A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [174]
Francie thought it was the most beautiful church in Brooklyn. It was made of old gray stone and had twin spires that rose cleanly into the sky, high above the tallest tenements. Inside, the high vaulted ceilings, narrow deepset stained-glass windows and elaborately carved altars made it a miniature cathedral. Francie was proud of the center altar because the left side had been carved by Granpa Rommely more than half a century ago when, as a young fellow lately come from Austria, he had begrudgingly given his tithe of labor to his Church.
The thrifty man had gathered up the bits of gouged-out wood and taken them home. Stubbornly he had fitted and glued the scraps together and carved out three small crucifixes from the blessed wood. Mary gave one to each of her daughters on their wedding day with instructions that the crosses were to be passed on to the first daughter in each succeeding generation.
Katie’s crucifix hung high on the wall over the mantelpiece at home. It would be Francie’s when she married and she was proud that it had come from the wood of that fine altar.
Today the altar was lovely with banked scarlet poinsettias and fir boughs with the golden points of lighted slender white candles gleaming among the leaves. The thatched crèche was inside the altar rail. Francie knew that the tiny hand-carved figures of Mary, Joseph, the kings, and shepherds were grouped about the Child in the manger as they had first been grouped a hundred years ago when they had been brought over from the old country.
The priest entered, followed by the altar boys. Over his other vestments, he wore a white satin chasuble with a golden cross on the front and back. Francie knew that the chasuble was symbolic of the seamless garment, supposedly woven by Mary, that they had removed from Christ before they nailed Him to the cross. It was said that on Calvary, the soldiers, not wishing to divide the garment, had cast dice for it while Jesus was dying.
Absorbed in her thoughts, Francie missed the beginning of the mass. She picked it up now, following the familiar Latin in translation.
To Thee, O God, my God, I will give praise upon the harp. Why art thou sad, my soul, and why dost thou disquiet me, chanted the priest in his deep rich voice.
Hope in God, for I will still give praise to Him, responded the altar boy.
Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost.
As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end, Amen, came the response.
I will go unto the altar of God, chanted the priest.
To God, Who giveth joy to my youth, came the response.
Our help is in the name of the Lord.
Who made Heaven and earth.
The priest bowed and recited the Confiteor.
Francie believed with all her heart that the altar was Calvary and that again Jesus was offered up as a sacrifice. As she listened to the consecrations, one for His Body and one for His Blood, she believed that the words of the priest were a sword which mystically separated the Blood from the Body. And she knew, without knowing how to explain why, that Jesus was entirely present, Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity in the wine in the golden chalice and in the bread on the golden plate.
“It’s a beautiful religion,” she mused, “and I wish I understood it more. No. I don’t want to understand it all. It’s beautiful because it’s always a mystery, like God Himself is a mystery. Sometimes I say I don’t believe in God. But I only say that when I’m mad at Him…Because I do! I do! I believe in God and Jesus and Mary. I’m a bad Catholic because I miss mass once in a while and I grumble when, at confession, I get a heavy penance for something I couldn’t help doing. But good or bad, I am a Catholic and I’ll never be anything else.
“Of course, I didn’t ask to be