It was a veritable United Nations of sorts today at the Novena.
The both of us were flanked by 2 Negros. At the front pew, there sat a French family with their fidgety boy who was doodling in the hymn book. Behind, we thought the Cantonese accent sounded unmistakably Hong Kong. And everywhere outside, spilling over from the main Church hall, there were hordes of Filipinas. Undoubtedly pious domestic help on their day off.
Father
Whatshisname was Indian. He said so at the beginning of his short sermon on the Parable of the Pharisee and Tax-collector. And because his voice reverberated throughout the cavernous hall from a lousy microphone, she nudged me and whispered,
I can't catch a word he's saying.
Sometimes, you meet someone you haven't seen in ages and somehow, the conversation just picks up where it was left off years ago. The talk comes easy. The banter, familiar. You sit there, after everything is over, and smile to youself. Content in the knowledge that somethings never change. Even decades later.
Apart from attending 4 Weddings and a Funeral, I haven't stepped into a Catholic church for mass in the past 22 years. And yet the ritual repartee the congregation shared with the Man-in-charge at the altar today seemed so yesterday. It was as if I knew, instinctively, how to respond with a well-placed
Amen or
This is the Word of the Lord. Standing, kneeling, cupping hands in prayer, on cue.
We slipped out when the rest left their seats for Communion. With the question,
Will God let me live till I am 50 ?, somewhat left un-answered.
Perhaps deservedly so.
Labels: Musings