Yesterday, I woke to the normal darkness that is 5 AM. After getting my coffee, feeding Oliver, and completing my daily blog, I went outside to tend to the gardens of Winterpast. Just when I think there are no weeds, here they come, fast and furious.
I pulled them both out.
Watering, while snipping this and cutting that, I decided it would be a great day to visit another local church. Being alone in a strange town is not for the faint of heart. With Miss Firecrackers advice, I’ve joined The Red Hat Society, but the local chapter has yet to phone. With a real need to build a community of friends, I went inside to prepare for my visit to the local Catholic Church. Deciding it would be most appropriate, I wore a cute floral sundress with sandals. I even ditched the fanny pack, taking a purse instead.
The drive up to the church was quite impressive. On the side of a mountain, the structure is ten years old, with the main chapel and classrooms designed to showcase the surrounding mountains. Thirty foot ceilings made the interior of the church grand. Floor to ceiling windows behind the alter filtered beautiful light into the sanctuary, blue sky Nevada as the backdrop. Everything was crisp, clean, and new.
A gentleman at the front of the church was reciting the rosary with a few parishioners.
When I entered, I noticed no greeter or even a single person to notice that I was new. Asking if there was a program, the gentleman at the door looked at me as if I was from another planet and thrust a paperback book into my hands. I went to sit towards the back of the church. It was then I realized that church this might not fill my spiritual needs.
The entire service was scripted in this little book. Yesterday’s service, as well as those for three months. It was as if I was teaching 3rd grade again, with scripted lessons that needed to be delivered precisely as written, day, after day, after day, without any deviation. All the words to be delivered were pre-planned, and I could just envision an entire country with every Catholic priest delivering the same exact prayers and sermons at the same time. Orchestrated religion.
The priest himself had one simple problem. Being an Indian man from India, he had a thick accent. So thick that I could only understand every third word. I was so thankful for the book I’d been given. This man was a good man. A man of the cloth. Kind. Sincere. Observant of visitors in the pews that morning. But, I need to be able to understand the message delivered.
He spoke of Job, and every few minutes used the phrase, “Let me make this simple for you.” A strange phrase to add, when all I wanted was understand the message through his heavy accent. Continuing on about the necessity of severe pain and suffering in life, the focus of the message was heavy. Searching for a place of hope and healing, his message, although full of truth, wasn’t something especially helpful in my situation. Listening, bricks were added, one by one, to my already sagging shoulders.
Strange as it seemed, an offering wasn’t asked for or collected. However, the priest WAS collecting money to send to an Indian community ravaged by Covid. All very confusing, considering our own community has fallen on very hard times, as well. Elderly veterans living alone, homeless people, and hungry children struggle right in my town. No mention of them.
All in all, it was a beautiful morning. Two guitar players shared their talents. A spiritually uplifting building full of very quiet guests provided a place to pray and reflect on God’s blessings, so numerous and beautiful.
A mask-less communion seemed tone deaf, in spite of the ravages of a virus from which we just now heal. I cringed as the gloveless priest handed each parishioner a broken piece of an unwrapped wafer. People waited in a line of 100, one after the other. Not being Catholic, my participation wasn’t allowed. Grateful, I took the time to pray for everyone’s safety.
A search for a little spot of community will continue. I didn’t find a personal sense of family today in my visit to a very beautiful church in the desert, but a visit with God is wonderful in any situation. I hope the Priest finds help for his hometown village in India, but with limited funds, I need to support my own community.
Such was a Sunday in the hottest little place in the Northwestern Nevada Desert that I call home. Gardening awaits. It’s going to be a scorcher today.