Points for showing up

I don't like my church very much.  However, it's a non-negotiable.  I am a Catholic, baptized, raised, and married in the faith.  When I say I don't like my church, I don't mean Church with a capital "C" but rather our local parish.  It just doesn't feel like a home for my heart just yet.

Here in the wilds of Eastern Europe, most people are of the Orthodox faith.  Roman Catholics are in the minority.  Our church is connected to the French Embassy, and it's a beautiful little building. There is even an English-language mass, if we so chose to attend, except that it is at 6 pm on Saturdays, which is difficult to manage given Bee's early bedtime.  Bee wakes up early every morning, around 5:30, so we usually have plenty of time to go for a run, make breakfast, shower, and walk over to 8:30 Sunday mass.  

It's just that we don't belong to this church.  Last week, David and Bee and I were literally the only people, aside from the earnest priest, under the age of 65. An entire generation of believers was lost during the long dark communist years.  The church itself was shuttered except for visiting foreign delegations, when it was opened in a show of tolerance.  The gray haired grandparents at church now are the children of devout Roman Catholics long dead. There are no young people. We are a minority religion, a dwindling faith.  

However, the elderly people at mass are so excited to see Bee. They want to kiss her hands and tell her how well behaved she is, or isn't.  How do you keep a toddler silent and still for 45 minutes?  It's a trick I haven't figured out. Bee usually causes at least one drama each Sunday.  

A few weeks ago, Bee snatched the pamphlet with the weekly liturgy and took a bite out of it before I could stop her. I assumed that she either ate the paper or dropped it somewhere. However, throughout the service she was surreptitiously chewing.  When we stood up to get in line for communion, I asked her whether she had something in her mouth and if she would like to spit it out.  She looked at me very seriously and then delicately spit (spat?) a spitball into my hand. Now, I was wearing a dress with no pockets.  I wasn't about the drop the spitball on the floor, as it was sizable. I took the only course of action I could think of. I leaned up close against David and slipped it into the pocket of his khakis.  Problem solved, off to communion we went. It was only later that afternoon when I was recounting this story to him that I realized that I had forgotten to tell him to take the spitball out of his pocket!  It was still there.

The week before that Bee decided to pretend to be a snake and was imitating a snake with her tongue.  (The girl is an animal lover.)  She looked so possessed that I almost had to excuse myself to avoid having a fit of hysterical laughter.  Then she tried to lick the pew.  Heaven help us.

We go, yet we don't belong, we're chastised (and encouraged) by the grannies there, we don't understand the homily, we sit and struggle to keep Bee from causing a ruckus, we pray for it to be over.  But we are there.  We show up.  I hope, for now, that's enough.