During the Offertory, I started
thinking about bananas.
It
was a Friday in Lent and I was at 8 a.m. Mass in part because Bill and I were
going to have a staffing that afternoon with our foster daughter’s biological
parents, her social workers, her guardian ad litem, the foster parents of her
biological brothers and their social workers. Quarterly staffing meetings are
often uncomfortable, sometimes volatile, and usually unproductive. Waking up
the day of a staffing produces in me the same emotions as waking up the day of
a scheduled tooth filling, but without the assurance of Novocain.
And
that’s why I had bananas on my mind.
At
the afternoon’s staff meeting I was planning to ask Teenasia’s biological father for
permission to have her baptized and receive her First Communion. The social
worker had asked him for permission a couple months earlier, and the answer had
been an unequivocal no. Despite Teenasia’s father’s two-year no-contact order with his
children, he still had parental rights, and as such, retained authority over
decisions in his children’s lives in areas of religion, health and travel. He
said “no” simply because he had the right to do so— refusing T the opportunity
to cross state lines for our family vacation last summer; refusing to allow the
medication that his son needed; and now, refusing permission to baptize.
Complicating
the matter was that Teenasia was focused on receiving First Communion in a way that
went far beyond what I saw of my sons’ interest when they were second graders. “Of
all the children in my class,” Mrs. Wong told me at conferences, “no one wants
First Communion more than Teenasia.” So I
needed that permission — because Teenasia needed the permission. She had been hurt by
her father enough.
Bananas.
I sat there in church, not feeling spiritual in the least. The readings did not
produce that sense of resonance they sometimes do, as if the writers were
speaking about my life in particular. The homily didn’t stir me. I was not
moved by the congregation around me, the songs, responses or the petitions.
The
offertory song began and I realized I was there for the Eucharist, for the
grace it offered, with a dry, matter-of-fact belief in the Eucharist that was
suddenly reminding me of bananas.
When
I was a competitive runner in high school and college, I would get so nervous
before races that I didn’t want to eat at all. I wasn’t hungry and had no
desire to do anything but get the race over with. The morning of each race,
though, I knew that whether I felt like it or not, my body needed energy. And
so, dry-mouthed and sometimes slightly nauseous, I would force myself to eat a
banana, knowing they were quick energy, easily digestible and provided 100
precious calories. I didn’t eat the banana because I felt strongly about the
banana, or had a desire for the banana. Instead, I ate the banana because,
strangely, I had faith in that banana. Not the kind of faith that makes you cry
or tell your story of conversion. Rather, my faith in the banana was simply
that I knew the banana had 100 calories, and those calories were going to work
for me.
Before
the offertory song began, I had been alarmed by my own sense of spiritual
apathy. I knew it was an important day; knew that I had chosen to attend Mass
for a reason. I wanted to be buoyed by faith; I wanted emotion and connection
to the liturgy around me. Yet, as I sat,
barely singing, watching the words in the hymnal go in and out of focus, I
understood that I would take the Eucharist that day much as I used to eat
bananas—without desire or emotion but with the knowledge that I was doing the
most nourishing thing I could at that moment.
The
gift bearers handed the bread and wine to the priest and I noted, without joy
or excitement, that I would receive grace from the Eucharist that day— not because
of anything that I was, but because of what the Eucharist was. The banana’s
power was in the banana, not in my belief in the banana, and the same was true
for the Eucharist. I would receive Christ, and Christ’s grace would fill me
whether I desired it or not; whether I had emotion about it or not, whether I
understood how it would happen or not. Bananas give energy and the Eucharist
gives grace. My emotional state at the time of consumption of either was
irrelevant.
And
so I received Communion. I went back to my pew, knelt down and did not pray.
Could not pray. I just knelt there and looked around, feeling nervous and
thinking of bananas.
Later
that afternoon, the grace came. It came so brightly and so well that I didn’t
even have time to think of bananas. I brought to the staffing a letter Teenasia had
written to our seminarian, explaining why she wanted to receive her First
Communion. I told Teenasia’s father about how well she was doing in school; in sports;
in her life at home. Her father nodded, listened and then asked if we had a
picture of Teenasia playing soccer. I did not, but Bill opened his wallet, took out
his picture of T in her M&I pink jersey, holding a soccer ball, and gave it
to her father. Then I showed Teenasia’s father her letter; told him how much it would
mean to Teenasia to be baptized; to be a Christian; to receive First Communion.
Her
father nodded, then said, “Well, if it’s
what she wants. Okay.” He signed the necessary forms. He looked at the photo
again. I blinked back my tears.
T’s
baptism will be April 18. Her First Communion will be May 2.
We’ll
have banana cream pie for dessert.
