By Sean Dietrich, Sean of the South
Commentary
A Catholic church. It was lunchtime. The chapel was empty when I wandered in. The janitor was Latino and spoke fractured English. He was elderly, with lily-white hair.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
“May I help joo?” he said.
I asked to speak to the priest.
“Have a seat,” the custodian said, “the Padre will be with you shortly.”
I sat in a pew. The church was stone quiet. The A/C compressor kicked on. I could feel the Blessed Virgin looking at me with either disapproval or shock.
Because I’m not Catholic. Not even close. Truthfully, I don’t know what I am. Neither did I know why I was here.
I was raised Southern Baptist. We were the kind of strict people who fought against alcohol and premarital sex because it could lead to bingo.
But today I am broken. Every time I think about the three 9-year-olds who were gunned down in Nashville, my heart shatters. I cannot stop weeping. I think of the three adults who were slaughtered in the hallways, and I fall to pieces.
“I’m not Catholic,” I explained to the custodian.
He shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.”
I waited for the priest. And the janitor waited with me, which was nice of him.
The old man sat in the pew beside me. We both stared at the intricate stained glass above the altar, glowing like multi-colored fire.
The janitor’s face looked like aged leather. It made me wonder what a man his age was doing, still tying down a nine-to-five.
“Joo are not Catholic,” he said, “yet you are here?”
“Well, I figured, how could it hurt?”
He nodded.
More silence.
I looked at the framed paintings of the 14 Stations of the Cross on the chapel walls. Jesus sort of looked like a Ken doll with a beard.
“Joo are here for a confession?” the custodian asked me.
“I don’t know. Maybe. I guess I just wanted to talk to someone.”
Nod.
The truth is, I was in Nashville when the school shooting happened. I was only a few miles away from the disaster. I was on the sidewalk when a motorcade of emergency vehicles started zipping by. Sirens were everywhere. Later I drove by the school and my blood went cold.
I can’t quit thinking about it. It makes me so deeply sad I can’t stand it.
“Joo know what I do when I am sad?” the old man said.
“What?”
“I close my eyes, and I just breathe in and out. Like this.”
The old man performed a breathing exercise. I was starting to wonder if this man was all there.
I smiled. “That’s nice.”
“Joo try it.”
“Try breathing?”
“Yes.”
“No thanks, I just had lunch.”
“Try it.”
So I closed my eyes and I breathed in and out. I felt awkward and idiotic. He seemed very proud that I was breathing.
“And joo know what I do when I breathe?” he said. “I say one word.”
“What word do you say?”
“Dios.”
Then the man proceeded to demonstrate again. He closed his eyes. He breathed inward through his nostrils, slowly, then he exhaled and whispered “Dios.”
“Does it work?” I asked.
“Oh, sí.”
“So it’s basically a one-word prayer?”
He shook his head. “No, sir. It’s not a prayer. It is—how you say?—letting go.”
“Can I ask you a question?” I said.
“Okay.”
“Are you on medication?”
“No, why?”
“Never mind.”
We were quiet for a few minutes. I looked around the sanctuary, wondering where the priest was. I figured he’d forgotten me.
The old man spoke. His voice was melancholy.
“When I was growing up in Mexico, there were evil men in my neighborhood. They kill my little brother when he was a boy. This is why I left Mexico.
“My mother, she was strong, the day we bury my brother, we cried so hard, and she teach us all to close our eyes and breathe just say ‘Dios.’ She tell us that if we know no other words, if we cannot speak, if we are too hurt to move, all you say is ‘Dios, Dios, Dios,’ and this is enough. God will carry you.”
Turns out I didn’t need a priest.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Sean of the South: Sad In Tennessee
By Sean Dietrich, Sean of the South
Commentary
A Catholic church. It was lunchtime. The chapel was empty when I wandered in. The janitor was Latino and spoke fractured English. He was elderly, with lily-white hair.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
“May I help joo?” he said.
I asked to speak to the priest.
“Have a seat,” the custodian said, “the Padre will be with you shortly.”
I sat in a pew. The church was stone quiet. The A/C compressor kicked on. I could feel the Blessed Virgin looking at me with either disapproval or shock.
Because I’m not Catholic. Not even close. Truthfully, I don’t know what I am. Neither did I know why I was here.
I was raised Southern Baptist. We were the kind of strict people who fought against alcohol and premarital sex because it could lead to bingo.
But today I am broken. Every time I think about the three 9-year-olds who were gunned down in Nashville, my heart shatters. I cannot stop weeping. I think of the three adults who were slaughtered in the hallways, and I fall to pieces.
“I’m not Catholic,” I explained to the custodian.
He shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.”
I waited for the priest. And the janitor waited with me, which was nice of him.
The old man sat in the pew beside me. We both stared at the intricate stained glass above the altar, glowing like multi-colored fire.
The janitor’s face looked like aged leather. It made me wonder what a man his age was doing, still tying down a nine-to-five.
“Joo are not Catholic,” he said, “yet you are here?”
“Well, I figured, how could it hurt?”
He nodded.
More silence.
I looked at the framed paintings of the 14 Stations of the Cross on the chapel walls. Jesus sort of looked like a Ken doll with a beard.
“Joo are here for a confession?” the custodian asked me.
“I don’t know. Maybe. I guess I just wanted to talk to someone.”
Nod.
The truth is, I was in Nashville when the school shooting happened. I was only a few miles away from the disaster. I was on the sidewalk when a motorcade of emergency vehicles started zipping by. Sirens were everywhere. Later I drove by the school and my blood went cold.
I can’t quit thinking about it. It makes me so deeply sad I can’t stand it.
“Joo know what I do when I am sad?” the old man said.
“What?”
“I close my eyes, and I just breathe in and out. Like this.”
The old man performed a breathing exercise. I was starting to wonder if this man was all there.
I smiled. “That’s nice.”
“Joo try it.”
“Try breathing?”
“Yes.”
“No thanks, I just had lunch.”
“Try it.”
So I closed my eyes and I breathed in and out. I felt awkward and idiotic. He seemed very proud that I was breathing.
“And joo know what I do when I breathe?” he said. “I say one word.”
“What word do you say?”
“Dios.”
Then the man proceeded to demonstrate again. He closed his eyes. He breathed inward through his nostrils, slowly, then he exhaled and whispered “Dios.”
“Does it work?” I asked.
“Oh, sí.”
“So it’s basically a one-word prayer?”
He shook his head. “No, sir. It’s not a prayer. It is—how you say?—letting go.”
“Can I ask you a question?” I said.
“Okay.”
“Are you on medication?”
“No, why?”
“Never mind.”
We were quiet for a few minutes. I looked around the sanctuary, wondering where the priest was. I figured he’d forgotten me.
The old man spoke. His voice was melancholy.
“When I was growing up in Mexico, there were evil men in my neighborhood. They kill my little brother when he was a boy. This is why I left Mexico.
“My mother, she was strong, the day we bury my brother, we cried so hard, and she teach us all to close our eyes and breathe just say ‘Dios.’ She tell us that if we know no other words, if we cannot speak, if we are too hurt to move, all you say is ‘Dios, Dios, Dios,’ and this is enough. God will carry you.”
Turns out I didn’t need a priest.