I leave my house in the chill of a coastal Carolina predawn October morning and make my way down the stairs of my apartment building as quietly as possible so that my neighbors’ dogs don’t wake up. After my car warms up a little, I pull out of my parking space and silently make my way to an equally quiet church.
I’ve begun going to daily Mass in the mornings. This is not something I’ve ever been in the position to do on a regular basis; in high school I had to drive too far to get to school and in college, I always had morning classes. But recently I’ve been feeling a tug at my soul to experience Christ in the Eucharist every morning. Though I don’t like my alarm clock, it hasn’t been hard this week to get up and go.
Crossing the bridge, I see the first vestiges of day appearing over the horizon. The deep blue of night gives way to a paler blue sky tinged with brilliant rays of pinkish orange. My little red car is one of only a few on the highway and I marvel at the stillness of the morning.
My decision to start making the trip across the bridge was a combination of a few things. A few weeks ago, my mom and I made the trip to Murfreesboro, Tennessee so that I could present a paper at a conference. On the way, at some point about hour seven or eight of our ten hour trip, I saw a car sitting on the side of the road rather haphazardly and I made an offhanded remark that that sight reminded me of Flannery O’Connor’s short story “A Good Man is Hard to Find.” The next week, I posted a status on Facebook asking if anyone knew of a good biography of O’Connor, since I didn’t know much about her other than that she was a Catholic from Georgia who wrote short stories and died young. My friend Ann suggested the recent biography by Brad Gooch, which I’ll write about in more depth later, so I checked it out of the public library earlier this week. One of the things that I discovered about O’Connor was that she was a daily communicant, as that gave her her center, reminding her of her identity as a Catholic in the predominately Protestant South and helping shape her writing. Reading that gave me the first seed of the idea that this would be good for me.
Kneeling in prayer in the still church, I fight back yawns. My friends, seated around me, do the same. We are all here to begin our work days in worship, together, offering our still-sleepy bodies as a sacrifice to the One Who sacrificed all for us.
Then, on Wednesday night, my friend Nathan was bugging me about going to Mass with the small group from MP that goes every morning. He jokingly threatened to call me and wake me up every morning until I started going, so I decided that I would go on Thursday just because he had made such a big deal about it. I am so grateful that . It’s been a long time since I’ve had friends who want to peer pressure me into holiness; since July, I’ve been going to Wednesday night Bible study with the young adult group at the Cathedral downtown and it’s been wonderful. I’m probably a little biased, but it is wonderful having a group of smart, funny, kind friends who share my faith.
The tangibility of Catholicism seems particularly accessible early in the morning. The tissue-like paper of the Mass reading booklet. The firm grip of my fellow worshippers’ hands as we exchange the sign of peace. The stretch of every vertebrae in my back as I bow before receiving the Blessed Sacrament. The tastes of both species of the Sacrament. The coolness of the holy water as I bless myself while exiting the sanctuary. The experience is both concrete and mystical
In just a few short days, I have come to love morning Mass, early though it is. Receiving Christ’s Body and Blood into my body prepares me to go out and live my faith in a more fearless way. Prayer comes easier, I work harder and better, and (as this post evidences) I have begun to write again. All because I’ve allowed myself to experience Christ as He is calling me to do in this season of my life.
