I’ve spent a lot of hours in the hay field the last couple weeks. A person has time to think and reflect out there by yourself, churning out bale after bale. I’m not sure what it was about the day. The sky was a bright blue, with those low, puffy, marshmallow clouds floating by. It was cool for July, has been all summer. All the colors, sounds, and smells were just right to take me on a trip down memory lane.
My folks always took in the new teacher, or pastor, or whatever wayward waif came through town. The summer I was six, it was my brother’s shop teacher. He was getting married in the middle of South Dakota, and it must have rained because we were headed for the wedding.
It was a little tiny Catholic country church that maybe held 40-50 people. It was a beautiful, cool summer day, perfect for a wedding. I don’t remember much about the first part of the ceremony, but I began to pay more attention when it was time for communion. The priest didn’t look much older than the bride and groom to a six year old, so I’m going to just say now, as an older, wiser person, he was still learning.
He consecrated three big chalices of wine, and began communion. I assume he assumed everyone there was of the Catholic persuasion. It turned out only the bride, her parents, an aunt, and her new husband were Catholic. The rest of us were apparently Lutherans and Hutterites. I didn’t understand the situation at the time, but the young priest, after communing a total of five people, had a dilemma. He started in on the first chalice without difficulty.
This is were a six year old started to take notice. I have to chase a squirrel now. Isn’t it odd to think back about your parents. I’m ten years older now than they were when we sat in that pew all those years ago. That’s how old I always see them. 40ish. I would guess my brothers see them younger than that as I was kind of a tag along. Anyway, when the priest started in on number two, I asked, “What’s he doing?” I just asked Mom, but in a church that size, I verbalized what everyone was thinking. Mom hushed me, and sort of put me in a head lock. When he started on chalice number three, I said, loudly, “Is he gonna drink it all?” My parents stared straight ahead, but the priest gave me a kind smile and nodded to me before he finished the last of the wine.
I give him a ton of credit. I don’t remember noticing anything odd until the last song. He had a firm grip on the lectern and sort of swayed in big circles along with the music. After that I couldn’t understand him the rest of the ceremony. I’ve been to countless Catholic weddings and funerals since that sunny July day, but it’s the only one the priest ever spoke in tongues. It was interpreted just fine though, because the bride and groom kissed and we all had cake and punch, which is the only reason a six year old goes to a wedding anyway. Who am I kidding? It’s the only reason a fifty year old goes to a wedding.
Farmer Dan's Food For Thought 