Out of Place
Betsy Johnson-Miller

Out of Place

*

My foot begins to tap. I recognize many of the songs they play from the visits to my grandparents’ house, where we watched Lawrence Welk and a local polka show where old ladies putzed around the dance floor to the music, sometimes with men, sometimes with each other.

When even the balcony is full, one of the accordion players invites us to stand. We sing the Polish national anthem, which has been spelled out phonetically in our bulletin, but the sounds coming out of my mouth are not even close to what everyone else sings around me. My tongue doesn’t know what to do with all of those z’s.

Then we sit and Mass begins.

*

This is not Easter, but that’s what it feels like. The church is full, and as we lift our voices in song, energy and vitality pulse through this body of Christ.

I’m also reminded of a county fair. The sound system is bad, so it’s the same kind of tinny music you hear as you stroll between the cotton candy booth and the ring toss. The music has the same sense of urgency as it pulses and whirls: It invites a response from me, like I should step right up, but to what?

The body of Christ stands; I stand because my body recognizes this liturgical language. When the body of Christ kneels, I sit and look at the bowed heads.

*

After the priest finishes his homily about John the Baptist, we sing again: “So let the sun shine in, shake hands with your neighbor” and “Moja Boga ja cie kocham means that he loves us so.” Everyone around me is clapping and smiling.

While I enjoyed the music at the start of Mass, I do not know these songs or tunes, and much of the time I can’t hear what the accordion player is saying because of the sound system. I end up feeling lost. I had hoped this would be one of those experiences that brought me the elusive feeling of awe I have been chasing this past year, and for every other year before that. It doesn’t. I catch myself checking my watch, flipping the bulletin to see how much is left.

When Communion begins, I do not go forward to the table—something I learned the hard way. Raised Presbyterian, I was sixteen the first time I recall being in a Catholic Church. I was attending Mass with my boyfriend. When I stood to go to the front and receive Communion with everyone else in our row, my boyfriend turned to me and said, “You can’t come.” If the Catholic Church believes that the very substance of the bread and wine changes into actual divine flesh and blood, and I do not, then I should not partake. The rule prevents adulteration and uncertainty.

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Betsy Johnson-Miller

has contributed to Alaska Quarterly Review, Prairie Schooner, Boulevard, and North American Review.