Eshtine

I didnít spend the day

I didnít spend the day with the radio or the TV on. I saw the TV images that morning, I had public radio on for the few minutes it took to drive from work to my internship. At the internship I had no radio, no TV, no Internet. And that was fine. I figured it would mostly be misinformation anyway and the same images over and over. Even in the brief time I watched in the morning the TV people were repeating themselves. No one had anything new to say. Was there anything to say?
On the drive home I flipped on NPR again. I listened to the stream of commentary for a few minutes but finally had to turn it off. It was sending me out of my head. I tuned in to KDHX. On Tuesdays they play a Louisiana music show, ìHowzit Bayou?î They were right in the middle of an a cappella gospel number. The stratchy, burnt voices of old black men dug in below the angel swoop of Aaron Nevilleís falsetto. They sang:

No, never alone
No, never alone.
He promised never to leave me
Never to leave me alone.

I gulped it in like water.
At home I sat in front of the computer playing Solitaire. It would be several days before I could listen to any other music, despite what Iíd gotten out of ìNever Aloneî and the songs the DJ played by Sweet Honey in the Rock. (ìTrying Timesî was one. The title was wailed like a siren. The other said ìThis is a mean world/To try to live in/To try to stay in/Until you die.î) It would be several days before I called anyone. (The first call I made was to a young friend who had had a baby a few months back. Her voice sounded like a new lifeóall joy and fresh promise. I gulped that in like water too.)
The phone rang. It was my friend Diane. ìThereís a prayer service at St. Francis Xavier tonight.î
I had already set my mind on an evening burrowed inside my coccoon house. I couldnít draw on the mental energy required to get in a car and drive someplace. I mumbled an excuse.
Diane very calmly explained that it would be a good idea to go and that sheíd be down to pick me up in a few minutes.
She came with her friend Will and her two boys Erich and Billy. On the way to church we talked scraps of civics and foreign policy and watched lines forming at gas stations.
St. Francis Xavier is St. Louis Universityís ìcollege church.î It glows stark white at night and is a marvel of Gothic beauty, provided you can stand the Jesuit propaganda of its stained glass windows. We managed to score a pew in the very back; not long after our arrival, the place was filled to capacity, like it was Christmas or Easter. Everyone around us looked impossibly young.
There were songs, there were readings, there was a homily, there was a girl who ran sobbing to the back. And then we stood and held hands for the Our Father. It was like holdingóno, beingóa live wire. I remember thinking, ìSo this is what prayer feels like.î This was what itís like to say words and mean them, knowing everyone in the chain of held hands means them too, or at least feels the current and passes it on. This was sincerity, which I never knew much about. I bowed my head to it.
We had candles which were lit and held for prayers at the end. We sang a final song. Thenónothing happened. Nothing continued to happen for several minutes. Everyone was quiet, and everyone stayed standing in the pews, and the candles flickered. Perhaps we were all so well trained that we didnít know what to do in church if no one said ìThe Mass is ended, go in peace.î As it wasnít a Mass, we were waiting for a signal that never came. Or perhaps we simply didnít want to move. It was dark out there, and at least in here we had candles.