Heavy Shirts

In the back corner of the closet, shoved far to the side, are my heavy shouldered quilted shirts, dark plaids, and rough flannel on their long sleeves – grownup clothing for tougher weather. They are quietly waiting for their day when I slip them on and reanimate them, as I navigate the colder end of the year.

Our long walk-in closet has a small window high in the end wall. It’s diamond shaped and lets in natural light. I’m barely aware that it guides my sight upward and ahead. Today, the shape and illuminating window of our closet remind me of church.

When I was a boy my family attended St. Bridget Church in Elmwood, CT. My parents were devout Catholics, and they made sure I was too. We dressed up nice for Sunday Mass, which required other challenging preparations.

I didn’t like fasting for three hours so I could receive communion with a pure stomach. That meant there was no breakfast. I liked complaining about my sacrifice, but it did not impress my mother in the least. “Offer it up,” was a common response, which I vaguely understood as, “toughen up.” Why did church have to be hard? Why did my parents take God’s side against a little kid?

But we had this to look forward to: we broke fast after Mass with a pancake and bacon brunch when we got home. We didn’t call it ‘brunch’ – no one in our middle-class family ever uttered that classy word – but it was a happy family ritual after we changed into our play clothes. We were off the hook with churchy rules.

Making the pancakes myself on an electric skillet she got for Christmas was one of my tasks to get some Cub Scout badge. Set the temp at 325 degrees. There were Catholic rules, kitchen rules, and Scout rules. I nailed them all with one family meal.

Our church had beautiful stained-glass windows that looked like pictures made of rubies and sapphires. The themes were as inscrutable as the images, glowing darkly. I could almost taste them, like hard candy. Besides scanning the congregation for some girl I had a crush on, those windows caught a good deal of my gazing. They made our church feel like a precious sanctuary God would approve of. That, plus my parents and siblings at hand, made me belong.

I loved those windows, but they made the church interior dark, which was confusing. Our family seemed isolated. Dressing up respectfully, meant long overcoats in winter for the grownups – no colorful parkas in the 1960’s. I wore my play clothes coat, though there is a photo of me striding down the church steps after my First Communion in dressier garb. I was buttoning my coat over my dress clothes like an executive on the fly.

During Mass, we were always standing, kneeling, or sitting (thank God) as determined by whatever certain prayers demanded. Looking back, the calisthenics were just the Vatican keeping us parishioners awake and limber in case the Second Coming suddenly Came along.

An enduring memory: When I was little, standing in a dark church crowded with adults wearing long coats made me feel disappeared, as if hidden in a dense forest of giant tree trunks, all grey and brown. One morning I looked up to my mother in her black wool coat and asked her if God could see me – a sincere question that I’ve wondered from time to time.

She smiled and reassured me: of course, God sees me. She didn’t need to add, “all the time.” Moms don’t need to qualify their reassurances, because, well, they’re Moms. In that sanctuary, which might as well have been her own personal domain, the Gospel according to Mom was all I needed to hear.

Whenever I’m in a room with compatible proportions and orientation, I’m reminded of being in our church. Today, though, I’m a grownup standing shoulder to shoulder with the dark, heavy garments that used to surround me, hiding me. I don’t need to look up for my mother’s reassuring smile to be seen, to belong, but I do anyway, for the precious memory of who helped me grow up and into these clothes.