This post has been a long time coming. Every time I sit down to try to write it, I can't seem to find the words to convey what I want to say. However, I found the strength I needed after singing a friend's funeral yesterday. That being said, this post is all about family.
My "real" family is often difficult for me to talk about and explain. Long story incredibly short, there aren't many of us. In my generation, there's just my older sister and I. And - get ready for it - there are seventeen-and-a-half years between us. Yes, you read that right. 17.5. No, this isn't some huge family secret where she's actually my mom or something. (I was just a very, very pleasant surprise.) My mom is also one of two girls, but we are currently estranged from my aunt and her family. My dad, whom I have not been in contact with for almost eighteen years, is an only child. I do have a stepdad, but his family currently isn't talking to him, and I've never met my three stepbrothers. Add my sister's husband and their two girls, and we have a grand total of seven family members.
I mean, seriously, I have friends with more siblings than that. But I can't say I'm bitter about not having a big family. There are perks to there being so few of us. Nearly everyone can always be there for major holidays/birthdays/life events, and it's super-easy to exchange Christmas gifts. We can all go out together more often on a smaller budget and still eat somewhere fancy. Thanksgiving is awesome because we all fit around one table. And, my favorite, we are all so incredibly close-knit. However, there is a tiny part of me somewhere that has always longed for something more.
Cue the choirs! Growing up, St. Bartholomew's parish was my home away from home. It was there that I discovered my gift of music, fell in love for the first time, and found some of the most loyal friends I could ever ask for. Many of my childhood memories revolve around the numerous events hosted by the parish and the choirs. My high school graduation party boasted over seventy-five of St. Bart's finest. Even now, when I'm home and singing with the choirs during school breaks, I'm welcomed back like I never left. They haven't even given up my spot in the choir yet, despite the fact that I'm moving overseas to minister with a different parish - I still have my assigned music "number", and a binder is made for me even though I'm unable to sing most of the year.
The parish family of St. Bartholomew has been a family, in every sense of the word, my entire life. I was baptized, given my first communion, and confirmed there. It is still where I call home after twenty-two years of living. I can't say I've ever been more loyal to anything in my life, simply because it has been there for the entirety of it. Sure, my St. Bart's friends are a bit older than I am, in varying degrees, but who says you can't have a couple dozen ladies in your life that you can call a grandmother? Or maybe a few dozen more who are like those crazy aunts no one ever talks about? (My biological one included.) Let's not forget the men, who have been more like dads to me than my own flesh-and-blood one could ever be. The camaraderie between the generations has been the single greatest aspect of my life with them. St. Bart's has undoubtedly filled the "family" void that I have felt my whole life. I've never really been one to be considered ordinary in any way, but I feel my parish family is completely normal, despite what anyone says.
(This isn't to say that I haven't felt familial ties with any other very important groups in my life - my Saint Mary's family and my various theatre families, for instance - but there's something to be said about a group of people who have watched you grow up during the most formative years of your life, and who have stuck with you despite how blonde your hair was or how weepy you were when your goldfish died. That's love, and that's family.)
Earlier, I mentioned a funeral. One of my "grandmother" figures at St. Bart's, Lottie, passed away last week at the ripe old age of ninety-five. Her health had been failing for the last several years, so the phone call wasn't too much of a surprise to me. I'll always remember her for her crocheting, and how she once raised $2500 selling her wares at a parish picnic in order to purchase our first-ever choir sweaters. (I bought my own "Lottie scarf" that year, which I still proudly own.) She used to cook all of the onions for the Lenten fish frys, and even acted as the cashier when she wasn't physically able to cook anymore. (She actually willed her onion pan to our choir director, John, on her deathbed.) Lottie was a unique combination of class and wit, and was never afraid to speak her mind. She called us all her grandchildren, and was so proud to be among the ranks of the choirs. I'll never forget her sharp, sure voice, or her words of wisdom that could only come with age and experience.
Lottie had told John that she'd come back to haunt him if the choirs weren't present to sing for her funeral. Well, John did his duty, and more than thirty members showed up to sing yesterday. There certainly would have been more had it not been a Tuesday morning workday, but the number was still impressive. One thing that struck me, though, was the fact that there were more people in the loft than in the congregation. However, as I came to learn during the mass, Lottie only had one daughter and no biological grandchildren. It struck me how Lottie calling us her "grandkids" for all those years really meant more than what any of us realized. Then, it finally hit me - St. Bart's was a family to Lottie, as well. As a forty-five year parishioner, Lottie had made St. Bart's just as much her home as I've made it. Only a grandmother's love could endure sitting through hours of sewing and crocheting in order to provide the warmest sweaters for the chillest loft in the Diocese of Cleveland. Lottie loved St. Bart's as much, or more, than I do. If this was true for her, who else is it true for?
Certainly, St. Bart's isn't the only parish family that has people who feel this way. All over the world there have to be others who view their parishes much like families. Over the last hundred years, back when European immigration to the United States was much more abundant, parishes were indeed like families to the newcomers. It was the way they kept in touch with people who were from their homelands, people who spoke their languages, and people who could understand their situations. Parishes were the hub of family life not that long ago. They're where the kids went to school, where the parents went to socialize, and where major life events occurred. This holds true whether someone is Catholic, Christian, Buddhist, Muslim, or of any other religious affiliation. What's happened? What's changed? Or are these same things happening in new ways that I'm just not seeing? I'd love to know, only because I find this type of "family love" some of the most powerful on Earth. I also believe it needs to be shared among the masses.
I'll be honest, I'm terrified of moving to Ireland and having to establish myself in a new parish. I've already been so warmly welcomed by the parishioners of Clonard, but will I find the same sense of "family" that I've grown up with at St. Bart's? I trust that God will, in His own way and His own time, give me the answer that I'm searching for.
So, whether you're from a more traditional family, or one that's even wackier than mine, I hope you found something to take away from this post. After all, we weren't put on Earth to walk alone. We need lots of kinds of families if we hope to survive this crazy thing called life.
To ALL of my families - ILY. (I Love You.) :)
--Joy.
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