When she arrived three years ago, Jennifer made a name for herself in the clinic by going on record in a very public way against this practice. After that, no one at the clinic trusted her; she was seen as a religious fanatic. She became marginalized, almost invisible in the clinic. Such marginalization would have almost killed a German in her professional shoes, but Jennifer is an American.
“I have lots of friends,” she shrugged, grinning at me disarmingly. “I really don’t need to be popular with people at this clinic.”
Something about her spirit made me like her, and we became friends - which is how I wound up sobbing in the back of an 18th century chapel in an old folks’ home that evening. Tears rolling down my face, I followed numbly as Jennifer led the short way to the Catholic chapel where she attends the Latin Mass every night, after work.
She had invited me before, telling me about the group of young Catholics that followed the Latin Mass, but as I said, I am not a religious person. (To be honest, I’d pictured some intolerable nerds following a ghoulish priest -- though of course I wouldn’t tell her that.)
However, when I dried my tears, I found this old chapel to be oddly comforting. It was very quiet. Aside from the spring evening light filtering through the stained glass windows, a single, stout beeswax candle glowed before a bank of radiant pink hydrangeas adorning a Pieta of surprising beauty and power.
Soon, the door opened and a youngish priest in a cassock strode in, followed by three men. The priest nodded at us with a smile, and vanished into an anteroom with one of the men. The other two grinned at us wordlessly, and took up their places at the rear of the chapel.
A few minutes later, a golden bell rang. The priest and altar server emerged. The small group of worshipers who had quietly assembled got to their feet. As the evening light slowly died, the two men lifted their voices in an ancient Gregorian chant.
I listened, transported, as the centuries fell away.
I was in a trance when the Mass ended. All I wanted to do was stay there, and breathe the incense-scented air. Jennifer stood up, though, as the priest and two of the men approached us, smiling.
I saw immediately that one of the singers was enamored of her. Jennifer returned his admiring glance with a radiant smile and introduced him as ‘Josef;’ he shook my hand earnestly.
“And this is Christoph,” whispered Jennifer, and we shook hands. He was a tall, calm man with aristocratic bearing. I suddenly thought of my tear-stained cheeks, and wished I had a lipstick.
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