Sundays

Sundays have become incredibly difficult for me. You see, my dad has been a deeply religious man my entire life. I was raised Roman Catholic but in an Anglican Use parish. That means that I grew up singing from an Episcopalian hymnal. A few years ago I officially converted and became Episcopalian.

I bring up all this because that means that the church I currently attend uses the exact same hymnal that I grew up with. The Sunday service is incredibly similar to the ones of my childhood (just less Latin!). The incredible irony is that I find myself unable to attend church, the one activity I know my dad would find most important that I do not miss. This morning, I was in tears before I even put on my shoes. Every minute of church brings me memories of my dad.

I think of him as an altar server, carefully attending to every detail to make sure Mass was celebrated just so. 

I think of my parents and siblings singing all of the hymns and me eager to sing with them.

I think of one of my favorite old photos of my dad: him as a choir boy, choir robes and all. And then how I've followed in his footsteps by joining my church's choir.

I think of him carefully gold-leafing the statues of St. Mary and St. Joseph. 

I think of his cremains, currently in a columbarium in the church. 

I am indecisive each Sunday morning. I want to go to church because it's a part of who I am and I truly believe it helps me be a decent human being. I want to go to church to honor my Dad. But I feel an urge to avoid church because I know it's going to hurt. I know I will start crying well before I even receive communion.

Today, I missed church and spent time with my spouse and our dogs instead. Perhaps my dad can pray for me as I pray for him. Perhaps by Sunday God will grant me the courage to face some pain with the knowledge that, eventually, it will hurt less and less.

My dad as a (grumpy) choir boy

-Clare G. S.