Epic Race

Why did I grow out of it? I waited with bated breath on a weekly basis. Now, I am only too willing to either sleep in or groan my way through something that I used to love. What is this phenomenon? It is my belief in the unconditional love of religion. 

            I have nothing but fond memories of my childhood parish. Thinking about it makes me nostalgic and homesick for the days where I enjoyed being at church. Before my religion became a chore.  

            Quietly resting in the third pew I am glad that my children enjoy coming to mass. This community promises them fun and companionship even at a young age. Scanning the room, I take in the priest in his long flowing robes, four towering candles around our simple alter. Two small candles are placed on the outer corners of the altar. All six pristine candles glisten with golden sparks. Father continues his homily as any other Sunday. I stop and gaze at all the young people of the parish, who are so eager to the run-up to the altar that they can barely contain their excitement. None of the adults, myself included, want to sit in the front for fear of being trampled by the children. 

"Please bow your heads in prayer." 

            Write on cue, Bug-Bug (3-year-old boy) is going up to investigate father John. Father is used to Bug-Bug's wandering but this does not mean that he approves. However, there is no conforming to normality for Bug-Bug, and we wouldn't have it any other way. 

"The mass is ended. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord."

Move. Now! 

I have to get further back and clear the easel for the kids.

 "They are moving. Go! Go! Go!"

            Safe. With the doorway as my shield, I shift to see the children rush foreword in one large stampede. It's an epic race to be the first to the altar. They ignore the formalities and storm the altar. Their blissful laughter rings clear in our little chapel as someone wins. They have defeated the others to the snuffer. But the kids look as they do when they realize that Santa has been to see them on Christmas morning. They are amazing because they have won the race yet they still share the monumental task of extinguishing the candles. It makes me want to light vast amounts around the chapel just for their carefree moment to last that much longer. 

            Of course, this didn't really happen. Truthfully it occurred more like this. All the kids would perch by the choir in the first row in all seriousness. Coming to the end of mass two exoduses would occur. I remember the pure rush of adrenalin as I rose from my pue. I saw all of the other children doing the same. Our determination was clear on our faces.  But it's not expected. The parents and elders go back out to the basement but they are only getting out of the way. For what you ask. 

I brace myself as Father leaves the chapel. Adrenalin starts to trickle into my veins. It is coming. I'm ready, and I am going to be first. I purposefully sat by the aisle because I want the snuffer before the other kids. The others will not beat me. I feel my muscles tense and I'm on my feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the others doing the same. Today is mine. I pivot into the aisle. I'm in front but the others are on my heels. My right foot extends and comes down with a crash. Energy explodes through my body. I swing my left arm and raise my left foot. My left foot comes down and I am jolted with electricity. I hear the others laughing as they try to catch me. My right arm swings forward as I gain momentum, higher and higher. I am the quickest. My right foot hits again. Only a few more steps. I feel Chase's breath on the nape of my neck. Faster, I strain. Now, my left arm. My left foot. My right. Swing like a pendulum. I have arrived at the stairs. My knee bends so that I may climb the mountain. I can see Chase beside me. We are neck and neck. I ascend the first peek. I lean forward to clear the second peak before Chase. Pivot again. I plunge to my knees, rough fibers of the rug rub against me. Chase is there, too. But I am nimble. Reach out. Chilling. A thin, long mettle. My fingertips collide first and I clasp, rolling the rod into my sweaty palm. I have done it. I have conquered all. I am the champion. 

            Now, he is hanging above me. Nailed to the cross with a crown of thorns and a gaping side wound. He died for me. How I wonder did he die for me long before I existed. "Believe," they tell me. So, I do. I believe in Jesus Christ, the man on the cross. Or at least I used to believe in what I now think - fiction.