I hope you enjoy this version of Justin's narrative. There were two things specifically that I wanted to really work on in this piece: the semi-colons and the need for a dictionary. I did change quite a few of the compound sentences that were joined with semi-colons, but decided to leave the technical jargon alone. I think that leaving it gives the story a more authentic feel. Justin, I hope you approve.
January 25th, 2004 was just another ordinary Sunday for most people in the United States, but it’s a day I’ll remember for the rest of my life. This was the day when three years of rigorous study and self-examination would be acknowledged by a community I had come to respect and cherish. This was the morning of my ordination to the priesthood as a member of the Old Catholic church.
It was a cold morning by Florida standards, and frost formed on the windows of my hotel room. I paced back and forth between the tiny kitchenette and the main sleeping area, a cup of coffee clutched tightly in my hands. I stopped occasionally to take a drink, being extra careful to avoid spilling any on my suit—as I’m prone to doing when I pace.
I neither remember leaving my room nor the trip to the cathedral. I was escorted to the sacristy where an attendant relieved me of my jacket my cherished cup of coffee. Slowly, the world was washed from my hands in water that reeked faintly of roses and then dried with towel still hot from being freshly pressed. I lifted the amice from the table and carefully tied to so that it concealed the distinctive Roman collar; the attendant helped me don the alb and girded my waist with a pristine white cincture. I could hear the faint notes of the organ—it was nearly time.
The ceremony itself went by in a blur. In my memory, I see a flurry of images, I smell the distinctive scent of frankincense and I hear the haunting melody of the chant which accompanied it all. I can still see myself, young and naïve and ready to begin this new adventure. At the time, I had no idea what a can of worms I had just opened.
I remained with the church as a priest for only a year. I once thought it would be a lifetime commitment, but I wasn’t prepared for the events which would later transpire. When one grows up with certain perceptions and expectations, disappointments can run deeply and letting go of a dream isn’t easy. I was faced with the humanity of my peers, and I was woefully unprepared for it.
Another cold Sunday in January and…
The walls of the sacristy were covered with antique mahogany cabinets. The aroma of cedar wafted into the air as I opened the drawers to remove the vestments I’d worn so many times before.
I slowly unfolded the amice; the linen was soft and colored with age. It went over the collar of my cassock with ease. I fumbled with the ties for a few moments as I adjusted the fabric to conceal the stiff band of the Roman collar circling my neck. The Subdeacon brought my rochet, a long garment trimmed with copious English lace and hand-embroidered symbols. He quietly drew the vestment over my head, fussing with the hem as it fell to my ankles. The long, green silk stole was next, draped over my shoulders with care. A duo of acolytes stepped forward with the chasuble, a hefty, gothic-style garment made from heavy wool and sweltering silk. It took both of the acolytes to maneuver the bulky thing over my head. I took the pectoral cross and aged ring from a tapestry pillow and put them on.
I took the Missal from its shelf and tucked it under my right arm. The Subdeacon pressed my biretta into my free hand as I passed through the door of the sacristy and out the doors of the nave. I stood on the steps and blessed the altar party, something I’d done hundreds of times before now. This would be the last time. The processional hymn began, and the porters drew open the doors. The acolytes with their candles flanked the crucifier. The sub-deacon slipped behind the crucifer, and the deacon behind him. I donned my biretta, taking a moment to fluff the scarlet pom as I took my place behind the deacon. As we started through the doors, I held the opulent Missal aloft in both hands, and the choir began chanting Psalm 114 in splendid polyphony.
The processional hymn, the Psalm, and the opening prayers concluded. I approached the sedilia, with its worn blue velvet cushion, and sat down after reverencing the tabernacle. The Mass continued, unfolding almost flawlessly around me. Tears stained my cheeks as I consecrated the Body and Blood. I held the elements, raising the chalice and paten overhead, carefully kneeling with each. The end of the Mass approached too quickly, and the recessional came before I knew it, and my last Mass was over.
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