The Role of Nostalgia in Faith

This is technically part of my "visit to St. Gabe's" series, but it's so much more serious and philosophical that I felt the need to give it a more serious and philosophical title.

Ever since I left TAC, I have missed the feeling of sacredness and closeness to God at church. St. Michael's, while a great parish, feels a bit cold and distant to me. It isn't beautiful, it isn't warm and welcoming. It's white and green.

It also isn't super traditional. I mean it's traditional, but it isn't Latin, hymns, and incense (the last of which my asthmatic lungs appreciate). I haven't found the way to make it my happy place yet. The quiet and smallness of the earliest Sunday Mass are as close as it gets.

I believe God is there. I believe that He is just as present in the Eucharist at St. Michael's as anywhere else. I pray... but it requires a lot of focus and effort.

Kneeling during the Consecration today at St. Gabriel's, I realized that it is an easy place to believe and to pray. I am 100% comfortable, relaxed, and trusting. It was my parish from age 8 to age 19. I grew up there, not only from a child to a young adult, but I grew in my faith. I grew up as a Catholic there.

And it didn't used to be beautiful. It used to be a bingo hall. The chairs were covered in orangeish-brown pleather and were hooked together in long rows. We had computerized bells for the Consecration. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't super traditional. Heck, on some days, it wasn't even traditional. 

See? Not so traditional...

But it was home. It still is, somehow, even after all this time, my Church-y home. This realization led me to wonder: what is the role of nostalgia in faith?

It seems to hold some weight. Otherwise, why would I love St. Gabriel's so much? It wasn't beautiful when I was there, even though it is now. It has none of the things that I would normally consider "necessary" in a Church (Latin, hymns, etc.) Nevertheless, it is just as holy a place to me as Our Lady of the Most Holy Trinity Chapel on campus.

Why? Is it simply nostalgia? Is it simply a feeling or is it something more?

I don't have a definitive answer to this question. I am inclined to say that it is something more. Human beings are physical creatures. The Mass appeals to our senses. The architecture of a Church is intended to physically draw our eyes - and thereby, our hearts - up to God.

God, in His infinite wisdom, sent us His Son to show us the way to salvation. To physically die for us. To physically rise on the third day. 

Jesus instituted the Eucharist. He instituted the transubstantiation of bread and wine - physical things - into His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity.

He didn't do that because He is a physical being, because He isn't. He took on our nature and became flesh so that we could see Him. Hear Him. Touch Him. He did that for us because we are physical creatures.

It has been established in studies that physical things evoke memories in us. Places, smells, etc., have the power to remind us of times past. It's more than emotional feeling. It is a way in which we can connect and reconnect with things that are important - maybe things that that we have lost or missed.

That reconnection reminds us - at the very least, it reminds me - of the ever-present, ever-loving God that we have. He doesn't leave us and he doesn't change. When we go back to Him, we find him just as we left Him. Loving, forgiving, merciful, good... Everything to everyone.

When I go back to St. Gabriel's, I physically go back to where I learned to love Him. It helps me - inspires me - to love Him more.

A Visit to St. Gabe's, Part 2 (the lovey-dovey emotional part)

We switched parishes a few years ago. While I respected the family conclave decision, I have missed these people. These people hold a big place in my heart.

I was excited for the opportunity to visit them today at Mass. I was also nervous. I have this incredibly unusual anxiety that goes along with reuniting with old friends. You see, I LOVE people. I do. I love them soooooo much. It makes me nervous to see them again because... well... I'm afraid they won't love me anymore. Maybe this is silly. I'm terrified that someone I still love enormously will extend a hand and say "Good to see you again." I want them to want to hug me as much as I want to hug them. A handshake would be so sad.

So I was nervous. That's probably part of why I fell down the stairs (see Part 1). I was so nervous and wound-up that I stopped paying attention to where my feet were going.

But St. Gabe's was as welcoming and loving as ever. The "old gang" has come back with the return of the old choir director. I felt so loved. It was incredible and wonderful. It made me so happy. The surprise, followed by the huge smile, and the running toward me with arms wide open.

Excuse the extreme, uncharacteristic sap of this post. I was just so happy to see these people again. I felt like I had come home.

I'm going to go out with the choir director (who also was my voice teacher in high school) and his right hand man to catch up. We're going out for drinks. Last time I saw these people, I was 18. Weird that we can hang out at a bar together now. But so wonderful that the friendship is still there.

As Michael Smith and Amy Grant sing,

"And friends are friends forever
If the Lord's the Lord of them
And a friend will not say never
'Cause the welcome will not end
Though it's hard to let you go
In the Father's hands we know
That a lifetime's not too long to live as friends."

Cheesy. But wonderful and love-full.

A Visit to St. Gabe's, Part 1 (The funny part)

Today I went back to St. Gabe's for Mass. Just a visit to see the beautiful new church and some dear, dear, dear old friends. (more on that in Part 2)

I arrived in classic style. With a bang. Literally.

Yes, that's how the visit started. As I walked down the stairs, chatting with a woman I haven't seen in five years, I forgot to keep walking down the stairs. There were more stairs. I didn't walk like there were. Me, my three inch heels, and flippy skirt tumbled down in a pseudo-graceful heap. I say pseudo graceful because even though I was falling with incredible force, I managed to not flash anyone. Or swear. I let out a high scream, though. See? Graceful. But I was falling. So not so graceful.

My next adventure began when I genuflected to enter a pew. I went down... but couldn't get up. My heel had stuck in my aforementioned flippy skirt and I was stuck. I didn't want to rip my skirt, nor did I want to snag it and have the knit material bounce too high when the pressure finally released. If you can't picture that... well, then you probably aren't a girl. If you are a girl and you can't picture that, you obviously have never tried to genuflect.

Still can't picture it? Geez. Maybe it's just me. Shoot.

I repeatedly tried to unhook the skirt from the heel of my shoe. Every time I managed to unhook it and then adjusted to stand up, it would get re-attached. After about five minutes - ok, maybe 30 seconds which felt like five minutes - I ended up scooting into the pew on my knees until I could heave myself up with my arms on the back of the pew in front of me.

Subtlety is not my specialty. Neither is delicacy in behavior. I specialize in drama, don't ya know. :)

My Battle with Food

Hey! Long time, no write! I apologize... I've been busy with visiting family, lounging in the pool during these 110 degree days, and, OH YEAH, getting a job! I start in two weeks at an office that I have wanted to work at since I was 10. So yeah, I'm pretty excited!

But that's not what this blog post is about. It's about my life-long battle with food. Not with eating disorders, not with allergies, but with food. It confuses me.

I am a texture eater. I always have been, I always will be. I am also moderately picky... mostly about texture. What really gets me... and by "gets me", I mean "confuses the *$^# out of me" (I don't know what four-letter word those symbols represent. I just felt like putting them there...) is food with different textures combined.

Example 1: soup. With the exception of something like split pea, which is all one consistency (don't you DARE put ham or carrots in it... because then it will be relegated to the confusing food category), I choke on soup. I kid you not. Here's why, in a step-by-step breakdown.

I scoop the soup into my mouth. Immediately, I start thinking: there is liquid in my mouth. There are also solid foods in my mouth. What do I do?

Do I swallow the liquid and then chew the solid stuff? OR, do I hold it all in my mouth, chewing the solid stuff until it becomes squashed, and then swallow it all together? If I try to swallow the liquid, I inevitably end up swallowing solid food whole as well. If I try to chew it all, the liquid goes down the wrong pipe. In the confusion and chaos, things start sliding down my throat, hitting the back of it, and causing me to sputter everywhere. It's messy.

Consequently, I have had to adapt my soup eating process. I carefully pick out every piece of solid food, careful to drain out all of the liquid from my spoon before inserting the spoon into my mouth. Only after all of the solids have been removed and consumed from the bowl, I proceed to drink the broth like it's a warm, salty tea.

Example 2: gum. I know, I know, not technically a multi-textured food object but it still confuses the begeebers out of me. I put a piece of gum in my mouth and am ok until about 30 seconds later. I have this thing in my mouth and I'm chewing it, but I'm not allowed to swallow it. You cannot imagine the anxiety that accompanies this process. My mouth and throat are trying to make me swallow, but my brain keeps telling me not to swallow it or I'll choke and die. I start feeling all sweaty and hot.

Consequently, I gag. Repeatedly. Violently. Eye wateringly violent. It's awful. There is no solution to this problem. I avoid gum like arsenic.

Example 3: potato salad. Similar to soup, but even more confusing. You have crunchy stuff (celery), chewyish stuff (potatoes), and hardboiled eggs (squishy stuff). It all needs to be chewed, but to greater and lesser degrees. It isn't one texture or even two textures, but THREE. It's absolutely impossible.

(Not only is it different textures, but the different things are all different SIZES. WTH??? Who's sadistic idea was this?)

My brain cannot even deal with the complexity of the chewing process for potato salad. I end up swallowing large chunks of potato whole or inadvertently getting egg up my sinuses. (Don't ask, I don't know).

Thankfully, nature has given me a convenient way out of this embarrassing situation. Most potato salads are made with mayonnaise, which 99.9% of the time has soy in it, to which I am deathly allergic. It provides a convenient excuse that doesn't refer to my strange, apoplectic aversion to varied textures. I can get away with a semblance of normalcy with strangers this way.

You guys know the truth now. The ugly horrible truth of how I over-analyze my food. I have a problem. I have learned to live with it... but it isn't pretty.