It seems I picked the right day to go to church. I’ve only been to the Catholic church in my site a handful of times, but due to the unexpected absence of the girl who paints my nails, I decided to drop in on the mass, which turned out to be a memorial service in honor of an important community elder who passed away 4 months ago. Although everyone was dressed in black and white, as customs dictate, I decided they would rather have me in my blue skirt and orange t-shirt than not have me at all. I blended right in with the kids in their colorful outfits that state “we’re not old enough to know any better”. That’ll teach ‘em that I’m not as young as they assume!
By the time the out of town preacher (pastor? Father? I’m not really up on my Catholic lingo) arrived, the little church was pretty full. It’s an important week religiously speaking, what we call Patronales, and several of the kids will be taking their first communion soon. As the preacher started warming up to his sermon, we here a loud cry from the back of the church. Heads turn just in time to see an extremely drunken man, someone visiting from outside the community, stumbling down the aisle, on an unmistakable path to the altar, where he interrupts the preacher with an inebriated salutation and proceeds to place the preacher’s hands on his head. Ostensibly, they had healing powers and the man could wait not a moment longer to have them laid upon his lowly noggin. The preacher asked him to sit, which he did, but momentarily was at it again, and the sermon swayed accordingly from the real topic of the service – parting with loved ones – to the ways of the sinner.
Throughout this scene, I stifled giggles with the kids, exchanged knowing glances with the adults, and was generally satisfied that I had chosen to stop in on such a lively event. I usually struggle to pay attention during foreign language, religiously themed diatribes, but I was wide awake this day, and silently thanking God that I’ve never felt the Spirit(s) quite as much as this man.
