I Sang and I Cried

I hadn't really performed live music in public for about 14 years....that is, until Friday. I joined another guitarist, pianist and about 20 friends at a local bar & restaurant to play some music. We all had fun!


There was a parade on the street outside the church Saturday morning which meant we couldn't have Quinceaneras or weddings in the morning. In other words, I got to sleep in a little longer than usual. Saturday was also the the memorial of St. John Vianney, the patron Saint of parish priests. I went to confession, returned some phone calls and emails and then celebrated Mass in the rectory chapel with a friend. I spent some time in prayer reflecting over the readings for the weekend and worked on my homily. I heard confessions from 4:30-5:25 and then celebrated Mass at 5:30. I was back at the rectory at 7:00pm, changed clothes and headed over to a friends house for a party. For the second night in a row - and yet only the second time in 14 years - I was playing some live music in public. We managed not to embarrass ourselves too much and enjoyed the music and seeing some old friends.

Although it had been a LATE night I was outside the church with a cup of coffee greeting parishioners coming to the 7:45am Mass. I did the same for the 9:30 and 11:15am Masses and listened and spoke to a lot of people. I was so glad to see a young couple that I married last year coming out of the church. We talked for a while until I noticed there was a homeless man waiting patiently to talk to me. I walked over to the office with him to help him get a hotel for the night. A lady who frequently comes to the church with her children sought me out looking for money to get into an apartment. After addressing that I walked back in the office and found a man and woman in tears waiting to speak to a priest. They told me what I've heard too many times already in one year of priesthood: "my son was murdered last night ." I could feel my heart sink. They were still in shock, unable to really comprehend that their 31 year old son was shot to death just hours earlier. After praying and spending time with them I went to the kitchen ate a sandwich in about 3 minutes, changed clothes and went to the gym. I ran 5 miles and felt like I had the energy to run another 10! As I sat in the locker room I felt a rush of sorrow that almost drew me to tears. I don't know why! What was it about this couple and their son - if that's what it was -that was affecting me so much. I've been in similar situations before; why was this one really getting to me?

I returned to the parish to celebrate the 5:30pm Mass. From the very beginning I struggled to keep my composure - not a common occurrence for this Irish priest. I began my homily the same way as did at the previous Mass until I mentioned my meeting with this couple. I had to pause a moment to catch my breath and composure as I struggled, though successfully, to continue my homily. The church was silent, absolutely silent.

I begged the congregation not to be like the fool of the Gospel who hoarded his bountiful harvest for himself but to give, give, and give, recognizing that everything we are and have is a gift from God to be generously and gratefully placed at the service of others.

During the Eucharist Prayer, words such as Son; This is my body; this is my Blood; given up; shed for you; See the victim whose death has reconciled us to yourself; Gather your children wherever they may be, struck me. It was a beautiful but painful conversation with the Father. As I distributed Communion I wasn't able to get the words "the Body of Christ" to come out every time. I saw that I wasn't the only one with tears on my cheeks and a runny nose.

After Mass, the line of people formed and I blessed people - young and old - religious articles, and listened to people's joys and sorrows. A kind couple invited me to dinner and I gratefully accepted. Off to El Torito Grill for some good food, a tall blended drink, and a lot of talk about Angles' baseball. Refreshing - until I got home.

I had a voice mail. It was my Mom. I didn't listen to the voice mail, I just called her back. "You're aunt June died".

That was my weekend.
I sang and I cried.