “The Cross is where you leave your burdens and walk in faith.”   This was a difficult and very special Holy Thursday.  Next year will be easier I’m sure.  Until then I walk by faith.