Chapter 6 - Ablution
"Morning, Mother Leah," my favourite acolyte said cheerfully as I entered the vesting-room. Typical Julie—I had just arrived at church, and she was already vested and ready.
We offer two Sunday services at the Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene, both of which are Rite I, meaning that we use the Elizabethan language in our liturgy. (I guess you could say we're more than a little Anglo-Catholic; some other churches affectionately refer to us as "Smoky Mary's".) The 7:45 service is a fully chanted Eucharist with incense, and the 9:00 am service is a spoken Eucharist without incense. Because my rector is profoundly tone-deaf, I am always the celebrant at the early service. Father Michael and I alternate weeks celebrating at the second service—whoever is not preaching that Sunday celebrates the Mass at the 9:00 service.
Not only does Julie serve in many capacities on Sunday mornings—she's an acolyte first and foremost, but she's also a trained lay Eucharistic minister, lector, intercessor, usher, cantor, and a member of the altar guild—but she is incredibly involved in the life of the church outside the Sunday service. She helps lead youth confirmation classes in the spring, and she was recently inducted into the Order of the Daughters of the King as our chapter's youngest-ever member. She's also the person who trains acolytes, Eucharistic ministers, ushers, lectors, and intercessors, and schedules people to serve in each of these capacities every week. Oh, and on top of all of that, she's also a full-time college student.
(If you don't speak Episcopalian-ese, allow me to translate: she's a liturgical superhero, and she makes the lives of her priests so much easier by her willingness to serve cheerfully in whatever capacity she is needed.)
Above all else, her immense reverence and love for the liturgy, and for the God she serves, calls us all—clergy and laity alike—into a deeper sense of awe and wonder at God and all His works. I have a sneaking suspicion that Julie may be called to the priesthood herself. Although she's made no indication as to whether she's aware of her possible priestly vocation, Father Michael and I are in agreement that there's likely something there.
"Hi, Julie," I replied.
After some brief pleasantries, she excused herself and slipped into the hospitality room to snag me a cup of coffee. Three creams, two sugars, just the way I take it.
"Did I ever tell you that you're my favorite?" I teased, taking the Styrofoam cup from her and proceeding to guzzle its contents rather ungracefully. "Praise be to God," I said, and she chuckled. The coffee was lukewarm in temperature and weakly brewed—an occupational hazard with church coffee—but it was certainly better than nothing.
"Would you go into the sanctuary and light the altar candles, please, Julie?"
"Yes, Mother Leah," she said, bowing her head respectfully to me before grabbing the long brass taper and scurrying off to the sacristy to look for a lighter.
As the coffee made its way to my brain, it occurred to me that today was the fifth Sunday of Easter—still part of the Easter season. I called after her, "You need to light the Paschal candle, too, please!"
"I know."
Of course you do.
When she returned, having lit all the candles, and bearing a second cup of coffee for me, she straightened out my stole and clipped on my body mic before helping me get my chasuble on.
"You look really beautiful," she said when I was fully vested, which made me blush and look away. She reached out to touch my arm, her delicate hand resting on the lacy sleeve of my alb. "I mean it. You do."
It's hard for me—especially since my 32 year marriage ended in divorce, which happened a year before I began serving at St. Mary's—to see my body as anything other than a vessel or a container for the rest of me. I've gained a lot of weight since my marriage started to fall apart, and rarely wear makeup beyond a bit of concealer and some chapstick. I don't feel connected to my body. It's just the shell where I live. I used to get manicures and expensive haircuts and put a lot of thought into what I wore, but that just isn't me anymore. I'm not repulsed by my body, necessarily; I'm just incredibly apathetic about it.
