As a student at Marquette
University, my friends and I often attended the 10 p.m. nightly Mass at the
Joan of Arc Chapel on campus. We’d finish up our studying for the evening and
meet in the tiny chapel. The chapel has radiant heating in the stone floor and
five or six benches seating three each around the perimeter. Because I tended
to get to the chapel about 45 seconds before the opening song, I usually didn’t
get a seat, so I sat on the floor, and shifted positions often so that my
bottom didn’t get too hot.
While
I loved the Masses, I also took them for granted. I took for granted that I
attended Mass with a community of about 50 people, and at the Sign of Peace I
could greet more than half of the people by name. I took for granted the guitar
playing, the lively music, the way the sound filled up the space of the chapel
in the darkness. I took for granted
students voicing petitions about the same worries that we might talk about
later that evening over a dish of ice cream or a cold beer. I took for granted
the 500-year- old building; the wrought iron candle chandelier, probably
centuries old; the huge ancient wooden beams. I took for granted the
Jesuits—young and old—men of wisdom, intelligence and prayer, who led the students
gathered to look deeper into ourselves and discover who we were called to be.
But mostly I took for granted attending Mass almost daily; going to a Mass so
tailored for me, my schedule and my peer group, that not only was there no
excuse not to go to Mass, I liked it so much, I wasn’t even looking for an
excuse.
Graduation
gave way to young adulthood and I moved away from the campus.
Despite
my love for the St. Joan of Arc 10 p.m. Mass, I never went back. I don’t know
why, exactly. At first, maybe I felt that I had closed that chapter in my
life—I wasn’t a college student; I didn’t belong there. Eventually, I didn’t go
back for practical reasons—a Mass that ends at 11 p.m. is substantially later
for a mom of small kids than it is for a college student who can hit snooze
until 15 minutes before the first class of the day. In any case, I never went
back.
Until
last night.
Maria,
a friend and Marquette alum who now works at the university, had suggested that
we take our mutual friend, Jill, to the Mass. Jill was diagnosed with breast
cancer a few months ago, and the last round of chemo had been particularly
difficult for her.
“I
heard the music on Tuesday night is really good,” Maria told me. “Music is
healing. Are you free?” Of course I was free. I’m always free at 10 p.m. on
weeknights because I am usually asleep.
We
got to the campus over an hour before Mass was to begin, planning to have a
little picnic outside beforehand. The wind was cold though, so we moved our
picnic to the lobby of the library. Maria had brought Pinot Grigio, candles,
and cheese and crackers. I brought flowers and high quality chocolate. We
toasted to Jill’s making it through four rounds of chemo—and to the rounds
coming up. We toasted to the cancer going away and never coming back. Students
entered and left the library, glancing quizzically at us and our plastic wine
glasses. Then we packed up our picnic and went to the chapel.
St.
Joan of Arc was just as I remembered it, but better, because I wasn’t taking it
for granted. We had gotten there early enough to get seats, but soon the entire
chapel was packed and students were crowded on the floor. As a student, I had
not much looked around and noticed the faces of other students—except for the
guitar player on Thursday nights that I had a mad crush on—but as an adult, I
took in their faces. They were so young. Beautiful. Just five to eight years
older than Jacob, my own son. I saw in them what I hoped he would be someday.
Chatting animatedly before Mass began; singing the opening song loudly,
enthusiastically; sitting reverently, listening to the readings, the homily.
Laughing at the Sign of Peace. Hugging. Shaking hands.
Looking
at the students, I remembered my own prayers inside that chapel. Prayers so
different than my prayers now. Not less, just different. Different prayers for
different stages of life. Then, I prayed that God would guide me in all the
huge decisions I was making about my life. I had prayed about my relationships
and my future. Now, having already made so many of those life decisions I was
wondering about in college, I prayed for Jill and her family. That the chemo
would work. That the cancer would be squashed and that her hair would grow
back.
As
I sat next to Jill, I couldn’t help but think how many of my college prayers in
the chapel had been answered. Buoyed by the memory of those answered prayers, I
prayed again for Jill. I prayed that the peacefulness, the holiness of this
place would permeate her being. That the cancer would feel unwelcome amid the
goodness and youth that surrounded us.
I
prayed for Jill’s healing and gave thanks for this tiny, holy chapel. And
somehow, it felt like the same prayer.
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