My parish is changing its 10:30 service to an English High Mass.  Woo Hoo!  Thank you, Father S!

Lately I’ve been going through a bit of withdrawal:  The eldest gel is signed up for the next few weeks for a softball camp at noon on Sundays, meaning I can’t make it to the Latin Mass and have to take in the 7:30 a.m. service instead, which service I think of as the AARP Mass because of the predominant attendance demographic.  I know that in the grand sceme of things this really shouldn’t matter, but I do so love the High form.

The other evening after Confession I stuck my head in to say hello to my old RCIA instructor.  One of the things he asked me was how things were working out domestically, what with Mrs. R still on the far side of the Tiber.   I answered that I thought we were well past the heebie-jeebies stage: These days when Mrs. R asks me a question about doctrine or practice for instance, it’s because she’s genuinely interested in the answer.  Also, I’ve certainly felt that my relationship with God has been strengthening, and I believe she sees this too.

We still have our differences, of course, and I had to smile when I thought of one of their manifestations:  When I came into the Church last Easter, my RCIA instructor gave me a small Byzantine icon of Christ descending to hell.  I keep it on top of my dresser along with my rosary.  Every now and again, Mrs. R will slide them off to the side behind something else.  Whenever I discover this, I immediately put them right back in the center.  Neither of us has ever said a word about the matter to each other, but keep up this low-scale tug of war in silence.   (I relate the story here because I am pretty sure Mrs. R does not read this blog.)