Flyentology

          I may have neglected to write that I'm in full panic mode regarding my clergy interview assignment for R&P, which sneaked up on me very quickly. [Note: That last sentence didn't sound grammatically correct, so I ended up at http://www.writersdigest.com/online-editor/snuck-vs-sneaked to clear it up. I'm typically an adherent of "snuck", but will settle for what's more pleasant to the ear eye inner ear god dammit!] After a great deal of waffling and internal debate over which church services would be most efficient to attend, I decided to go to St. Cecilia's, a Roman Catholic church near Berklee.
          This church is tucked away on a side street, but "tucked" may give a false impression of its appearance. It's large and majestic with high, vaulted ceilings and pillars. The organ is bone-shaking, just as it should be. When I walked in, my first thought was that I chose the wrong congregation -- the place was packed with worshippers. Today is the seventh Sunday of Easter, so it's prime church season. I took a seat in the back and braced myself for the lengthy service, and did my best to get all the steps right. ("Peace be with you!" "And also with you!" are words that have not crossed my mind in years.) The Vatican has apparently changed some of the call-and-answer-type rites since I left, so I felt lost at times, but other parts of the Mass were very familiar. Throughout, I couldn't help but feel like a fox in the henhouse, as if my mere presence could damage the experience of the faithful. There was also a baptism, and as everyone watched and crooned over the infant, all I could think of was the baptism motif in The Godfather. Also, I'm now a secret heretic in the background of this baby's baptism photos, which is a little uncomfortable. The choir was far and away the best part of the Mass -- just incredible. The priest himself was young, relatable, and easy-speaking; his sermon was well reasoned and well delivered, but I still had trouble staying awake.
          At one point, I stepped out to take a call from my father, who let me know that Father Bill (at St. John the Evangelist, my family's church) was expecting my call. I'm glad I hedged my bets; even though I'm not technically allowed to do a phone interview, the odds of getting a sit-down with this priest were not promising. I waited around to speak to the priest after Mass, and stood in a long line of well-wishers and congregants before I finally got to him. He declined the interview with sincere regret, explaining that this was the worst possible week because he was helping his mother move. (Unless he's just a really skilled liar, which is a possibility I'd prefer not to think about.) I headed out feeling bummed, and smelled candles all the way home.
          I got in touch with Father Bill, who generously agreed to speak with me tomorrow. Iris and I watched one of the most depressing Game of Thrones episodes yet, which was made no less ugly by my foreknowledge of what was to come. Iris had no such warning and was accordingly crushed by the end. Luckily, this cryfest was followed by the Kings' overtime victory against the Blackhawks in the Western Conference finals, which we met with much jubilation. I then dove into a writing frenzy to hammer out a memo for the PPA midterm.