I still go to Mass every week, but I have trouble focusing and many times I don’t bother even trying. The simple fact of sitting in an ornate and cavernous cathedral and that I have made the effort to get up and attend is good enough. I have heard the same homilies for decades until I can bear them no longer. The priests themselves must tire of dusting them off and frankly not every one of them is going to be an inspired orator with his own fresh and philosophical angle.

You can find spirituality just as well in a beautiful field of grass and trees or in a sunset and perhaps my childhood education has me behaving in Pavlovian fashion, but it doesn’t matter: I go regardless. There is some sanctity in the quiet before the service begins and I stare at the details of the woodwork and the art as my mind reflects on many things all at once as it is apt to do.

I don’t favor repetitive prayer which makes the service even more routine but, yet it is my way of finding time in my week for a more concrete expression of spirituality. If I am in the building I can claim to my father that I made the Mass; the one, he insisted for so many years, I attend with perfect frequency. He who helped forge my thinking on so many things by being my foil.

He has been gone for 24 years now and I see his face in my son’s. The mask around the eyes are the perfect reproduction of his grandfather’s which tells me part of his legacy lives on in him. As we talk over coffee it never fails to hit me how much the resemblance is there.

And for that, I couldn't be more proud.


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