I allowed myself to open to the inspired message offered by the Mass. My skin seemed to vaporize as if nothing were holding me together. Even my bones felt soft and elastic. Nostalgia welled in my throat as Father John Phillip recited the opening prayer, “. . . raise us up and renew our lives by the Spirit that is within us.” And then finally, as though a neural pathway had opened in my brain, I understood.
The Spirit was within us—within me.
A nudge to my side forced me to open my eyes and turn to Joshua. A glow of knowledge streamed from his eyes as if he’d opened a wisdom door and shared my new discovery.
He, too, understood.
“Please be seated,” Father John Phillip said, and although he proceeded to read comforting words from the Epistle and Gospel, when Morgan’s thigh brushed against mine, his presence took complete hold of my mind.
As if sensing the change in me, Joshua, too, edged closer. To my surprise, and relief, I didn’t feel constricted or confined. The motive, the intention, the impulse of my two companions, wasn’t one of control or ownership. This was different, this innocent yearning for warmth and understanding, this inexplicable urge to share comfort and love. I couldn’t fight what I’d been unconsciously hungering for all my life. Was giving and accepting love the missing piece to life’s puzzle? Was life’s mission to create rather than to fit in? Maybe what I needed was to wake up, rather than break free.
Father John Phillip stepped down from the altar and approached his nephew with a serotonin-inducing smile that no Twilight, My Space, or Ace of Spades drug could duplicate. “Joshua has found his family and found his voice, thanks to the Lord.” He blessed the child’s forehead with the sign of the cross and said, “May our Father in heaven speak through you, and may you never forget the power of silence. May you continue to watch and perceive, and may you continue to express your love by being a good listener.” He leaned forward and hugged the child. “Welcome home, Joshua.”
Father John Phillip then turned to me. “We give thanks for your safe return. May the Almighty continue to work through you in freeing others as you have freed Joshua.” He winked in typical John Phillip fashion before turning to the other participants in the Mass. “Now let us join in prayer for our sister, Teri, and our brother, Paul. May their souls rest in peace.”
“Amen.”
Father John Phillip returned to the altar, and we stood for the Profession of Faith. Later, when I approached the altar for Communion, I not only partook of the bread— “. . . which earth has given and human hands have made. It will become for us the bread of life.” —but also the wine— “. . . fruit of the vine and work of human hands. It will become our spiritual drink.” Something I’d resisted doing for too long as just another thing church authorities were telling me to do. After experiencing the mysteries of Medicine Wheel in my search for understanding, I now appreciated the importance of fully experiencing the rituals offered by the church of my upbringing as well.
Bread and wine, symbols of forgiveness and love; mysteries to give our lives new purpose.
After Mass, Veronica and Ben joined hands, lifting this Easter Sunday up another notch on my perfect-day meter. I liked and respected Ben and would never forget his kind, gentle way.
Between Will and Surrender Page 28