Talking about my parents is a very personal thing and I've talked about all the things that make me happy and all the various things that I'm grateful for and you might wonder why my parents haven't featured earlier than this post. It's because it's a very emotional subject for me and I HAVE attempted this post many, many, many times and I usually end up so emotionally wrung out that I never post it. After all, some things are just too personal.
However, I'm ready today because tomorrow is Good Friday. Good Friday is the one and only day of the year that I go to church and I go there specifically to share a special moment with my Dad. It's something we started about 11 years ago and it has remained a tradition.
My Dad and I attend the Stations of The Cross Mass. It's very special to him and because my Dad is so very special to me, I go to be with him and share a moment that is ours and ours alone.
I usually go a little early to save us both a front row seat because my Dad would prefer to have a front row seat. The whole Mass runs the gamut of every emotion you could possibly feel, no matter what your religious persuasion is. For the record, this is a Catholic Mass at our local Parish and they do a magnificent job of it.
Anyway, I like to go save my Dad a seat and wait until he's parked his car and sauntered down the footpath, twisting and turning and keeping my eye out for him and then waving inappropriately vivaciously (for what is meant to be a sombre Mass) when I see him to let him know where we're seated this year.
The Mass is highly emotional, as I said, as it depicts the Crucifixion of Jesus. For those who Believe, it is a very powerful Mass. Although I am no longer religious, I respect that other people are and my beautiful Dad is one of those people.
So we go through the Mass and while my Dad is engrossed in the service, I watch the congregation. The old, the young, the inbetweeners who aren't old enough yet to make their own choices so they have to come with their families anyway. I watch the public displays of devotion and it is a very touching thing to experience. To watch people demonstrate their faith, to hear all the on-key and mostly off-key voices join together in hymn to test the Good Lord's forgiveness, to hear babies crying to the point where one parent has to exit the church (and please do because it jars my spinal chord as well as my Dad's) as inconspicuously as they can with an uncontrollably screaming baby tucked under their arm, to hear the priest deliver his message in the hope that it hasn't fallen on deaf ears. Sometimes the messages are really poignant and the basis lies more with being spiritually good than with being religiously good and I always enjoy those. They're about laying the foundation of community and unselfish behaviour in these modern times. At times, I have to admit that the whole Catholic repenting guilt thing gets to me and I switch off but that's for another blog entry. This one is about my Dad.
My Dad listens intently with his head tilted to the roof of the church, as if he's looking for cracks (there are NO cracks in the roof of our church, okay?), and he nods to himself in a slow rocking motion at ad hoc moments, as if acknowledging the priest's message like a wise old man who had already arrived at this conclusion long ago in his own life. Then he looks at the floor to digest the sermon, rolls the prayer booklet up to the point of no redemption and, after a little contemplation, directs his vision back up to the roof as if he's looking for proof that Divine Intervention filled those imaginary cracks while he was busy looking at the floor. This is how my Dad ingests the Mass.
This ritual hasn't changed in 11 years. It sometimes gets to the point where even I am tempted to look at the roof but I know that if I do, the entire congregation will look up there too because, let's face it, no-one likes to miss out. So for the sake of the entire congregation, I resist the inclination and choose to, instead, roll my prayer book up tighter than a pirate's telescope.
Then we get to the point in the Mass that brings us to the point that bonds my Dad and me - the point where the choir sits down and two vocal angels sing Pie Jesu a capella. I CANNOT, no matter how hard I try, remain dry-eyed through this performance. Every year, I get all teary-eyed and hold my Dad's hand or arm. It's our moment. (Except last year when they didn't sing it and we felt very ripped off.).
At the end of the Mass, Dad goes home and I go back to my home in a quiet satisfaction that we have, indeed, had our special exclusive moment that will always remain ours. I come away feeling full in my heart....bursting full. I feel calm and cleansed and ready to take my life back and live it to the best of my ability.
We've had our moments in the past, my Dad and I. We've clashed heads and battled swords.....we've stood in our respective stubborn corners refusing to move. That is part of our past and it's part of our DNA. Things have certainly changed and come a long way since those days.
But this part of our relationship will stay with me longer than the 1.5 hours that the Mass goes for, longer than the 11 years that we've attended it. It will stay with me, deep in that place in my heart that is reserved for only the most special memories.
Now I wasn't going to go tomorrow as Grant isn't 100% after having minor surgery today and I wasn't comfortable leaving him at home alone. But he and my Mum reminded me just how special this annual ritual is, to my Dad and to me.....and so for yet another 1.5 hours, I'm going to church tomorrow to share a special moment with my Dad.....and I'm very happy about that.
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