By Pheobe Radke
Visiting my grandparents in South Carolina meant two things: We would have our regular Sonic pit stop coming back from the airport, and we would go to church the following morning. I saw the former as bait for the latter. Although my sister and I thoroughly enjoyed our Oreo Cookie Piece Frosties with whipped cream and hot fudge, an exotic delicacy, in the back of our minds, we tried to forget the early morning alarm and humid church that was yet to come.
Over the years, I became used to this routine, even thinking it was the typical "Grandparent thing" that everyone experienced. When my friends said they were visiting their grandparents, I would scoff and say, well, have fun tomorrow morning, a joke that never landed once I transferred to my new, less Catholic and mostly Jewish school. Though, anything would have seemed less catholic. My previous school was an all-girl Christian middle school with 300 religious classmates, tightly-wound nuns, and depictions of bloody Jesus on the cross in every classroom. For a school that was big on censorship, they loved their gory, detailed crucifixions. God forbid my skirt was above three inches from my knee or that I say the word lesbian, but let's all pray to this horrific Jesus whose dying, wide-set eyes bore into our souls while we learned fractions. Needless to say, I was glad to transfer, glad the Christian part of my life was reduced to a weekly service at a Lutheran Church – the Diet Coke of Christianity.
This break was all, of course, until I was back in South Carolina. The lovely 5:30 alarm would ring loudly, spiting our deep sleep, and my sister would exchange tired glances with me from across the guest bedroom – a silent promise we would no longer agree to do church next year. Shockingly, we always did. I would put on my designated "Sunday Service Outfit" that didn't show my shoulders, chest, or, of course, my legs. I couldn't let my hair down, wear nude stockings or heels above two inches, while my grandpa threw on a pair of jeans and barely combed his hair.
All four of us would cram into the back of the red pickup truck to drive an hour for a 90-minute service. My grandma wore a stiff, floral dress that wrinkled as she sat in the passenger seat. There were faint traces of mascara on her eyelashes, a bit of rouge that was left on a little too thick, and her shiny curls that were a product of a 30-year-old, expired gel. She was a woman who preferred silence in the car instead of the radio and refused to learn FaceTime when we could just call. When I asked her why we never went to mass at the 30 closer churches we passed, she responded firmly.
"Well, they are not real churches. St. John’s is the only true Catholic church that hasn't tried to hang up TV's or sing modern music like those others do. Who needs all that frill for mass?"
My sister and I immediately looked at each other saying, we did – not that we would ever say that. Instead, we probably muttered something that seemed like agreement and longingly looked at churches passing by, each neon cross mocking us. The typical silence that followed in those car rides and the darkness of the morning usually drew my sister and me to a deep sleep until our grandma shook us awake. We would subtly play dead until the reality of our situation couldn't be avoided: We had arrived.
The beige, wooden church stood proudly next to the Chase Bank and Stop and Shop, with the only modern addition being an electric ramp for its members. Our group was one of many in a sea of, in the most diplomatic way possible, people from an older generation. Have you ever seen The Walking Dead? The part where the mob of zombies marches inside a building? That's what walking inside St. John’s was like. We shuffled along among the groaning group, catching words of their ailments like my back, fingers, legs, and most prominently, the heat. It was a sunny day in South Carolina, meaning the temperature was a comfortable 101 degrees, which was all the more obvious sitting inside the church.
I remember always looking around the pews and being the youngest in the room. I felt some sort of pride, although this was no great accomplishment. The little church always had the same crowd: Old people who had nothing else to do with their time and suffered from good old Catholic guilt their whole life. But as I noticed, this group became smaller each year while the "in loving memory" part of group prayer became longer. I can't help but think that as the church goers closed their eyes and thought of their friends who had passed away, they were really praying that they wouldn't join next week's list.
Sometimes, on the really hot Sundays, the heat in the room would meddle with reality, creating a mirage in the desert of wispy white hair and wooden beams. The reflection of the priest's bald head would make a beam of light, illuminating the back door that led to the parking lot. How was that not a divine vision? It must have been God himself fulfilling the "bigger plan" he has in store for me, a plan that I, nor anyone else, should oppose. My grandma disagreed with my revelation. My grandpa said he would be convinced if the priest didn't wrap up soon.
I knew I was almost free when the priest would instruct us to give the sign of peace. This practice was when we turned to our seat neighbors shook their hands and said, "peace be with you." It was a simple interaction but kind of sweet. Through all my complaints about attending Sunday Mass, I liked the sense of community.
I turned to a precious old lady sitting in front of me and offered my hand. She gave me a sweet little smile and grasped my hand tightly, exchanging my "peace be with you" with hers. And after this lasted for five seconds, I started to pull away, but I couldn't. This petite grandma had my hands bound tightly to hers. After a few seconds of polite struggling, I started worrying. My repeated “peace be with you’s” sounded more panicked. And when I finally pulled my hands away from this devout Christian woman, my fingers turned a bright red and blue, but she just gave me a slight grin. I looked appalled, clutching my wrist while the wave of Catholics around me continued to smile at each other: Such an eerie sight.
At that moment, I wondered, this was everyone’s typical grandparent experiment, right? But the tension between pulling away and holding on stayed with me for a long time after that.