Tonight I sat in church with a ghost. Well...maybe that's a bit of stretch. Let me back up.
Tonight was communal penance service at church. When I arrived, a small group of people had already settled in. I picked up my service program, a pencil, and my slip of paper to write down my sins, then headed to "my" pew (those of you who area active in your Faith community know what I'm talking about...the favorite spot to sit week after week. And God forbid you arrive and someone else is sitting there! It throws off the mojo!).
A few minutes before the service started an elderly gentleman came and squeezed in beside me. Mind you, there were empty pews in front and behind me. But I'd left just enough room for one person, and clearly he was it. Now I'm used to seeing the same people around me week-to-week, and I honestly don't recall seeing this man before. Even for special occasions. But that's ok. I smiled up at him as he sat down and he smiled back. All good.
He didn't have all paperwork that was need and since the service was ready to begin, I nodded to him and whispered "we can share". I noticed a pretty pronounced tremor in his hands, so I tore my paper in half and handed it to him. He smiled and said "ok" in a heavy accent.
Then the service began and the organ kicked in. O Come Emmanuel. The gentleman sang the first few lines, then he appeared to get lost. His voice faded and became silent. I gave him the program so he could hold it closer, just in case he couldn't see the words well. I lowered my voice an octave so we could sing together. He didn't shirk away and joined in now and again.
We did the same through the readings and communal prayers. I started to notice his hands as he held our shared program. In addition to the tremor, I noticed his freckles. They reminded me of my dads hands. And the fact that the Gospel was the return of the Prodigal Son led my mind away from the Homily and into my own thoughts.
I realized I'd been thinking about dad a lot recently. Usually I miss mum around the holidays, but not so much this year. Dad often visited at Christmas time, so I have lots of fond memories of concerts, dinners out, Christmas crackers and trips to Myers of Keswick for my annual treat of Cornish pasties and Xmas pudding....
I've been thinking about how old dad was getting before he passed and watching him slow down.
I've also been thinking how lonely he must have been, living alone. Although very much a 'loner' the thought of dad alone on the Holidays, probably with a tin of sardines and a custard tart to keep him company left me feeling sad.
So when this older man ended up sharing the pew with me, I felt a real tenderness towards him. He followed along with the service pretty well, but at times we seemed to move too quickly and he struggled with the reading. I wasn't sure if it was the language or his vision. It didn't matter. I found myself slowing down on the responsorials, even if it meant the two of us were ten beats behind the rest of the congregation.
Soon it was time to write down our sins and take them forward to the priest for absolution. The line was long and the organ was fantastic, so, I wasn't in a hurry. Eventually, the gentleman got up and walked towards the back of the line. About five minutes later, I too walked back to get into line. But as I looked around, I didn't see him. I thought he'd gotten in line. Perhaps he went to another priest? No. He was gone.
I actually thought that maybe I'd imagined him. Why come to a penance service, sit through the service, then leave before the penance itself? Perhaps I'd gotten so lost in my thoughts about dad that I'd conjured up this elderly man!
When I finally got back to my pew, I looked over at the empty space next to me. And there, on the floor, were two slushy footprints. He had been there!
As Fr. Murphy dimmed the church lights and lit the urn where all our sins/slips of paper sat, and as the flames reached up and danced, as though the Holy Spirit itself was leading...my heart turned from melancholy to peace.
Happy Christmas, dad (and mum). You are missed.
