I’m in a new city…well, new to me. There’s a conference down the road I’m meant to attend tomorrow, where I will give a presentation whose preparation I have been putting off for weeks. I had it all planned, I thought. I would get here a day early, check into a pleasant Airbnb and then have all of the morning and afternoon for my PowerPoint. Once finished with my sparkling report, I would enjoy taking in some part of the city at night and, no doubt, I would have several new ideas for meaningful projects in the new months ahead.
That’s not how things have gone. I awoke after a miserable night and felt absolutely unmotivated to turn on my computer. I wandered around the two rooms of the small rented flat before realizing I wasn’t going to find any solace or motivation within those four overbearing walls, so I left, walking blindly out the front door and taking two turns before finding myself, five minutes later, in front of Saint Francis’s.
As chance (or someone) would have it, a mass was starting. I ducked inside the front doors before I could come up with a reason not to. I glanced across the dim, echoing sanctuary and gladly noted a middle pew was empty. There’s usually one. The pious ones gather at the front. The pregnant girls and divorced men are in the back. A middle aisle is usually left for those like me who can’t quite decide.
I slid into the wooden aisle and sat, waiting for the priest to arrive and offer some spiritual discourse that I hoped would snap me into place. A few more folks arrived, but the place was only perhaps a third full. I kept my eyes on the kneeler in front of me, wondering what I might say to God when the time came to use it.
Just then, I noticed a pair of shabby, brown shoes in my peripheral vision. They stood, persistently, in fact, one of them started to tap with impatience. I glanced up and saw a man, perhaps in his twenties, wearing a grubby coat and sporting a full, scraggly beard. I assumed he wanted to get by me in the pew, so I bundled up my legs to let him pass, but then I realized, he actually wanted my seat. Without having the energy to deny him, I shrugged and moved over one space. He sat and unzipped his jacket, releasing an aura of well-preserved warmth and bodily odor.
The priest came in and began the recitations. We stood and sat, me and the man next to me. Every time he moved, I smelled him: an overpowering combination of sweat and perhaps onions. I kept trying to summon the courage to move to another pew, but the other end of mine was taken by an elderly couple, and the thought of trying to move past them with the eyes of everyone on me seemed unendurable. So, I stayed and endured.
The priest began to speak the main part of the sermon, with no more standing or sitting to expel his energy, the man next to me began to jitter his knees up and down. He had a copy of the chapel bulletin in his hand, and he fidgeted with the paper aggressively, tapping the edge of the paper repeatedly against the wooden pew between us. I wanted him to stop, but it was as though he had a nervous tic or a compulsion. The paper rustled loudly between his hands. I felt the elderly couple at the other end turn and look in our direction. I glanced at them with an apologetic look on my face and tried to focus on the priest, but it was to no avail. I simply couldn’t concentrate.
Surely someone would notice? A deacon or a church attendant? They would come forward and gently ask the man to stop. They might even escort him to another pew…or, better yet, ask him to leave. They would smile at me in sympathy, recognizing me for who I was, a visitor to their city who was here to indulge in some much-needed spiritual solace before beginning my important day of preparations…someone whose urgent day had been interrupted by this clearly disturbed individual. I waited for rescue. But no one came.
Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer. I cleared my throat, more loudly than I intended, and I looked at the man, willing him to turn to me. He paid me no attention. His eyes seemed glazed and strangely vacant. Feeling completely put out and surprised by my sudden anger, I leaned over and grasped his hands. It felt as though time froze. I couldn’t believe what I had done. The man’s hands stopped. I was mortified and felt the blood rise into my face. I waited, fully expecting him to pull his hands out from under mine and smite me with a curse or a wad of spit.
But nothing happened. Instead, his hands remained stilled and a moment later I realized I could feel his blood pulsing under my palm. Then he turned and looked me. He gave me a small smile. He turned his palms up, facing mine, and gently folded my hands into his.
So, we sat there, holding hands, while the mass continued. I don’t remember what the priest said during his sermon. In fact, I don’t remember how long we sat there. Eventually the mass ended and the sanctuary cleared out. The man released my hand and then stood to shuffle out the front door.
I sat still. A deacon came up the aisle, smiling and nodding at me as he passed. I stayed, unable to stand, thinking about what had just happened. Then my eyes happened to glance down. The shabby man had left the church bulletin. I reached over and took it. The cover said, “All are welcome here.” Then I realized that meant me.
[Image Credit : Photo by Chad Greiter on Unsplash]
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