On Saturday, I wake up with a headache and feel unwell. I think Andy will say, "You need to stay home today. I'll look after you." But that doesn't happen. My husband ignores my self-pity and expects me to get ready for Mass. It's the First Saturday of the month. We made a commitment. We are expected. We must go.
Feeling a bit miffed because I would like some sympathy, I head into the shower, but deep down, I know Andy is right. No excuses. Mass and confession are exactly what I need.
So we leave home, coffee in a thermos and mugs in hand: our after-Mass refreshment.
When we enter the church, the confessional is empty; it’s waiting for us; a green light beckons us in. A few minutes later, we’ve both been to confession. I grin.
Adoration, Benediction, and then Mass. Lots of singing for Andy, some of it in Latin. He likes singing, and I like listening to him sing.
After Mass, we drink our coffee at our favourite picnic table in the monastery grounds. For the first time this spring, we sit in the shade and not the sun. The wind is warm. It's also strong. It vibrates the thermos and blows my hair into my face.
We take a few photos of each other, unaware that the camera thinks our skin is naturally bright red. We don’t know it is freezing our faces into weird expressions.
Later, I edit the photos, eliminating the red. I smooth our blotchy skin. I delete the funny face images.
And I wonder: am I cheating? Do my edited photos not reflect us properly?
Then I decide the camera doesn't really capture the truth. It's only a machine. It can only snap a split-second, lifeless impression of the people we really are.
Andy and I use our eyes and our hearts, and what we see when we look at each other is good.
On a First Saturday, when we're glowing with grace and have freshly washed souls, we look very good indeed.
