I went to mass here a few months ago. Despite the fact the mass was in Spanish, and I don’t speak Spanish, it didn’t really matter. If you go to church every Sunday for the first 22 years of your life and say the same prayers every Sunday you will know what people around you are most likely saying, even if you don’t speak the same language. (This is the exact opposite of what happens when you get a pedicure and the women are speaking Vietnamese — a language you have exactly zero knowledge of — and your best guess is always that they’re talking about what a mess you are, which might be the case, but it’s just as likely they’re talking about their kids.)
It felt like a little bubble of my childhood inside that church — the same scent of lily, occasional incense, worn missals and weekly bulletins. The virgin in her alcove. People kneeling and standing in unison. Parish churches are seldom beautiful. They’re sort of the Thomas Kincaid of ecclesiastical art. The saints have sentimental faces, the folk choir is earnest but average, and the crucifix is almost always a weird mix of a deeply uncomfortable body of Christ who has the face of a man who’s maybe a tad bit troubled by a circling mosquito. If that.
There’s a McDonald’s on International Blvd. right behind St. Bernard’s and I went there after church. I had an egg McMuffin, which was pretty awesome. Kind of like donuts in the church hall — your reward for not bitching too much about having to endure an hour inside the church when your dad (the atheist) gets to sit outside in the parking lot and read the Sunday paper.
Lillian Hamrick 