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Our Lady
by
Harry Buschman
Our hearts swell with pride when we walk by Our Lady of Perpetual Devotion.
Even non Catholics grudgingly admit it to be the architectural gem of the
community, heads and shoulders above our firehouse and the American Legion Post
738.
The first Catholics in our town were a minority and they worshipped in an
empty store next to Ernie's hardware store. It was only a parish then -- The
Parish of Perpetual Hope. It was not an inspiring house of worship, in fact it
looked like it was going out of business.
It is a unique characteristic of the Catholic Church to follow its people
wherever they go. Wherever Catholics put down roots you will find a church
nearby, while Protestants and Jews must travel miles to get to theirs. There's a
good reason for this. If you examine the neighborhood closely you'll find that
Protestants and Jews have automobiles, whereas most Catholics are penniless and
walk to church. Moreover, good Catholics go to church every day. Some of them
go to church before breakfast, others drop in to beg a quick favor from the
Almighty, particularly when the state lottery nudges 10 million. Finally, there
are those who must duck into the confessional for a heart to heart with Father
Stanley when they think they've done something wrong.
Father Stanley Puchalsky was ordained as our Priest by Bishop Harshenfeld
when Our Lady first opened its doors. He has seen us in sickness and in health.
He has joined many of us in matrimony and mispronounced our children's names at
christenings. He will visit you in the hospital, he will stop by when you're
mowing your lawn ... and he'll sit with you and hold your hand tightly when
silence and understanding are the only things he has to offer.
As a unique service he does something even more useful. He places bets for
you at the state lottery. Some of us think there's a better chance of winning
when you've got a man of the cloth in your corner. Unfortunately, Divine
Intervention is not infallible, but neither is no intervention at all, so we
take our
chances. About a year ago my number came up! $550! I figured my taxes and
gave Father Stan the rest. That's another thing about the Catholic Church; they
don't ask where your money comes from, and the people who give it don't
explain how they got it, nor do they ask what the church does with it. I can
assume
that some of it went to pay for the bell that summons us to seven o'clock mass
and scares the pigeons the hell out of the belfry.
The seven o'clock mass draws a small but devoted circle of the elderly and
infirm. They are, on the whole, thankful, (even surprised) to find themselves
granted another day of living. It may be their last and they want to start off
on the right foot. Although Father Stan has a young Jesuit assistant he prefers
to kick off the day in the company of his old friends. One of his oldest and
dearest friends is Florida Oregon.
It is sometimes wise to use assumed names to conceal the true identity of
people in fiction. I am occasionally embarrassed to find somebody I've maligned
is still living and hell-bent on suing me, but in the case of Florida I am
taking the liberty of using her given name proudly. She would want it that way
--
none of this cloak and dagger stuff for Florida.
Florida is Sexton for Our Lady of Perpetual Devotion, she rings the bell for
mass on the hour ... you can set your watch. There's always wine in the
chalice, always wafers in the tray and the collars of the altar boys are
starched
and spotless. Father Stan loves Florida and would marry her if he could. I don't
know what the qualifications for sainthood are, but they must be pretty damn
high if Florida can't go marchin' in. They're quite a twosome and on balance I
think I'd give the edge to Florida. She is irreplaceable. When Father Stan
goes, another Priest will be in his shoes in a week.
I don't attend the seven o'clock mass every day. I'm ashamed to admit there
are days when it slips my mind entirely. Other times I feel compelled to write
a nasty letter to the editor -- sometimes there is wash to be done, or maybe
the damn squirrel has gotten in the bird feeder again. In short, the business
of living seems to me just as important as the business of preparing for an
eternity with nothing to do. I believe I have reached an understanding with my
Maker in this regard. I am not a holy man, I cannot walk on water and never in
my long life has the Virgin whispered in my ear. Therefore I assume I'm on my
own. I shall live what's left of the rest of my life doing what I think is
right to do. When I can no longer do so, I shall go to Him and hand Him the keys
to the old Biscayne along with my driver's license and let Him take it from
there.
Father Stan does not agree with my hedonistic philosophy; he goes by the
book. So do the regulars at the seven o'clock mass, so this is a minority
opinion
I share only with Florida. Florida believes religion is like candy -- it puts
a sweetness in life it wouldn't have otherwise. When I do make an appearance,
she nudges me as I pass through those expensive rosewood doors ... "How are
they hangin' sinner ... everything cool with you?"
Voicelessly and helplessly I embrace her ... I've missed a day, and I regret
that. But I'm here with her now. Here with Father Stan and the seven o'clock
regulars, making sure God's keeping his part of the bargain.
©Harry Buschman
(990)
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