There are few constants in life.
Death and taxes are the big two that always get top billing. Death, which isn't even life, I mean people say that it's a "part" of life but, come on. How can it be a part of life if you're not alive? But, still, we'll count that because it's the next step after life. After it, you know, finishes.
And then taxes. The other thing we can unfortunately all count on.
Another constant, according to me, is that if you were raised Catholic and went to church and Catholic school and/or CCD for many, many years, you can return to Mass after being absent for 79 consecutive years and recite all of the prayers and responses without skipping a beat.
That one? Yeah, that is now GONE.
I went to Mass today for the first time in, well, a LONG time with family to celebrate my grandmother's birthday. She would have been 89 today, and after a brief and quiet visit to the chapel where she rests in peace, we attended church. This also happens to be the second Sunday of Lent, which pleased me as I could kind of count it as going to church at Easter (close enough).
As long as it may be since I've gone to church (and I can't even venture a guess here), I find solace in the fact that all of the prayers and responses are as ingrained in my brain as multiplication tables. (Which might not be the best analogy as I'm afraid those are starting to erode a bit.) So imagine my surprise when I discovered that some of them have CHANGED!
Now, it wasn't a complete shock. I did have a small amount of warning from a regular churchgoing friend on Facebook, although to be completely honest I never paid too close attention. I didn't know if it was for a specific holiday Mass, or rite, or was something so small I wouldn't even notice.
Well. I noticed. And I clapped my hand over my mouth so many times during that Mass because I was saying the wrong thing, you know, the "old" way. But my question is WHY? I mean, what's wrong with "And also with you"? It rolls off the tongue and is perfectly polite without being too sappy. And why make it holy church instead of just church? It's a church. Isn't the holiness implied?
I mentioned this change to my uncle who was seated beside me, and he confirmed that there were several changes made to the Mass. "Like a lot of the music. They've changed it to rap to appeal to young people," he said.
I found this to not be true.
Still, I wondered why the change. So I looked it up online. This is reportedly only the THIRD time in the 1700-year history of the church that the Mass has been formally changed. And this couldn't have happened before *I* was born?! (And no, I'm not that old.) Until 1965, Catholic Mass was said only in Latin and so they thought, and rightfully so, that this might exclude a whole heck of a lot of people who came to Mass, and therefore it was translated into many different languages also meant to reflect the everyday vernacular. Apparently the whole point of this newest change is to try and bring the Mass a bit closer to its Latin roots.
Now, not being a regular churchgoer anymore, maybe I don't have a lot of room to complain when they decide to change the wording of the Mass. But I am anyway. Still, I thought I'd ask a friend who does attend church on a regular basis what he thought.
Surprisingly to me, he wasn't up in arms about it. (And he gets up in arms about a lot of stuff.)
"Personally, I don't have a problem with the new language. Of course, I'm also the kind of Catholic who likes going to the Latin Mass occasionally," says my good little churchgoing friend Mike. "I like that the new English version is more accurate and a little more solemn, although I agree that it can be jarring.
"However, even after 5 months of using the new language every week, I still go to 'And also with you' instead of 'And with your spirit.' But you can't expect 40 years of Catholic training to be replaced in just a few months."
Yes. THAT.
But still, it may not be for *me* to say what's right and what's wrong. Maybe if I start attending church again on a regular basis, I'll get used to the "new" way... after many, many years have gone by. And then they'll probably just go and change it on me again. But at least by that point I'll have the right to complain.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Childhood lost
There is a conspiracy going on here. Someone is trying to kill my childhood, little by little.
I still see a kid when I look in the mirror (if the lighting is good, I have makeup on, and maybe some rose-colored glasses as well) but it seems to be more and more of a challenge every day. A force greater than I just seems bound and determined to ruin it.
In 2009, Michael Jackson died suddenly. Sure, this was 2 and a half years ago now, but I really think it was the beginning of the end for me. It was a shocking event, and while you'd hardly call me an MJ fanatic, my teen years were accompanied by his music like a soundtrack. So when that happened, I was upset and felt like a small part of my growing up years was now dead. But on the bright side, at least I was still in my thirties.
THEN, I turned 40. Sure, that was a year and a half ago, but I'm still getting over it. Most days I like to pretend it didn't actually happen. In fact, maybe it didn't. You know, when my parents tell me that I was born on October 3, 1970, I'm really just taking their word for it. It was the age of hippies and self-searching, and I think it's safe to say things were hazy and my birth year could have easily gotten confused. That should buy me at least 5 or so years.
Seriously, when you're like 21 or 25, you know you're supposed to turn 40 sometime in the distant future, barring any terrible accidents or illnesses, but it just seems so far AWAY. Like it's supposed to happen but it's not really going to. So, when all of a sudden you find yourself holding on to the edge of your 30s for dear life, you need to resign yourself to the fact that it's going to happen no matter how inconceivable it may seem. This is just one of many things people older than you don't tell you.
Ok. So, while I'm apparently still reeling from that birthday, Whitney Houston goes and drowns in a bathtub while under the influence and now Davy Jones kicks it! What the hell is going on? Someone is happily chipping away at my solid childhood and I have nothing to say about it and no control over it. Whitney Houston was bad enough, but Davy Jones and the Monkees were one of my first musical memories as a child where I felt like a "fan." I will proudly tell anyone about the Easter that my brother and I came down to our baskets and the brand-new Monkees greatest hits album that was propped up against them. We LOVED that album and nearly wore it out. I used to watch repeats of the Monkees show as a child in the afternoons after school. The ridiculous physical comedy was hilarious to me as a little kid, and most likely set the stage for my imminent Beatles obsession (which is ironic considering the Beatles' strong influence on the Monkees). And of course, like all other kids my age, I watched Marcia Brady come face-to-face with her teen crush, Davy Jones himself. Score one for the everyday girl (at least it seemed to us).
And somewhere in the middle, just a day or two before Davy Jones' death, was the quiet and media circus-free passing of Jan Berenstain, one half of the husband-and-wife team who authored the Berenstain Bears book series. I'd like to find just one person for whom just hearing the word "Berenstain" doesn't conjure up a picture in his or her mind of the lovable bear family, remembers reading the books as a kid and probably even has a book or two on their child's bookshelf right now.
Now, I'm a sentimental person. Every time I'm in the area, I pass by my old house in Moorestown and wish I could go inside one more time and look around. Even more, while we're wishing for stuff, I wish my parents had never sold it and I could come back on a regular basis, this time with my kids so that they could enjoy it too. I like looking at old photos, watching old home movies and reminiscing about fun times past with friends and family. Somehow, telling the same story over and over and over doesn't get stale to me, they just get funnier and more dear.
Not everyone is like that, though, I know. I enjoy looking back in time and reliving the old memories. Some people, like my husband, will not willingly sit down to look at old photos, considers old home movies a punishment, and refuses to join facebook to reconnect with old classmates and maybe even his best friend from when he was 6 years old. :) And some people just don't care when a celebrity, even one whom we feel we "know," suddenly dies. To them, it's just another person, just another death.
People die every day, some people we do know and plenty we don't, but when those names are somehow tied to your childhood and growing-up years, at least to me, it's like a little piece of you is forced to grow up a little more as well. And when you are not just young at heart but even downright immature, like me, it can be even harder to swallow.
So, short of freezing time indefinitely (which to my knowledge is not possible - although it may be worth looking into during my limited spare time), the options for preventing this kind of passing appear slim to none. While these kind of childhood memories will most likely continue to deepen their rosy hue as time slips past, perhaps the canned-and-preserved variety are not the only ones that can be sweet. While I may be mourning the passing of days gone by, we are constantly making new ones in the every day, and perhaps I should be focusing on new and unique experiences to help usher in the new as well. I've long been searching for a new outlet and maybe the time is now, so that when the solid foundation of my childhood memories takes yet another ding, it won't hurt quite so much. I'm thinking that there's still so much more to build.
I still see a kid when I look in the mirror (if the lighting is good, I have makeup on, and maybe some rose-colored glasses as well) but it seems to be more and more of a challenge every day. A force greater than I just seems bound and determined to ruin it.
In 2009, Michael Jackson died suddenly. Sure, this was 2 and a half years ago now, but I really think it was the beginning of the end for me. It was a shocking event, and while you'd hardly call me an MJ fanatic, my teen years were accompanied by his music like a soundtrack. So when that happened, I was upset and felt like a small part of my growing up years was now dead. But on the bright side, at least I was still in my thirties.
THEN, I turned 40. Sure, that was a year and a half ago, but I'm still getting over it. Most days I like to pretend it didn't actually happen. In fact, maybe it didn't. You know, when my parents tell me that I was born on October 3, 1970, I'm really just taking their word for it. It was the age of hippies and self-searching, and I think it's safe to say things were hazy and my birth year could have easily gotten confused. That should buy me at least 5 or so years.
Seriously, when you're like 21 or 25, you know you're supposed to turn 40 sometime in the distant future, barring any terrible accidents or illnesses, but it just seems so far AWAY. Like it's supposed to happen but it's not really going to. So, when all of a sudden you find yourself holding on to the edge of your 30s for dear life, you need to resign yourself to the fact that it's going to happen no matter how inconceivable it may seem. This is just one of many things people older than you don't tell you.
Ok. So, while I'm apparently still reeling from that birthday, Whitney Houston goes and drowns in a bathtub while under the influence and now Davy Jones kicks it! What the hell is going on? Someone is happily chipping away at my solid childhood and I have nothing to say about it and no control over it. Whitney Houston was bad enough, but Davy Jones and the Monkees were one of my first musical memories as a child where I felt like a "fan." I will proudly tell anyone about the Easter that my brother and I came down to our baskets and the brand-new Monkees greatest hits album that was propped up against them. We LOVED that album and nearly wore it out. I used to watch repeats of the Monkees show as a child in the afternoons after school. The ridiculous physical comedy was hilarious to me as a little kid, and most likely set the stage for my imminent Beatles obsession (which is ironic considering the Beatles' strong influence on the Monkees). And of course, like all other kids my age, I watched Marcia Brady come face-to-face with her teen crush, Davy Jones himself. Score one for the everyday girl (at least it seemed to us).
And somewhere in the middle, just a day or two before Davy Jones' death, was the quiet and media circus-free passing of Jan Berenstain, one half of the husband-and-wife team who authored the Berenstain Bears book series. I'd like to find just one person for whom just hearing the word "Berenstain" doesn't conjure up a picture in his or her mind of the lovable bear family, remembers reading the books as a kid and probably even has a book or two on their child's bookshelf right now.
Now, I'm a sentimental person. Every time I'm in the area, I pass by my old house in Moorestown and wish I could go inside one more time and look around. Even more, while we're wishing for stuff, I wish my parents had never sold it and I could come back on a regular basis, this time with my kids so that they could enjoy it too. I like looking at old photos, watching old home movies and reminiscing about fun times past with friends and family. Somehow, telling the same story over and over and over doesn't get stale to me, they just get funnier and more dear.
Not everyone is like that, though, I know. I enjoy looking back in time and reliving the old memories. Some people, like my husband, will not willingly sit down to look at old photos, considers old home movies a punishment, and refuses to join facebook to reconnect with old classmates and maybe even his best friend from when he was 6 years old. :) And some people just don't care when a celebrity, even one whom we feel we "know," suddenly dies. To them, it's just another person, just another death.
People die every day, some people we do know and plenty we don't, but when those names are somehow tied to your childhood and growing-up years, at least to me, it's like a little piece of you is forced to grow up a little more as well. And when you are not just young at heart but even downright immature, like me, it can be even harder to swallow.
So, short of freezing time indefinitely (which to my knowledge is not possible - although it may be worth looking into during my limited spare time), the options for preventing this kind of passing appear slim to none. While these kind of childhood memories will most likely continue to deepen their rosy hue as time slips past, perhaps the canned-and-preserved variety are not the only ones that can be sweet. While I may be mourning the passing of days gone by, we are constantly making new ones in the every day, and perhaps I should be focusing on new and unique experiences to help usher in the new as well. I've long been searching for a new outlet and maybe the time is now, so that when the solid foundation of my childhood memories takes yet another ding, it won't hurt quite so much. I'm thinking that there's still so much more to build.
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