| Subject: The Ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove69 |
Author:
Schnee
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Date Posted: 11:32:59 03/24/01 Sat
In reply to:
Schnee
's message, "The Ubiquitous Mr, Lovegrove" on 08:05:43 03/24/01 Sat
Long tucked away memories well within in me as I see the church spires rising above me. Some memories not even my own. Snapshots depicted me as a wee infant all dressed in white being christened as my mother held me. Her smile shined as the priest poured the holy water on my head. Then, there is the image of me as a young boy receiving First Communion. In my mind I can still picture Yvette seated beside me, dressed like a miniature bride, with her curls pinned up under her headpiece. And me, donning a handsome suit, proud and naïve. I sigh, remembering the joy of young love.
I can also recall serving in this church as an altar boy, readying it for Mass each Sunday. From the time I was a young boy through adolescence, I served.
“It looks like they are preparing for a wedding.” Nikita mused seeing large floral arrangements being carried inside.
Christenings, weddings, and funerals, encompassing the whole circle of life, all celebrated in this baroque cathedral. But on this day, I stand in a weird position, living as a dead person. How do I fit into that cycle of life?
Taking Nikita’s hand, I guide her to the entrance of the cathedral, following the florists’ footsteps. Entering its grand hall, I encounter the expansive stained glass windows and ornate woodwork. Transported back in time, I see that little has changed. I feel as if I’m that little boy dressed in his uncomfortable suit, escorting his bride before the eyes of God.
Directing Nikita to a pew opposite the Confessional, we sit on its hard wooden surface. Sensing Nikita’s curiosity I explain.
“We attended this church. My mother was a devout Catholic. Every Sunday we came to Mass. Every Sunday.” I murmur as more memories flood my senses.
Actually, it wasn’t a Sunday. It was a Saturday not unlike this, as the Church was being prepared for a wedding that afternoon. Instead of just dropping me off as her normal routine dictated, my mother parked the car outside and entered with me. She dismissed me to attend to my duties as she sought out the priest. I didn’t think much of it as I was contemplating the evening and my date with Marguerite. A cute brunette with an infectious laugh.
But in making the preparations, I stumbled upon her meeting with the priest.
”I do love my children. But how can I stay in a marriage without love? One without trust. He is not the man I married 16 years ago in this very church.”
Although I could not see her eyes, I knew they were filled with tears as she confided in Father Denis. I could not drag myself away, even knowing that I was eavesdropping on what was meant to be a private conversation. It was not quite a revelation to me, but to actually hear my mother speaking these words pierced my heart. For I had no idea of the despair she carried. She always hid it well from us.
“Angélique, that may be, but divorce is not acceptable in the eyes of God or his church, and annulment would bastardize your children. I don’t believe you really want that.”
“So if I sever the ties to my husband you are telling me that I also sever my ties to my faith and my God? And if I don’t, I must live with a stranger just to please this Church and God? With a man who has grown not only distant to me, but also to his own children. What kind of life is that for them? Children are perceptive; they pick those subtle nuances up. What kind of example am I setting for them in living a lie?”
“Perhaps God has some purpose for you. Who are we to question his will? Please, Angelique. Consider this carefully.”
Now, after all the experiences I’ve had, I understand that as a priest, this man could not give adequate counsel for my mother. He never experienced the give and take marriage or the trials and tribulations of raising children. All he could was guide my mother towards the will of the Church. And my mother, so indoctrinated in its teachings, conceded.
I witnessed a turning point for my mother. A road not taken. A stark memory tucked away for many years. But to this day I can’t help but wonder how different our futures would have been had she rejected Father Denis’ counsel and left my father.
Returning Nikita’s curious glance, I examine her imploring blue eyes and pursed lips. I press my hands around hers, knowing that my future as it stands lies with her. I know not if any higher purpose has been served, but it’s the path my heart seeks.
“Much of my young life was spent here. I just needed to remember.” I state sincerely.
Nikita reaches her hand to lightly touch my cheek.
“I’m glad you shared this place with me. It’s really a beautiful old church. Finely crafted, weathering through the ages,” Nikita remarks, before looking up toward the colored light shining in. “I’m sure this church has witnessed many tears, both happy and sad. And from the looks of it, I’m sure it there will be tears of happiness shed here today.”
I nod, agreeing with her assessment. Slowly rising from the pew, I stroke my hand on the smooth wood before me, before stepping into the aisle. Nikita rises to follow me, glancing around one last time. Linking my arm with hers, I escort her back up the aisle. She may not be dressed as Yvette was that day or like the bride who’s special day has arrived, but I take Nikita from this church knowing she is mine.
~~~~~
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