Soul Mosaic

As strange as it sounds, I LOVED the weekday Masses we had to attend before school. It was just me, and God, and a safe space…

School days started early. When I was first able to receive Communion with Mass at the end of second grade, the rule required that we fast for 3 hours prior to Communion. So I would just dress, grab my red-checkered metal lunch box, and go to church. My mother had packed not just lunch, but some buttered toast with cinnamon and sugar – my favorite. After Mass, the Sisters would give us time to eat breakfast. That rule changed soon after to a 1-hour fast, so I would eat breakfast before leaving in the morning.

Dad would’ve already gone to work, or he would be asleep, so that part of the process was peaceful enough. I’d munch on cereal while the local AM radio station played in the background.

At that time, one of the popular songs was Peggy Lee’s, “Is That All There Is?” I’d listen to her lament over and over, “Is that all there is?” about everything from a circus, to love, to her house burning down. No matter what happened in the song, all she would say was, “Is that all there is?” And then suggest breaking out the booze and keep dancing. I wasn’t sure what the point of the song was or why anyone bothered to write it. Mornings were hard enough without that energy.

Instead, I’d focus on the back of the Ritz cracker box, reading the recipe for “Mock Apple pie” as I ate. Apparently, using their crackers and some spices instead of apples, you could make a pie that tasted like the real thing. While I thought it was neat that you could do that, I wondered why anyone would want to make or eat a fake apple pie. Years later, I learned that during the Depression, apples were expensive and scarce. So this was a way to substitute crackers and still have a dessert. Anyway, done with cereal and Mock Apple pie, and not thinking about if that was all there was, I got dressed and headed to school, and morning Mass.

At church, I’d run to the top of the concrete stairs, yank open the heavy wooden door, and slip quietly inside the vestibule area. The moment the door shut, it felt like I’d entered another world — still, dark, and quiet. It seemed like the air itself didn’t move. Sometimes I would stand there for a couple of minutes before entering the church, just to “soak up” the holy feeling. It was so peaceful, and I loved it.