The Red Suit
Sunday is never a day of rest for the parish liturgist and sometimes, in the busyness of the small details, it can be hard to remember why we gather together. This day was no exception. There would be a baptism at the early Mass and the font had to be filled by hand. The visiting priest arrived and directions about his way of celebrating were shared with the other ministers. Somebody needed keys to the nursery. The altar servers were unsure of themselves during the Eucharistic Prayer and I made a mental note to emphasize this in the next training session. Little details are what liturgists notice.
The late Mass started out well. Only three of the fifteen volunteers hadn’t shown up. We quickly changed the batteries in the wireless mic so there wouldn’t be any feedback during the homily. It would be another big crowd with every seat taken, even the ones in the front row. She walked in with her daughter just as the gathering song started, her red suit and carefully combed white hair giving her stooped frame a quiet dignity. A young high school student gladly gave up his seat for her, and she held my hand tightly as I led her to it. Her daughter told her she would be fine and found a seat on the other side of the church.
I stood in the gathering area, making sure the wireless mic really did work. Another chair needed to be found for the elderly couple who came in holding hands. Should anything be said to the two girls playing catch with bright pink vampire lips, or would their parents take care of it? I quit counting the kids going to the bathroom after I reached 27. In the small distractions, the woman in red was momentarily forgotten.
When the Communion line began to form, I suddenly remembered that wrinkled hand clasping mine tightly. How would she manage to go down the aisle and receive the Body of Christ on her own? I went into the church and waited patiently behind her. As the people in her pew stood up, I reached for her hand once again. She hesitated, then carefully straightened. We walked forward together, my hand in hers, never saying a word to one another. Every few steps she squeezed my hand gently and we looked at each other and smiled. We held hands even as we received Christ’s life-giving Body. Walking slowly and carefully back to her seat I saw that the tears in my eyes were falling on her cheeks.
Together we had tasted Christ’s presence and in our clasped hands we had felt his loving embrace. In my memory I will see her red suit and white hair; in my heart I will know her tender touch. It was, after all, in the little details that I had found God.
