I couldn't have guessed at 40 that I'd return to Mass with my dad. Until this year, my adult Mass aerobics have been primarily reserved to weddings and funerals, places that have the merit of feeling familiar from childhood but foreign by virtue of absence. I say aerobics because the mechanics of a Mass - all that standing up, sitting down, kneeling, turning one's torso for peace and greetings - en masse - is a phenomenal testament to the power of ritual and practice.
Writing this I'm even thinking about the aerobics of what Mass would look like without sound in a time-lapse video. The more estranged I was from the experience, the more powerful the oddity. Since going more regularly, it feels less strange, but lately my dad has had a harder time with all the ups and downs. I imagine it's a little like what I feel if I get off track with yoga - the unfamiliarity of intentionally working my muscles makes me grimace too.
To make it to my late Sunday morning yoga class, that means we go to the 8 a.m. Mass, which also means I am out of the house early on Sundays to get to North Portland on time, earlier than any other day of the week. I dreaded going as a kid. It was boring, and of course there was the unforgettable day as a young teenager that I saw a grown woman's white skirt flush with her monthly blood over the course of a Mass a few pews ahead of me that scarred me into thinking I could suffer something similar. I enjoy going to Mass because it's so clear how my great affinity for group singing and the power of ritual have shaped me, and because my dad lights up. Even if we walk away from the house and he's grumbling or upset, it dissolves once we've walked to the church. He sings everything - although rarely does he know the words. I try to make it easier by finding the hymns in the missal (because the task of finding a chronological number in a book is a task rendering defeat with dementia), though only sometimes can he follow along the words as I track them with my finger.
My dad grew up in a large Catholic family. A non-negotiable tenet of my parents' marriage was to raise us five kids Catholic, yet it was my Lutheran mom who escorted us to Catholic Mass on Sundays and traipsed some of us to Catholic grade school. I really don't remember attending Mass with my dad as a kid, but in his childhood he was an altar boy and even considered priesthood. (Side note: I am fascinated how many men I meet who have considered this as well.) I realized he was missing Mass about a year ago and going was one of the best ways I could integrate my rare free time into spending time with him on a schedule.
I have to admit, I rather enjoy going to Mass with my dad now. There's the Mechanics of Mass, but there's also the Songs. I'm pretty sure it's my dad's favorite part of going. Catholic hymns are a conundrum to me. Half the time, the words are absurd to me but the melodies are so catchy or so familiar from my youth that I can't help singing them. It doesn't really matter if my dad isn't singing the right words, because he also sings that special brand of sing that makes mumble words sound appropriate. I believe he sings because it fires up something in his brain that gives him peace and clarity. I've made an effort to really listen to the readings as well, and to think critically about how clever the priest is or isn't about his homily (today is still a toss up, as he was comparing the natural conservation management of forest fire to Jesus' division in families to prune out what won't survive). But I also try to hear what my dad may or may not be hearing. On Father's Day this year, I caught sight of my dad's face during the homily and saw that tears were streaming down his face. I won't ever know if something he heard is what made my dad cry that day, but I do know that the space of the Mass made it more comfortable. The clarity of the familiar ritual and place, the Mass on dementia, the dementia on Mass.
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