A memory

In Mass, as I watched the deacon and accolyte purify the sacred vessels after communion, I was transported to my great grandmother's house in Guadalajara, sometime in the early-mid 1990s, as we celebrated many Masses in her living room, officiated by her son, Mom's uncle Calo. 

I unfortunately don't remember many details, and the memories I do have are projected through the lens of a young girl's perception. We would gather every now and then (maybe whenever Calo was in town to visit?) in Mami Mela's living room for Mass. I thought it was pretty cool to be able to sit through Mass in a rocking chair (even though my brothers and I would fight over who got to sit in it, and then mom would glare at us if we rocked it too hard)-- or even just sitting on the couch. I had my First Reconciliation on that couch. I was so nervous, I could only think of two or three sins to confess. I do remember feeling a great sense of relief afterward (whether it was from the absolution or the fact that my first confession was over and done, I will never know). 

After my First Communion, I then got to receive the host dipped in wine that Calo would take to each person seated around the room, instead of lining us up to receive communion. It was such a unique and intimate experience, especially because in Mexico, the chalice usually stays on the altar, so the communicants seldom receive the Precious Blood. And I don't know if we sat because Mela sat in her wheel chair, and we were in solidarity with her, or if it just wasn't really necessary to stand in that setting. Whatever it was, we did things differently, but I loved it. Informal yet reverent. We went from the chatter of a usual Sunday visit to the solemnity of Mass. Attitudes shifted as it started. True devotion was made plain. After communion, as everyone silently prayed, Calo would purify the vessels, and watching him was captivating. He would gather up every last crumb of Bread and eat it before swirling water in the cups and bowl, careful to remove any traces of the Blessed Sacrament. Then he quickly and carefully wiped the inside and edges of his vessels befote setting them aside. I would watch this meticulous ritual every time; it is my most vivid memory of my great-uncle. He was a great man, a holy man, so I'm told. He died before we moved back to the States, if memory serves me right.

We visited Mami Mela pretty regularly, not just for in-home Mass, and I liked going most of the time, even if I got bored after a while. I remember cutting roses from the garden near our parking lot to take to her, and the fruit-shaped sugar-covered gummies she always had in her candy jar. Or the hard candies with raisins (which really were kind of gross, but I ate them anyway). If we got hungry or bored or both, Came, her daughter, a nun, who lived with her and cared for her would sometimes make us chamomille tea, and we would dip galletas Marias in our steaming cups, slurping up the soggy cookies. I still think that sounds delicious. We would also walk all the way to the back of the house, to a little patio that had a few fruit trees, one a sour fruit whose name I can't recall, and another a lime tree. We would pick up the limes that had fallen from the tree, and Mela always let us take some home. 

That's all I remember. None of these experiences are extraordinary. They're probably not even unique. But I'm glad I had them, plain, ordinary, lovely.

All from watching two men clean some dishes.