Some kind of promise

Around this time last year, I sat in St. Peter's Basilica and listened to the choir from the North American College intone an antiphon in Latin that said "And His mother says to me - do whatever He tells you." at the ordination for transitional deacons. I was dressed in my best dress - the one I wear for Easter and weddings - and I wore mascara, the only time I wore it during that trip. I still wore my ring. It was one of the most beautiful experiences I've ever had in my life.

Last weekend - I stood in the choir loft of the older parish in our Archdiocese, the one where the A/C doesn't work and where people leave their crutches in front of the altar that houses the relics of Ste. Anne. My camera rested on a monopod and I had an identification badge around my neck. I wore all black and the heat rose and the baby curls on the edges of my hairline stuck to my head. I took a lot of photos. But I also spent a lot of time with my head resting against my camera, leaning my weight on the monopod as I stood, my eyes closed, as the Sistine Chapel Choir's music filled the stuffy, beautiful church. At one point - four members of the Choir stood just outside the choir loft and sang their part of Miserere. I cried a little bit during that song - like how I cried during the antiphon sung in Rome. For in that moment, I knew I was experiencing something I would never experience again, and I felt it and I lived it and I grabbed onto it my both of my hands and I held on.

You open your hand and satisfy desires.


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