Open Seat at the Supper Table.

My father was a truck driver that delivered everything from coffee, bread, to mechanic uniforms. He worked hard to provide a Catholic education for my siblings and me, that would take us from the first grade all the way to eighth.   I imagine his decision to send us to Catholic school was inspired by the first generation of relatives that decided to send their children. Our family followed this tradition without question. We were not devout Catholics, and we didn’t attend Mass regularly, but remained loyal in attending Mass for the Christmas and Easter holiday. We could recite all the prayers in record time and knew the standing, sitting, kneeling and all responses without a cue card.  Our participation was robotically, right on – but our commitment was lukewarm. 

I can remember when I was in the fourth grade, how I dreaded Monday mornings, for I knew that Sister Augusta would prompt the class on the previous Sunday’s homily. When my hand wasn’t raised to answer questions, they nervously nestled down on each side of my blue plaid uniform clenching the seat – signaling to Sister Augusta to swiftly walk around the classroom. As if she was parting the Red Sea, she sorted those who attended Sunday’s Mass to stand on the left, and those who did not, to stand on the right. I was always right – that is, I always stood on the right side, which was the wrong side of Sister Augusta.

Sister Augusta was creative in the way that she handled my absence from Sunday’s Mass. One morning she looked up from her John Lennon glasses, and said, “Looks like I’ve found a perfect reader for our 8:00 a.m. Sunday Mass.” All excuses finally ran out, and now my feet would literally be running me early to Church on Sunday. 

I can remember the still and crisp autumn air as I walked the long weathered road that was marked by street plows from many harsh winters. I had great conversations with the Lord as He wooed me with the best that nature had to offer in a town that was filled with Italian pizzerias and humble homes. I noticed how the denseness of zoysiagrass allowed frost to create a blanket of crystal white that glistened in the sunrise. The crows would make their “caw, caw, caw,” sound in a punctual patterns of three. I would watch the big jersey squirrels shake bird feeders for a morning seed delight. The 35 minute commute allowed me to take my relationship with the Lord into my maturing hands, becoming aware of my rights to freely worship, but it would take another year for me to learn about our country’s founding fathers that it made it so, and years to know that our heavenly Father doesn’t demand our love and obedience, but gifts us free will to choose. 

Sister Augusta had more volunteer opportunities for me. She invited me to clean the convent on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  Every week. Her invitation was more then dusting the exercise bikes, or using their Montgomery Ward handVacuum on the 32 steps. Her rewards were more then a tootsie roll or Hershey chocolate kiss. 

Her invitation opened up moments where I would find myself being guided to their chapel. I started to experience my faith on a deeper level then just going through robotic reverence. I couldn’t believe that God cared so much for me to always invite me back in a relationship with Him. He always kept an open seat for me at the supper table.

Over the last ten years, I have finally fallen into the rhythm of attending Mass regularly. I try to be fully present at Mass (fully present as a Mom to three young boys can be). Mass is the main reason why I attend Church every Sunday. As the priest depicts the scene of the last supper, I put myself into the scene. I pull up a chair and I am the 13^th disciple. I watch the priest break the bread, and I break myself open and confess my sins and struggles. When he blesses the wine, I pour myself into the present space where I’m seated in a pew among many and I exude only love.   Upon receiving communion, I pray for my spirit to be renewed, nourished and recalibrate to the holy.

So, my hope is that this essay is like a Sister Augusta invitation. Now, I’m not suggesting you volunteer to read at the 8:00 a.m. Sunday morning Mass - but if you do, you have earned the title, overachiever.  I am inviting you to give mass another go this Sunday.  So, consider this your formal invitation minus the fancy paper stock.  I’m also hoping that you will share this essay to invite others. Yes, I’m speaking to you the one that feels robotic during the praise. Or easily distracted by the one singer in the choir that’s off key or by the child that eats cheerios off the floor.  

Or you the one “that doesn’t get anything out of Mass.” and may not wake up “easy like Sunday morning.” 

Let all the noise and preconceptions fade away.

Immerse yourself in the message of the homily. The Lord is speaking to you – right where you are.  Place yourself at the table where the bread is broken and the wine is poured. Confess your brokenness. Pour your love into others. Let the body of Jesus nourish you in all the parts where you aren’t thriving and renew you where you feel stagnant.  Feel His love, be and become, and Repeat.

He leaves an open seat for you at the supper table.  Please come.