Reflections on St. Fatty's

I finally feel at home at St. Fatty's. Yes, I still have an issue with the Opus Dei secretary who stonewalls my every attempt to get to one of the priests. (Things I have in mind: An annulment from Xman is one. Establishing a parish or diocesan library is another.) But it feels like home.

When I walk in, I see the regulars in their appointed places. Sandra, who always wears a hat on Sunday and a scarf on weekdays. Julia, on the gospel side. On Sundays, there's the American equivalent of Max Von Sydow, just exhibiting the symptoms of Parkinson's. There's my neighbor, Gloria, who is one of the lectors.

The Littles are close to my heart. They're both likely in their late 70s or early 80s. They aren't little people but time has whittled them down to their essence. Mr. Little guides the missus into a pew. She has the blank look of Alzheimer's on her face. The "I'm here but I have no freaking clue what's going on" look. As if you woke up in a foreign country with people insisting on speaking an unknown language to you.

Sometimes, though, when I'm shaking hands with them, I see a brief spark of recognition in her eyes. Her face animates a bit and that hard glint in her eye says, I'm here and I know exactly where I am look.

She gets tired of it all pretty quickly. When she sits behind me, I hear her ask Mr. Little, "When can we go? Can we go now?" And Mr. Little says, "Not just yet."

I love St. Fatty's plainness. Its Quakers-amongst-the-Papists look is a far cry better than the painting that used to be over the statue of the risen Christ that said, "This is Jesus." Like you had to guess.

Everything got painted over maybe eight or nine years ago, but the pews are battered and the varnish is peeling away. Underneath the varnish is sleek, dark wood and I think of it being stripped and then given a matte finish but I don't think the parish could cope. There would be a great hue and cry.

This time of year, by the time I go in, I can see the sun shining through the stained glass of the Assumption. I'll start going to vigil Mass on Saturdays just as soon as it's still light after the service. Going in when it's light and coming out when it's dark just feels wrong.

The priests at St. Fatty's don't have to worry about the parish being closed down. That's happening a lot, you know. Parishes get combined with others or simply get abandoned sometimes. There was a parish in Jersey whose church was deconsecrated, but the parishoners kept up a vigil so the church wouldn't get knocked down.

At the Mass I usually go to, the majority of the congregation is Filipino. I might start going to a different Mass, just to see what the make up on the congregation is.

As I was leaving today, I saw Monsieur Patric sporting a wonderful red jacket and black trousers. " 'Appy Valentine to you, my dear," he said and kissed my hand. I think I blushed and giggled.

When I wished Father Silverfox a happy Valentine's day, he said, "Oh, I don't have to worry about that!" and everyone laughed. "Thank God," he said and I thought, exactly.