Meeting at the Coast

“I almost held a wedding in Mall of America once.”

“Wait, what?”

“I almost held a wedding when I worked at Mall of America once. I’m a pastor and I’m licensed to do weddings.”

Surprised and standing in the middle of a Teavana store in New Jersey, I never would have guessed I worked with a pastor. Mitch had transferred to the Deptford store only a few weeks prior. We spend almost every shift together, dishing out tea to customers who were hard-pressed to part with their hard earned paychecks. My jaw dropped slightly as I put my Teavana apron on.

“You’re a pastor?” I said, my hands paused mid-knot behind my back.

“Yeah, I have my degree in pastoral studies.”

“Oh…cool.”

***

On his baptism day, Mitch wore a traditional Christening gown. A decent length of fabric hung beyond his legs, in a shade between white and eggshell, the customary uniform to wear at your baptism. This attire is the commonly accepted dress for a babies christening day. In a Catholic Church in Minnesota, the priest was dressed in traditional barb of a long-sleeved, white, robe with a high collar and gold-stitched detailing. The priest also wore wire-rimmed glasses and read from the Bible while pouring cup full of Holy Water over baby Mitch’s head as his mother held him above a bowl the size of a bird bath. His grandfather recorded the entire event on a now out-dated camcorder.

Half way across the nation and three years later I experienced the same religious undertaking. My mother embroidered beads onto my long, off-white gown. My god parents held candles as my cousin stood on tip-toe to see what was happening through massive, prescription glasses that were high fashion in the early 90’s. My god father, who is also my uncle, still had brown in his hair and moustache. My god mother, who is also my aunt, was a shade thinner, and donned a dark, floral print dress. After church my family spent the evening gorging on catered food, while I enjoyed bottled vegetables and napped. The VHS tape, filmed by my grandfather and packed away in my basement illustrates this. My off white ceremonial gown is framed and hung in my dining room at home in New Jersey.

Starting in the 1^st grade, as part of the Catholic faith I was required, mostly at the wishes of my grandmother, to attend CCD (Continuing Catholic Development). Classes were held every Monday from four to five p.m., for grades one through five, and seven to eight p.m., for grades six through eight. Sessions met in the Catholic school that was just across the parking lot from the church, in rooms whose floors were covered in blue Berber carpet that was foreign compared to the slick white tile floors in my public school building. Unfortunately for them, the unpaid teachers who were sentenced to have myself and another kid in my class at regular school, Michael, got more than they bargained for. CCD was created to espouse the strict- no sex before marriage - abortion equals sin - thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain – beliefs. Even during elementary school neither Michael nor I gave these convictions much credit.

In 1998 I was in the 2^nd grade and after two years of CCD, my mother and I went shopping for a pretty white dress. The one we got was plain, knee-length with that scratchy material underneath the satin, adding volume to the skirt. I got a matching veil onto which Mom sewed by hand a delicate beading detail. The same beaded pattern was affixed by my mother’s hand to the now elaborate white dress. I got white stockings and shiny white shoes with a thin strap that crossed over the top of my foot and a heel about three-quarters of an inch high. At my first Holy Communion I looked just like every other girl in the church.

My family belongs to St. Rose of Lima, a church that resided in a brown-brick building which seems to be cold every day of every year. Instead of paint or wallpaper, or even ancient tacky tapestry depicting biblical figures, the bricks also show inside. My suburban church – not surprisingly built in the shape of a cross – provides acoustics to put any recording studio to shame.  A more than double life-size crucifix is stationed at the far end of the building, directly across from the main entrance with most of the pews falling in rows so that the main aisle allowed anyone taking a seat to genuflect (I always forgot.)  All the lighting is artificial. Although elongated, arched windows line the walls every four feet or so, the glass is stained in dark, sunlight gobbling panes to illustrate the Stations of the Cross, when Jesus walked to his death…or something.

The day of the ceremony there were streams of soft, white fabric draped along the ends of the pews. Fastened above this were large, homemade, matching white bows crafted out of satin. Upon first walking into the church there were large flower arrangements, following the same color scheme, set atop two tables that were on either side of the main aisle. The weather outside was wonderful; a clear, crisp spring day in New Jersey. The double-wide front doors were left open to let in the smell and sounds of fresh weather. 

The ceremony began around mid-morning one day in early May that year. Every girl wore a veil; every boy wore a black, blue or white suit. Grandfathers, uncles and fathers told us we looked beautiful. Mothers, aunts and grandmothers just couldn’t believe we were growing up so fast. That day the words of the priest slid over my ears as visions of the feast waiting for me at home clouded my mind, which should have been focused on the gospel and growing within the church. Finally we walked down the aisle between wooden pews; our hands held in prayer and received the body of Christ for the first time.

Three years before this and halfway across the nation Mitch also attended his first Holy Communion. Family came in from all around and as part of the celebration of his growth within the church, food was waiting back at home. His grandmother called him “handsome” in his miniature black suit and tie. He went through the motions, received the holy Eucharist and proceeded up the religious ladder.

***

In my room at home I squirmed and came up with ways to pass the time.

“It’s not a big deal. We’re not even that religious. Just do it.”

Walking down the stairs to the living room where my mother sat with a cup of tea watching television, my breath caught in my chest. I’m not sure why I felt so nervous.

“I don’t want to be confirmed.”

That look was one I would never forget.

“Why not?”

I fumbled over my words. Nervous nausea was getting the best of me.

“Well since you can’t come up with a good enough reason, you don’t have a choice.”

***

Freshman year of high school, I was pissed. I managed to calm down and make my case. I stomped my feet. I whined. I spoke with Mrs. Johnson, the woman who ran the CCD program in my parish. She was older, maybe in her 60’s. Short, brash blonde hair, clear blue eyes and the sweetest demeanor I have ever met. When I told her I did not want to be Confirmed tears swelled in her eyes. I wasn’t convinced. I was 14 and angry. I did not want to be confirmed as Roman Catholic. Eight years of religion class once a week was enough, too much actually, for me. My mom didn’t talk to me for a week. I didn’t want a party, or gifts. I didn’t care that my dying grandmother wished for me to be confirmed. I wasn’t doing it.

Or so I thought.

After numerous threats and a bout of the cold shoulder, my mother forced me into the Confirmation ceremony that transforms teenagers into adults in the eyes of the Church. The event was held one September evening. I wore matching black pants, v-neck shirt, jacket and Doc Marten boots. Instead of growth this was my religious funeral and I made sure to dress appropriately. My neighbor and friend of my mother for 30 years acted as my sponsor during the ceremony, since my grandmother was wheel-chair bound and could not move by herself. When the time came, my grandfather wheeled my grandmother out to the front of the church so that she, as my official sponsor, could be with me to receive the Eucharist. We reached the alter where the priests were handing out those half-dollar sized wafers, Father Mike who had heard of my fits and tantrums said “Ahhhhh. The Body of Christ.”

“Amen.”

***

In Minnesota, Mitch participated in the same event as I, but with much less fuss. Without complaint, he dressed nicely and participated in the Confirmation ceremony. He walked down the aisle of the church, took the Holy Communion, turned and went back to his seat. Just another kid going through the motions that night, the priest wouldn’t recognize him today. Afterwards he went home, ate a fantastic meal with his family, and called it a night, feeling no different than he did when he woke up that morning. Except now he was an adult in the eyes of the church.

During mid-March of this year Mitch made the move from the mid-west and his picturesque home town of Cottage Grove to the East Coast, specifically the foreign land of South Philly. City blocks replaced suburban developments. Long highways connecting counties over flat land were swapped for toll bridges to New Jersey. Cheese steaks from Geno’s substituted home cooked meals from mom.

This is where our lives meet, and divide.

After the night of my Confirmation Ceremony I never stepped foot in another church until two years later, at the death of my grandmother. The same one who had been my sponsor for the ritual that I never wanted to take part in, the same one who was my second mother. I never would have dreamed of missing her funeral. Besides this I avoided church as much as possible. After taking care of the bare minimum my mother stopped bugging me to attend mass. I remained on the East Coast, at home in New Jersey and found a retail job at Teavana in the Deptford mall.

Mitch had worked at the Teavana in the Mall of America, and when he came to South Philly to plant churches for CityLife Church, Teavana transferred him to work at my store. Once turning 18, Mitch became a Christian and attended North Central University with a major in pastoral studies.  Leaving Roman Catholicism for Christianity had been the plan for a long time; it was simply a matter of pleasing his family – especially grand mom – while he had to.

At 23, Mitch is not the typical pastor. Better dressed than most he can often be seen wearing well-fitting jeans and a graphic-tee, more often than not with a phrase from his favorite television show, The Big Bang Theory, sprawled across the chest. This attire applies when he is not working his day job as store manager at Teavana, where he dons well tailored dress pants, only black or gray, and a long-sleeved button down shirt, no matter what the weatherman says. A mess of deep red-brown hair that seemingly never grows lies in thick waves on top of his head, while color-matching facial hair covers his upper lip and chin. His bright blue eyes are almost always hidden behind a pair of black, wide-rimmed - but not hipster - prescription glasses. He drives a wide, silver Pontiac Grand Prix that handles most supremely in the snow, which falls heavily during the winter months at his home in the mid-west, but is a bear to park in his new home of South Philly.

When not working at Teavana, Mitch oversees many of the goings-on at CityLife. He plans events, holds worship ceremonies and most importantly of all, he acts as therapist for youths in the group, despite not being fond of that term.

“Some people view me like a shrink. And that’s fine. But that’s not really what I do. My focus is more making sure everything’s okay. We’ll walk through it together, that’s the big thing. I’m going to walk through it with you, and be available longer than that one hour session.”

CityLife hold worship experience inside the Academy at Palumbo, a large brown, square building that encompasses almost an entire city block. This is also where Mitch gets the chance to spend time with kids involved with the Church, and can assist them the best he can. Arched windows reminiscent of a traditional church are sculpted in a line along what looks like from the outside to be the first floor. Above this at what would be considered the third and fourth floors are a few sets of vertical rectangular windows, in two sets of three, with another single window to the right and left of the two inner sets. Rather than in the center of the building, the main entrance is a regular sized door, much like one that would be seen on a residential home. It lies to the right, only a few feet from the corner of the structure. Above the doorway is a large cement plaque which reads “Academy at Palumbo.”

I haven’t been to mass since my grandmother’s funeral. The closest thing to celebrating the Catholic faith has been my attendance to my younger sister’s Confirmation, just a few months ago. Mitch and I met on the East Coast, not knowing each other grew up following the same beliefs. He went on to become a pastor, while I stay as far as possible away from any religious matter. When not working together we sometimes find the time to find new restaurants around his area of the city, and don’t feel the need to avoid conversation surrounding religious matter. I don’t take offense to what he believes; he doesn’t shove the Bible down my throat. While following different paths, as friends we help each other along. With all the things I have witnessed, I never knew a pastor could be so cool.

This was never published. It was written as a final narrative for my Advanced Magazine Article Writing class that I took Fall semester 2011. Long story short, my professor said this was terrible, and gave me a final grade that if it had been any lower I would have failed the class.