I stand outside the door to the church, uncertain. Do I go in? Do I not go in? Mass is at 8:00, the Rosary is at 7:45, and confession is at 7:30. It is 7:34; I have missed confession. Menos mal... I probably shouldn't confess in Spanish anyways, just to be on the safe side.
I go in and choose a seat on the right side in the back, so as few people as possible can watch me blunder my way through mass. There are four or five elderly women kneeling already, and others start trickling in. They're all well over seventy, and I'm starting to wonder if this is a women's-only service. I close my eyes and let the smells of the church wash over me. I couldn't name the scents if you offered me a million dollars, but they are smells I am very familiar with. Combined, they stir up so many memories within me that I am overcome with emotion. I remember the time I got to carry the North Star to the altar during the Nativity program on Christmas Eve, even though I really wanted to be Mary. I remember how we used to stay after church to eat donuts, how my brother would squeal with excitement every time the organ sounded, and how we always sat in the exact same pew every single week. I met my first boyfriend at church, I started my period at church; I grew up there.
I also remember the confusion I felt at age fourteen when I was told it was time for my "confirmation." A few years later, I realized how ridiculous it was for me to confirm my faith in something I didn't even fully understand. At age fourteen, how can you possibly know that you want to go through confirmation? I remember sitting at mass one Sunday and realizing with a jolt that I was reciting parts of the mass under my breath along with the priest, and also realizing that I had been doing that for as long as I could remember. What did they even mean? The words spoken in monotone, the words I had memorized without meaning to, the words that I was supposed to understand; I realized they meant nothing to me. I'm pretty sure it was a short while after that day that I stopped going to church.
Finding myself surrounded by Spanish women in this ornate stone church, all of whom look at me kindly and nod my way as I glance around, I don't know what to feel. Before I have a chance to consider the options, the chuch is filled with a woman's voice, which is a bit crackly over the microphone. She's speaking very quickly and never changes pitch, and then she pauses as the thirty or so women and five men mumble back. The Rosary has begun. I've sat through one before, and I probably even participated because it was for my grandpa's funeral, but it's another experience entirely when it's in another language. I catch a few words now and then, so I know roughly where we are on the prayer string, but they are mumbling so fast and so monotonously that I can't keep up.
It's finally done and mass promptly begins. The priest has a nice voice, but I can't really understand because of the echoes. Up, down, up, down, up down. I do my best to follow, but my sore legs slow me down. This actually turns out to be okay because I am the youngest person in this church by at least forty years, so we're standing and sitting at the same pace. The priest lifts the host to bless it, and I find myself reciting the English version in my head. Right on cue, I murmer "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you but only say the word and I shall be healed." Maybe I'm not as rusty as I thought. We begin the Lord's Prayer, and I'm surprised at how difficult it is to say it in English while listening to everyone else say it in Spanish. I stumble through it, and my mind wanders to a linguistics class where we discussed that very phenomenon.
We stand for the Eucharist and I feel like a robot. Walking towards the altar, I imagine myself at age eight wearing a white dress for my First Communion. I was so excited that day! We had a party and I got my picture taken a bazillion times. Today, however, I feel empty. "The body of Christ." Right hand cupped under left. "Amen." Right hand to mouth. Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Amen. Cross hands. Walk back to pew. Kneel. Close eyes. What have I just done? What does it mean? It tastes and smells so familiar, and yet so foreign. It feels natural, but my mind is racing. Is it just muscle memory, or is this what's right for me? It's hard to say.
The priest asks all of the pilgrims to come forward for the traditional blessing of the pilgrim. There are five of us and we all join hands while the priest asks God to watch over us and take care of our pain, hunger, and thirst. I feel warmth and happiness radiating around me, and for the first time since I can remember I feel at home in a church.
I'm not sure what to make of all of this, so I guess I'll just keep walking.
K
Astorga, Spain
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