An Absence Still Felt Here

 

 

It has been over three months since my father's death.

The world goes on inexorably after someone dies. We have all heard  this saw of truth. No one is indispensable. We are dust in the wind. Remember man, thou art dust. But, someone we love should be necessary to the world, no matter the mantras we have learned unto cliche. We want it to be otherwise than as it is.

And today, as I sat in the area of the altar, in my role as lector at the Church which my father, a late in life Catholic, attended with me for over five years, I was relieved to see that he had not been replaced here yet, in his small ministry.

When first he came to our little parish (in full communion-he had been a fixture for years as my non-Catholic but well liked father), he was a substitute usher, when Paco or Peter were not around on a Sunday. When Paco died, too young, my father simply eased into the role regularly. I watched him every week come down the aisle with Peter, basket in hand, making a partial, but fairly distinct for a man of his age in his mid 80s, genuflection to begin his walk of collection down the pew line. His confident walk provided evidence of the soundness of his health at a time when so many others of his age depended on canes and walkers. Sometimes he'd forget to go around the side aisles to make his pick up, then realizing, caught up to Peter. I'd smile and he'd ask me later if I noticed his mistake. Of course, from my perch I could see every parishioner, snoozing, or reading or paying spiritually intense attention, so yes, I had to admit to dad that I saw his mistake, while assuring him no one else did. He was very serious about his job as usher. He worried about being there to help Peter, and he rarely, if ever missed a 12:15 in all five years.

And he has been gone for over three months. And I have to say that it has made me somewhat content to see he has not been replaced. Every week they seem to struggle to find someone to join Peter in his stroll down the aisle. Worse, if there is going to be a second collection to find three or four to cover. The women of the congregation seem more responsive to the request du Sunday jour than the men. It has always amazed me, and I wonder if it is a problem at other parishes, how people, in a Church no less, refuse to help. But no regular has filled the place. I may be a little ashamed at the lack of Christian volunteers for this ordinary task, but I am also glad to see that my father has not been so readily replaceable. It makes it easier for me somehow to still imagine him moving down the aisles and carefully stepping up to pour the money into the collection basket and back down again with the second partial genuflection to close out the task. Today it brought tears to think of it. Happy-ish tears. Because he is still there, still somehow performing the role when no one has taken it over officially.