Donations with Extreme Prejudice

A few weeks ago at Mass, I helped with the offertory collection. In one pew sat a family with a small child. She was maybe three, and her mother had given her the money to put in the collection basket. She was encouraging her daughter to put the money in the basket, not unlike we did with our kids when they were very young. It's a common thing.

So as I arrived at their pew, the little girl looked up at me, took two or three steps towards the basket as I held it towards her and - wham - absolutely slammed dunked the money into it. Then she smiled at herself. Oh yeah, I did it, I helped. I'm the girl.

It just so happened we had a second collection. The same thing happened: I approached, she toddled over, and slammed that cash right into the basket. She made absolutely certain, left no doubts at all, that SHE made the donation. She was very happy and proud to have done her part.

You gotta love that moxie.

Emphatic Priest

I went to Mass the other day at St. Hedwig in Detroit. It was funny.

Oh, everything went all right until the very end. But I think the priest had an appointment and was running late. Yet the choir was singing a hymn and apparently intended to see it through all six or eight verses.

From the altar, Father waved at the choir loft, clearly an indication he was ready to wrap things up. The singing continued. He waved more emphatically, as if trying to catch the attention of a far off friend or a New York City cab. The song went on, and very well, I'll concede.

Father next made the cut sign. He ran his pointer finger across his neck, slowly and deliberately. He really did. And the song finally stopped. I think it just ended, but I'm sure Father took it as a victory.

I've seen more unusual endings to a Church service.

Nah, I haven't.

The Quiet Voice

Saturdays, when I'm in town, I take me Mom to Mass at 4 O'Clock. One of my uncles used to tease us that we weren't Catholics, we were Seventh Day Adventists as we went to Church on Saturday. I still get a good chuckle out of that. He was a good man; it was all in good fun. And imagine that: people who can joke and take a joke even about something as important as their religion. What a concept.

In the Catholic Mass, at one point the congregation says the Our Father. I first noticed several weeks ago Mom's voice when she recites it. It's a small, quiet voice, yet to me it's become the loudest voice in Church. You see, she forgets; she forgets easily. And she's slowing down, gradually becoming weaker so that she more often sits when we're normally standing during Mass. I just let her. God understands.

But at the Our Father she never fails to stand and say the prayer with the rest of us. Her little voice stands out, though. And God hears.

A Different World

It's sometimes hard to appreciate how different the same place can be. 

I don't notice the change in seasons in and around home all that much. They're so slow and subtle that by the time you realize that the Sun isn't rising until 7:30 in the morning it isn't rising until 7:50. You don't get that it's been setting well before 8 until it's setting at 6:45. Then I visit Hessel in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula in late September and the differences from the Fourth of July, the last time I was here, are stark.

Yesterday I was star gazing at 6 AM. No sign of old Sol, not even a hint that he might be prowling about. But the stars were out in force even with a nearly full Moon, if you looked in the right direction. At the same time in July the Sun has obliterated the full Moon by almost a half hour. I've taken my morning walks then as early as 5, in a reasonable amount of dawn color.

Last night I went to the 6:30 Mass in Detour, around 35 minutes east of Hessel, for my Sunday obligation. Yeah, I know, like me Uncle Charles used to tease, I'm really a Seventh Day Adventist. That's funny if you appreciate religious humor. But however that may be, by the time Mass was over and I was making the drive back to Hessel, while it wasn't exactly dark it was surely the evening twilight. And it was dark by the time I was back at the house just after 8. 8 PM in Hessel three months ago? We would still have daylight for nearly two more hours, and twilight until about 11.

It's still great because it's still Hessel. It just doesn't look like it.

Trust, but Verify

President Ronald Reagan, among his many famous quips, once said about why oversight was needed with treaties, "Trust, but verify." You can trust your treaty partners well enough while still independently making sure everything's on the level.

I think of that every Saturday. I typically take me Mom to the 4 o'clock Mass at our Church. Me brother Phil, who oversees her finances (and is, I assure you, the model of trustworthy) gives me her donation envelope for the usual collection. 

When the time for collection comes around, I take the envelopes, hers and mine, from my pocket and give hers to her, so that she can place it in the basket and get the sense of fulfillment in helping the Church. But she always, always takes it from me and opens it immediately, to see that the money is there. She does this without fail, even to the point occasionally of taking the bill out, checking it over, and placing it back in the envelope.

I find it funny, in a cutesy way. She trusts Phil with everything and is not comfortable without his approval of things. But she has to check that envelope. 

Trust but verify. I don't mean that to reflect poorly towards anyone. Indeed, I actually find it rather endearing.

Mom's opinion of appropriate dress

Mom, God bless her, well, she can't always contain expressing herself. That can be quite funny sometimes.

I take her to Saturday Mass most weeks and yesterday was typical. We got to Church a few minutes before four and took pews as far back as we could (in the proper Cosgriff manner) and said our private prayers waiting for the service to begin. Other people began to filter in, taking their seats and going through their own personal religious motions as well.

Eventually a woman came in in what she must have imagined to be her Sunday finest. These were clearly her go to meeting clothes, impeccable right down (right up?) to her hat, a wide and fluffy black and white, uh, Easter bonnet (though we are weeks ahead of Easter) with all kinds of garish accents, ribbons and bows and what all, topped with a huge white feather worthy of a Musketeer. It was a sight I must admit.

The woman passed our pew in search of hers. And as seems to happen right before an, ah, unfortunate instance, the Church became suddenly and inexplicably quiet as she walked by where Mom and I sat. Exactly as all was unimaginably calm Mom saw the woman. And into that perfect storm of silence Mom said quite emphatically, "Whoa!"

I turned my head down and bit my lip hard, because I nearly exploded in laughter. There were a few stifled giggles among the congregation too. For her part, dressed to the nines lady simply continued on to her pew as though nothing was amiss.

Happy Birthday Mom. You made my day.

Ariana Grande and the furries

Remember when Sunday mornings were for going to Church? Well, now that I'm firmly ensconced as a Saturday Catholic, my Sunday mornings are free for other fascinating adventures. Adventures such as taking my granddaughter to Tim Horton's for coffee and timbits (doughnut holes). I discovered they have red velvet doughnut holes. Oh joy oh rapture.

While we waited for our order a song played over the store's speakers. As I know little to nothing about popular entertainers, I asked my granddaughter if she know who it was. "Ariana Grande, I think", she answered. She then got out her phone and found the song and artist in less than two seconds and showed me the results. There was a picture of a young woman in bunny ears.

"Why is she dressed like a rabbit?", I asked.

"Maybe she's a furry." my granddaughter explained.

"A what?" the clueless grandfather responded incredulously.

The hip granddaughter patiently explained, "A furry. People who like to dress up like animals." Now that I'm home and online, I find that there's a whole culture of people who like to dress up like anthropomorphic animals.

And now I'm also thinking that I need to just go back to going to Church on Sunday mornings.