Each Sunday before the 8:30am mass is set to begin, an elderly couple comes in through the side door. The grey moustached husband quietly leads his wife to the front pew, sees her settled and then heads to the back of the church to attend to his duty as an usher. The wife's appearance hints at a life lived with grit, joy and fullness, as she has tattoos on her arms, dark mascara around her lovely blue eyes, hair that will eternally be blond, faded jeans, and a smile that lights the air around her. On many such morning, she has pulled me in for a hug, or given my hand an extra squeeze and I have discovered that these little moments are so important to me. Lately though, she has been moving a bit slower, standing a little less tall, seeming confused a bit more often. She grips her husband's arm a little tighter and he holds her a little more carefully. With each Sunday, a little more time has passed, taking cruelly from us and returning to us things which we don't realize we need. But as Sunday's mass begins, I step up to the podium with my normal sweaty palms, shaky knees, and rapidly pounding heart. However, as I look past the sheet music and useless anxieties in front of me, I see her smiling from the first pew. She beams up at me, her warmth a welcome benediction. I share in her smile, take a deep breath and … "Good Morning and welcome to Saint Gregory. Today the Church celebrates Palm Sunday…"
True religion is real living; living with all one's soul, with all one's goodness and righteousness.
Albert Einstein
