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Authors: Mary Kay Leatherman
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get to do. The “book” happened to be the easier of the two jobs assigned to the servers. These jobs had been taught to me earlier that year during a forty-five-minute training session where Young-Uptight Father Gusweiler magically made me an altar boy. A flock of half minipriest hopefuls and half this-was-not-my-idea youths sat listening to Father while their mothers sat in the back of the church.
Hey, I have an idea! Let’s get the boys in their most awkward, self-conscious state of puberty and put them on the altar for all to gawk at during Mass. Oh, and don’t let the girls up there. Did they really want to give the key to the tabernacle to a sixth-grade boy? Did they have any idea how hard it was for a twelve-year-old boy to keep a straight face when he saw hisfriend from the pews crossing his eyes? Did they not know how tempting it was to shine the shiny-crumb-catcher thing right against the light so that it would reflect on the ceiling? Did they know how hard it was to get up at 5:45 in the morning on days that boys served at the 6:30 a.m. Mass and stay awake for that next hour? I think they knew. Oh, they knew. No one had spared them, either.
Those who schemed up this whole altar-boy thing must have felt that young men might gain some character taking part in the liturgy. They must have hoped that the overwhelming, nauseating stench of the incense would knock some sense into the young boys. Maybe the holy-water thingy that the priest shook at the congregation would look like something fun to do. Maybe some of those young participants would consider the priesthood. I’m sure they had an agenda. I just know that the roller coaster of emotions every time my name showed up on the altar-server roster was absolute. From the moment I put on the ugly church clothes to the moment I was dropped off after the Mass, I would endure that anxious feeling that I might screw something up.
Occasionally, while enduring my “anxiety and suffering” offering to God, I would have moments of awe. As I held a gold plate under the communicants’ chins as they stuck out their tongues for the Holy Eucharist, some people looked hungrier than others to me. Hungry for something. Hungry for what? Of course, the younger communicants focused more on the style of receiving the Eucharist. After watching and anticipating their time to partake in the Communion, they wanted to do it right. It was the older people of the community who always struck me. They looked so hungry.
During the mornings that I served, I had to wonder, what had gotten these older people out of bed to come to Mass? I know that if Grandpa Mac had not prodded me along, I certainly would still be in a nice, warm bed. What made these people get up so early to come? They could have slept in. If you are over one hundred years old or so, you shouldn’t have to go to 6:30 a.m. Mass. Right? Yet they all looked so hungry. They actually wanted to be there. It was during this time that I felt completely unworthy. Unworthy to be standing on the altar. Unworthy to be partaking in this amazing ritual. Unworthy to receive such grace I did not understand.
After Mass that evening in the summer of 1974, once Ken-or-Keith and I had cleaned up, snuffing out candles and putting everything in order for the next Mass, I hung up my robe and headed out to the blacktop parking lot. Grandpa Mac and Babe were waiting for me. The ride home was pretty much the same as the ride to church except that every once in a while Grandpa Mac would stop by Goodrich Dairy and get two chocolate malts for us. That night on our way home, we saw a small black man walking down Blondo Street with an armful of brooms and a white cane. Mac waved at the man. The old man, in a suit and tie, wearing a capped hat, held about five brooms over his shoulder. He moved the cane back and forth as he walked down the sidewalk.
“That’s Reverend Livingston, Ben,” Grandpa Mac said quietly. “He’s a blind man who sells brooms
Hey, I have an idea! Let’s get the boys in their most awkward, self-conscious state of puberty and put them on the altar for all to gawk at during Mass. Oh, and don’t let the girls up there. Did they really want to give the key to the tabernacle to a sixth-grade boy? Did they have any idea how hard it was for a twelve-year-old boy to keep a straight face when he saw hisfriend from the pews crossing his eyes? Did they not know how tempting it was to shine the shiny-crumb-catcher thing right against the light so that it would reflect on the ceiling? Did they know how hard it was to get up at 5:45 in the morning on days that boys served at the 6:30 a.m. Mass and stay awake for that next hour? I think they knew. Oh, they knew. No one had spared them, either.
Those who schemed up this whole altar-boy thing must have felt that young men might gain some character taking part in the liturgy. They must have hoped that the overwhelming, nauseating stench of the incense would knock some sense into the young boys. Maybe the holy-water thingy that the priest shook at the congregation would look like something fun to do. Maybe some of those young participants would consider the priesthood. I’m sure they had an agenda. I just know that the roller coaster of emotions every time my name showed up on the altar-server roster was absolute. From the moment I put on the ugly church clothes to the moment I was dropped off after the Mass, I would endure that anxious feeling that I might screw something up.
Occasionally, while enduring my “anxiety and suffering” offering to God, I would have moments of awe. As I held a gold plate under the communicants’ chins as they stuck out their tongues for the Holy Eucharist, some people looked hungrier than others to me. Hungry for something. Hungry for what? Of course, the younger communicants focused more on the style of receiving the Eucharist. After watching and anticipating their time to partake in the Communion, they wanted to do it right. It was the older people of the community who always struck me. They looked so hungry.
During the mornings that I served, I had to wonder, what had gotten these older people out of bed to come to Mass? I know that if Grandpa Mac had not prodded me along, I certainly would still be in a nice, warm bed. What made these people get up so early to come? They could have slept in. If you are over one hundred years old or so, you shouldn’t have to go to 6:30 a.m. Mass. Right? Yet they all looked so hungry. They actually wanted to be there. It was during this time that I felt completely unworthy. Unworthy to be standing on the altar. Unworthy to be partaking in this amazing ritual. Unworthy to receive such grace I did not understand.
After Mass that evening in the summer of 1974, once Ken-or-Keith and I had cleaned up, snuffing out candles and putting everything in order for the next Mass, I hung up my robe and headed out to the blacktop parking lot. Grandpa Mac and Babe were waiting for me. The ride home was pretty much the same as the ride to church except that every once in a while Grandpa Mac would stop by Goodrich Dairy and get two chocolate malts for us. That night on our way home, we saw a small black man walking down Blondo Street with an armful of brooms and a white cane. Mac waved at the man. The old man, in a suit and tie, wearing a capped hat, held about five brooms over his shoulder. He moved the cane back and forth as he walked down the sidewalk.
“That’s Reverend Livingston, Ben,” Grandpa Mac said quietly. “He’s a blind man who sells brooms
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