Titled The End

As I walk through the valley in the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.

Well, not exactly. I do fear lightning, thunder and centipedes. My grandmother cautioned my mother to place the legs of the crib in cans of water to prevent their ascent. Just this morning, my daughter woke me up and guided me out of the 'guest house' where I was sleeping and into the cabin's kitchen. My eyes weren't completely open and she shoved a cup under my nose to show me the limp, hundred-legged orange and black snake which she captured early in the morning hours, managing to overcome her own fear of bugs and things that can sting a person even after they lay limp and lifeless.

I managed a sleepy shriek and looked her dead in the eye and said what every parent should say to their child in respect to things like that. "Be careful. Those things can ruin your life even after they are dead!"

The myth of the centipedes grasp is an oft told story at our house. The fact that you have to slice them into pieces with a pocket knife even as they climb up your legs and dig into your flesh with their soiled and horned feet. It is well known amongst us but nowdays, stories like that are seldom told to our children and their importance is hardly noticed. Stories of neglect and confusion. The stories of St. Patrick's cathedral where once I stood in the choir loft to sing hymns over the passing of once alive parishioners, the central aisle still covered in the same lawn-colored astroturf where my own mother's coffin lay on expandable metal saw-horses so many years ago. The same church where Lisa and I used to scrape wax off the hard wood floors near the apse for Father Padilla so that he'd give us each a dime for a coke up at the Artic Circle. Now though, one just inserts a bit of silver and the flickering prayer lights just come on, coin-op votives. Is it any wonder about the Catholic Church -why even the smoke and mirrors people have sold out to technologies in which coins teach children to gamble in the arcades in the cities.

I begged my husband yesterday to attend the 9:30. We were walking past St. Pat's and finally, after years and years of hoping to get in the now "mostly locked doors", I got in. It used to be open 24/7 but now it is banker's hours and funerals only, for well-scheduled masses. No more children stopping by at noon on Saturday just to see, "what is up with God today?" No more of that!

The same woman greeted us at the door. She has been greeting Catholics in Bisbee at those same gigantic, bilateral chunks of wood ever since I was a wax-scraping, choir loft-cherishing kid. She never dies. She never gets old and she never tires of smoke and mirrors. The Holy Water sprinkled through the pews by the priests always reaches her. When the attendants respond to the priest as he says, "Peace upon you all," she not only responds but she thrusts her hand out and points her finger at Him as if she is throwing Him a line. The people in the front pews follow her lead and she is the reason they select the front row seats in the first place. I know that is why I chose the fourth pew by the center aisle because I knew she would be close by. I think her name must be Irma.

I pointed out to my Shi'i husband who was unshaved and and had not yet brushed his teeth, the cistern from which I was baptized as an infant. I explained each thing to him as I did a whispery inventory regarding the cash value of all those figurines, some of them life sized! The Virgin and Joseph (whom the priest called the "step father of Lord Jesus) and Jesus himself, perched high on the immense gothic alabaster tabernacle. Priceless to a collector of artifacts and it is no wonder the Church is operated as if the priest is there to curate a museum. And like all museums, it is never open when you need a bit of off-hours inspiration.

It was no surprise to me to see a young woman slide into the pew in front of us dolled up in a halter top which displayed her grapefruit sized breasts and bare back leaving little to the imagination. Anyway, the church goers were mostly women and a few impotent old men, members of the funereal guard called the Knights of Columbus. The altar boy indeed looked almost 70!

We opened our workbooks to August 13, 2006 and I noted with some little surprise that I was finally in church and it was the "19th Week of Ordinary Time," and thought to myself how religious pursuits are mostly a string of bread crumbs distributed by Hansel and Gretel and one has only to follow the trail. The Catholics now refer to Ordinary Time and I suppose it has something to do with Easter and Orders. But there I was thinking, "Ah, Nineteen! I've got your number!"

Then the priest named Larry started talking and although I can do without that sort of thing anymore, captain of my own ship so to speak, I began to listen intently. What were the first words out of his mouth? That 'some people think St. Paul smoked pot'. I had to wonder, does he, Father Larry smoke pot? He sure sounded like he was on some kind of trip and when he poured the wine into the chalice which the elderly altar-assistant had provided to him with such a sense of the sacred, I noticed that the pouring of wine had been amplified by a mike so that every single person all the way to the back pews, could hear the drip-drops of Christ.

As Larry blessed the Eucharist (this man somehow in charge of the safekeeping of secrets that change water into wine and bread into flesh), the first peal of thunder poured through the beautiful transoms of stained-glass, without amplification, during the Nineteenth Week of Ordinary Time and I thought, al ham'du'lillah.
That was just for me and I watched as Larry lifted his sacred objects halfway over head almost with a sense of trepidation regarding his powers. I disguised my smile with a look of deep consternation and thought to myself how old this house of God really is. How much had happened there to me and the other believers in attendance - housefires to the occassional murder, the burial of my own brother's molester complete with high honors only a year or so ago. I let it pass but cannot let it pass here in this silly story.

At long last everyone, well, almost everyone, got in line for Communion. The whole time I'd been battling the stock responses to the Liturgy that are engraved in the minds of Catholics from a very early age. H'sanna in the Highest, Lamb of God, etc. My husband made as if to get up and get a taste of the wafer but I nudged his knee with my own and told him, mum'nuaaa. Forbidden. You see, he grew up and attended mostly Catholic schools and had played along his entire life so as not to 'stick out' as the only muslim kid in church. Now though, things are different. He was afraid somehow we'd be noticed but I assured him that not everyone takes communion. Those who have not turned over their secrets to the priests in confessions are ostracized. They must wait until another day because they know that they have erred against God or the Church. Yet how many know they've erred against themselves out of ignorance. Who knows because those types don't attend church anymore and most of them don't believe in God either. I almost got in line myself and who wouldn't! The taste of those pressed wafers melting between the roof of the mouth and the tongue, dried breasts of flesh soaked in wine, is mighty tempting. I almost partook of the cheap thrill myself in order to avoid ostracism because most of the believers yesterday in St. Pat's know I am a muslim. They've known me since catechism. Some of us even shared a row in front of Sister Josepha. I'm famous, Bisbee famous which is a special kind of famous.

When the mass was completed, Father Larry did what priests have been taught to do for nearly two millinea and walked down the center aisle like a brideless groom towards the exit. I filed by and stopped in front of Larry as he stood just inside those two great doors saying good bye to his flock, to whomever got close enough or bothered to take the time and I said:

Salaam wa alaikum.

He didn't even hear me or perhaps, he failed to know the proper answer outside the context of his well worn rituals:

Allaiku'wa'salaam.

The End.