Altar Girl

I was standing off to the side in front of the church. The church was designed like a stadium, a sea of people in pews circling the altar, like they were attending a concert. In this instance, a Creed concert. My white robe was too long for me, mainly because I was wearing one that usually is reserved for boy altar servers, but I was tall. I looked like a large ghost. The priest stopped talking and this was my cue. 

I grabbed the gold taper and ceremoniously walked, because of how long my robe was, it probably looked like I was gliding, floating along the ground to the large lit candle, which held court off to the side of the altar. I don’t remember what this candle is called, I could google it, but that would be lying. I feel like it’s important that you know I completely forgot its name. But I remember that it represented Christ, and death, and resurrection I think- light overcoming darkness. 

My job was to use the long taper to take a flame from this large candle and walk it over to two smaller candles that were on opposite ends of the altar and light them. And to do this while an audience of Catholics sat in silence, watching me. 

My other jobs were to ring bells at appropriate times, hold spiritual texts for the priests and deacons, follow them around, stand at their side like an obedient angel. 

I volunteered to do this, that’s important to know too. There was no parent forcing me to do this. It wasn’t listed as some extra curricular activity or act of service on a college application. It wasn’t a chosen punishment ultimatum from juvenile delinquency court (you can be an altar server every Sunday morning or you can pick up garbage on the side of the highway). I was a teenage girl who wanted to serve the Lord. Literally a freak of nature. When I die a sexless nun, the abbess or Mother Superior will say this was the first sign of my calling. 

As I held my arm up to take a light from the big candle, whatever it’s called, my robe rose with my arms, revealing my sneakers with mismatched socks underneath. Angels can wear dirty high tops, ok? Getting the light was easy, but walking across the church to the altar posed a problem. As I walked the flame blew out. I stood there, halfway to the altar, holding the extinguished taper, the smoke rising into the sunlight streaming through the large stained glass windows. I made eye contact with the priest. 

I slowly turned and went back to the giant candle and re-lit the taper. Then I slowly, with my hand this time cupping the flame, walked towards the altar, the flame disappearing into smoke just before I got to my destination. 

The entire church was holding their breath and I could see my parents in one of the pews. My mom lovingly trying not to laugh and my dad’s encouraging eyes, all but cheering into the sacred silence, “you got this Bunk!”€ 

I floated again down the steps of the altar and back to the large candle. This time I stood looking at the giant wax light source supposedly holding the spirit of God in it. What happens when it melts away, when it comes time to order another one? There must be some warehouse somewhere full of all this Catholic memorabilia-tapers, holy cloths, altar dressings, chalices and such. An old lady on the churches payroll who manages the invoices each month for all this crap, mailing checks out. 

I took a deep breath and again lit the taper, this time determined not to let the Holy Spirit vanquish on my journey. In retrospect, most of my life has been performing this two-step, trying to keep the light alive in the darkness, having to make many trips back to the source of the light and try again. 

As I slowly walked back, my eyes were hypnotized by the flame- I’m sure I was crosseyed. It’s a miracle I didn’t trip over my robe and light the church on fire. Once I got to the altar I reached my arms up slowly, carefully, and the flame blew out as a collective murmur of disappointment was expelled from the watching Catholics. Like we were all at a football game and I just fumbled the winning touchdown. I looked around me prissily, can we turn the air-conditioning off? I can’t serve The Lord in these conditions. 

Suddenly, the priest appeared next to me with a small orange Bic lighter. Where did he get a lighter? Does Father Dave smoke? As he lit the candles, he smiled at me like Santa smiles at his elves. It’s ok, little friend. 

I eventually had to end my devout service because I moved away to attend college. In college I would watch a lot of movies based off true stories of journalists exposing the corruption, scandal and essentially the horrors of the Catholic Church- specifically priests being locked away in prison to die in disgrace after taking advantage of their altar boys. 

But there has always been something deep within me that fiercely believes. In a senseless world, no matter what happens, my faith in God, in something, never wavers. I met God in church, but I found Him outside of worships walls. 

I’ve felt God on the track. I’ve felt Him in moments of exhaustion or disruption, getting tripped and trampled but getting back up, finding some sort of magic speed that pushes me ahead causing me to win. I’ve never felt that was an invincible desire to win, or sheer talent. I’ve always felt that was God’s strength revealing itself to me.

I’ve felt God in nature. How can you not when you are under the stars looking up at a mysterious, unknown, galaxy. In the ocean, floating, looking at how the water disappears into the horizon, knowing that it travels on and on, its own mysterious galaxy that we will never fully comprehend or understand at it’s capacity. In a forrest surrounded by larger than life trees, out in the mountains, in the snow, in the sun. Around all the beauty you can’t explain- it’s just, there. 

Recently, I went to the beach on a particularly gloomy winter day. It was raining everywhere, but when I got to the ocean and settled in on the sand, writing prayers into my notebook, watching the waves underneath heavy clouds, the drizzly seaside climate, until it changed and sun came out. That has to be God, doesn’t it? I can’t bring myself to believe it’s just a happy accident. 

I’ve felt God in hospitals, in airports, in schools.

I’ve felt God in others. Sometimes so much so that I fall in love with them. 

When I was discharged from the hospital this year, returning to my car and turning the key in the ignition, the time flashed 11:11. It made me pause, and I couldn’t help but feel that familiar quiet strength swell. Don’t give up on yourself Jenn, I thought and I wondered if that was me talking to myself or God talking to me. 

I taught Noah about angel numbers. Angel numbers reveal themselves to you when you are thinking a thought, or saying a prayer, or thinking about someone you love, they will show up somehow. Noah looked thrilled by this- a number’s game. “It’s not like I Spy though,” I clarified. “It’s your angels watching over you, it’s proof,”€ I say. Noah is thinking. “What about demon numbers?”€he asks innocently and I am at first shocked and appalled and then reminded that he is my child- we are one in the same sometimes. “No. No demons, only angels,”€ I tell him sternly, confidently. “Our passed on loved ones who still watch over us, God,” I explain further. 

“Here, I have an example. Once your mama was talking to your Uncle Bryant. Your Uncle Bryant’s mama was sick and in the hospital. Your Uncle was worried. I was leaving him a message that I was praying for her, and that she’s strong, she will be ok, she will get through this. Your Uncle Bryant’s mama is a tiny, spicy Guatemalan woman. Noah, when I say this woman takes no sh- no nonsense from anyone,”€I explain, catching myself before I said shit. 

“Spicy Gwata-melon woman,”€ Noah repeats joyfully and I am aware that this phrase will dance out of his mouth at a very inappropriate time in the near future, leaving me to explain and be shamed as a terrible lunatic mother. 

“But the point is, after I left the message, I saw a sign on a lamppost. It was an advertisement for some service, like gardening or something, but the phone number was 1-999-something.” We are driving in the car and I look at Noah in the rear view mirror to see if he’s following. “999 is an angel number. The chances of me seeing that sign at that exact moment…”€ I trail off. “It’s like the angels were confirming my prayers for Uncle Bryant’s mom. Confirming that she’s not alone in this, that we aren’t alone in this either,”€ I explain.

Do I sound crazy? Should I be telling this to a five year old? 

Even though he is five, he seems to understand. I wonder if I am instilling hope into the core of his soul, or something detrimental and damaging. Will he grow up searching for numbers, composing conspiracy theories out of numerology? I think of A Beautiful Mind when Jennifer Connelly finds Russel Crow’s crazy shed out in the woods- full of papers and string and newspaper clippings, peanut shells all over the floor. 

Or will he grow up to see signs, see miracles? See God in places, in people, in himself? 

“Mama, look,”€ he says pointing out the car window. Parked on the side of the road is a car, three numbers on its license plate glaring at us, 444.

I met God in church.

But He didn’t€stay there.