Sunday Morning Rosary
Sunday morning very bright…
As I prayed the rosary this morning, I decided not to mediate on the mysteries (a complicated task), but to think about the Catholic churches I’ve attended.
As a child, Mother, my brothers, and I attended St. Monica on South Galvez Street in NOLA. That had been her church since she was converted to Catholicism in 1935. Dad’s family always attended All Saints in Algiers, a generational tradition. When they lived in the 9th ward before I came along, my brothers attended Holy Redeemer School just outside the French Quarter, so Mother went to that church on Sundays.
I was registered at Holy Ghost school for 8 years, so Holy Ghost became the family church. During that time one move put us in St. John the Baptist Parish (SJBP) and in the summer months when students didn’t have to attend Mass as a class, we alternated between SJBP and St. Theresa of Avila. In 7th grade, we moved a block away from st. Monica in the Calliope Project, so during high school, that was the family church again.
Mother told the housing authority when I got my first job after high school. Rent increased $300 per month, so we moved to Mid-City and churches were up for grabs. I went to Mass every morning on my bicycle at Sacred Heart, but on Sundays, Mother and I mostly attended the Jesuit Church of the Immaculate Conception downtown or Our Lady of Guadalupe aka St. Jude.
I became active in Sacred Heart as a youth advisor, lector, community activist, and rock choir member. It became my regular parish until I moved to Atlanta. I lived on Lenox Road in the Cathedral of Christ the King parish. I was a lector there for three years when Archbishop Donnellan was pastor.
When my firstborn joined us, I moved around, looking for churches that offered comfort to mothers with babies. I settled at a church in Stone Mountain with a windowed balcony for nursing mothers. One of the priest gave communion there at the door. I think it was Corpus Christi.
Across the country in Vallejo, I joined St. Basil the Great church when Fr. Guapo was pastor (the Filipino ladies called him that because he was handsome). I became a lector. In the valley, we attended St Peter Prince of Peace in Lemoore, but switched to St. Brigid’s in Hanford. We liked the priest there. When a baby cried during service, the mother rose to take him outside, Father interrupted to say, “No, no, bring him back, he may grow up to be pope.” There was always a sense of camaraderie and happiness in that church.
Back in Atlanta, Vanessa attended Sts. Peter and Paul Catholic school, so we went to that church. We sometimes joined my godson and his family at St Thomas More in Decatur. In Florida, we lived closest to St. Clement of Rome, but when Ronda was born, the priest there said that we would have to have a Catholic godfather and hubby insisted that his non Catholic best friend be the godfather. So, I shopped around and found St. Helen’s. Ronda was baptized there. Within the year we were back in New Orleans, minus hubby.
Our fist stop was at Our Lady of the Rosary. As I had been doing for almost 20 years, I sat as close to the front as possible. While attending a youth rally in the superdome, the moderator asked how we chose to buy concert tickets. Everybody wanted to sit up front, so he raised the question, “Why not sit up front for the best performance of our lives, Holy Mass.”
The priest refused to begin mass until we moved to the back of the church. The ushers en masse came to move the four of us. Their reasoning—the baby might cry. She might cry in the back of the church as well, but for the fifteen minutes they surrounded us and all but physically removed us from the pew, she didn’t even whimper. So mass began and we never went back to that church.
Because I’d been active my entire adult life I thought it was time for the kids to become active participants. We went to a different church every Sunday searching for one they liked. When we moved from Mother’s house six months later, we were in Mater Dolorosa parish, one of the most beautiful churches I’ve ever seen. No burning candles were allowed because all icons except windows were made of wood. The whole structure was wood. When that priest had an issue with skin color and tried to involve the white principal of the public school my kids attended, we switched to Our Lady of Lourdes. Eric made his first communion there. None of us liked the service, so we began shopping around again. A couple of dozen churches later, my children fell in love with St. Joan of Arc where we stayed from 1995 to 2005 (Hurricane Katrina).
The kids pretty much grew up there. They joined the CYO, actively participated in everything, especially The Black Arts Festival. Ronda went to school there for a short period. The two oldest became altar servers and 12 year old Van served with the Archbishop at a special Mass. Steve, a friend from work came to Van’s confirmation. Dexter and Henry, friends from work joined us for my son’s confirmation and Leydin, another friend from work came to Ronda’s.
Back in Atlanta, I tried the local church, Saint James the Apostle. Definitely didn’t fit in there. So went to Our Lady of Lourdes in Atlanta. People stared suspiciously at me. I preferred being invisible as my brown skin had been at st. James. The priest hesitated before he offered communion and I never went back to that church. I went downtown to the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception and even to the Basilica of the Sacred Heart. That church had changed tremendously. I settled at St. Philip Benizi for a while, then lost interest. The congregations all gave me a feeling of uneasiness as if God was not present and they were gathered for some unknown reason. I worshipped in my backyard and felt much more fulfilled.
And now, fifteen minutes later, I made the Sign of the Cross and set my rosary across the chair arm. Amazing how pleasant a feeling it is to be able to contemplate for brief periods. Amazing how far one’s thoughts can travel.