When I was a wee lass, my parents took us to Catholic church services every Sunday. On Christmas Eve, we went to the Midnight Mass, held, conveniently, at midnight. This was and is my favorite mass. In fact, it is the only service I attend at all anymore. Every December 24th, I head over to my family’s church, even if my parents have chosen to attend another mass. Every year, I remember why I don’t attend services except for the one time.
I guess when I was little, Midnight Mass was special because we were allowed to open one present when we got home from church. So, while Sundays were trials with no real payoff (except, I suppose, everlasting life), Christmas Mass meant presents. And really, when I was very young, I could even take a little nap during service and my parents still applauded our effort.
When we all got older, and when we were too dignified to chomp at the present bit, our Christmas tradition changed a little. We still went to Midnight Mass, but after, we would head over to the home of my oldest sister, and have breakfast at 2am. Then she would give us her presents, and we would head home, full of bacon and cheer.
Now, my oldest sister doesn’t live in the same country, let alone the same city, and our traditions have shifted yet again. Now, I go to midnight mass, sometimes alone. During services, I bite my tongue at what I hear the priest suggest. I play a game where I change all the pronouns in the reading from male to female. I scope out the pews to see if anyone I know is still attending. Really, it’s almost disrespectful, my presence, but I do it for three moments. Two are incredibly precise: first, the moment at the beginning of mass where they light the room from the back. The light travels up the aisle as the organ reaches its crescendo and I feel…something. The vibrations in the air? My pupils contract? The spirit of something greater than I can imagine? Maybe it’s just the collective effervescence of so many people in one room, experiencing the subtle and effective metaphor.
The second precise moment is after the Lord’s prayer, when everyone is still holding hands. The priest does a little spiel, and the congregation responds with “For the kingdom, and the power and the glory are Yours, now and forever” as we raise our linked hands slightly higher, at about the level of our hearts. I suppose I never realized how tyrannical that phrase is until I wrote it out just now. It’s almost absurd: I can recite every moment of Mass with frightening clarity; years and years of attendance have made the creeds and the refrains a kind of muscle memory. I only need to be in the proximity of a wooden pew, the smell of incense in the air and it rolls off my tongue like I’m still a believer. Perhaps that too is a kind of grace.
The third thing I go for is less of a moment. I love when people sing together. Lots of people, easy songs. Even if there isn’t a beautiful singer in the bunch, something about all those voices working collectively gets to me. And maybe it was in church that I learned how to lead a call and response at a rally, or get a roomful of people to chant Cunt over and over again.
After mass, I come home to wherever I’m living, and have a quiet evening with my pets. In the morning, I visit my third sister for breakfast and presents. Later, we go to my parents house for dinner, and at around nine, weary from over exposure, I gather my bounty and head home. I get to my quiet apartment, and almost weep with gratitude. There are no children crying. There are no rude brothers in law. There are no awkward uncles, or snooty aunts. There is just me, my cats, my thoughts.
And here’s what I think. I lost something crucial at some point in the last few years. Aside from the obvious, I lost the ability to take my family in whole, to like them unconditionally. I’ve grown more solitary, perhaps more selfish or self involved. I’ve lost the joy in just being together with them. The comfort of my father’s hand on mine at church, the grace of my sisters as the kneel during services. More cynical, more short-tempered; the easy acceptance of a child in exchange for the blithe rejection of adulthood.
Now, when I get home at the end of Christmas day, I find myself nostalgic for a time where we all still liked each other (mostly), a time where I didn’t feel guilty and angry at my parents, disappointed in my siblings, hurt by emotional and physical absences that color all our interactions. And I wonder, sitting here in my lovely quiet apartment, on a real bed and not the couch or air mattress, will I have the opportunity to miss this moment? Or will I simply grow to resent the isolation I crave? I wonder, can I get back to the place we inhabited as children? Can we love each other in those pure generous ways? Do we want to?
