The untypical churchgoer

You could not help but stare at her, but please, try to be inconspicuous. She didn’t bother anyone. I thought why would anyone mind a few snubs from people one didn’t care for?

However, one day, I saw her sitting in the same corner that I usually occupy in church. Funny thing about seeing the same faces in church. It was easy to spot them cause they stay in the same area, day in and day out. Like most, I guarded my personal space too and considered it almost territorial that it should be kept vacant for me.

She looked at me and said, “I like this spot too.” I shrugged my shoulders. “If you came early, you would have gotten it first,” I thought. She was on my favorite spot.

I decided to sit next to her. She was mumbling and writing notes on a pile of scratch paper where she had scribbled many doodles and words. The only time I looked at her again was when we exchanged greetings of peace. She smiled, “If you like, I can reserve your space when you stand up to receive communion.” I returned her smile and that was how we sort of got ourselves informally introduced.

Today, I was early for mass and found that my favorite corner was still unoccupied. After a while, I saw her.

“Please, can you give up your seat for me?” she asked. “I have this terrible muscle atrophy and I’ve got arthritis in all parts of my body.”

Before I could reply, she continued, “But it’s okay, I could stand near you which will really help me distribute the pain, I really don’t mind.” She moved to do just that so I beckoned to her, “Come, sit here and I’ll just sit next to you.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Of course,” I replied.

She tried to argue so I moved my head up and down to convince her to sit next to me. “It’s okay,” I said. “If you don’t like to sit anymore, give me your stuff so that you don’t worry about them.” She chuckled and handed me her bag that was heavier than a ton of bricks. “What do you keep in this bag?” I moaned. She smiled and finally sat next to me.

She started a conversation. She had tales to tell but none of them made any sense except about moving her parents to live with her, both old and suffering from Alzheimer’s, that she wasn’t earning enough to feed them nor herself. She spoke fluent English and talked as if she once had a steady job that went awry.

 I looked at her from every angle: Her long, wavy hair was cascading down her shoulders, jet-black with a few streaks of gray. She was fully made up, evenly applied on her face and neck and she wore a pale shade of lipstick. Her main indulgence was her painted eyebrows that were heavy and mysterious. They made her look fierce, probably why people felt uncomfortable, if not ridiculously appalled or sickened by her sight. They were black as burnt charcoal, tracing a long and perfect arch that reached to the temple of her forehead.

She never stood up to receive Holy Communion. She was garbed in this itsy-bitsy denim shorts, tattered and faded beyond wash-and-wear ability and paired with a cotton gauze peasant shirt. Her legs, arms and neck were glistening with oil that smelled like cough syrup. She showed me a bottle and said “El Shadai sells this oil as therapeutic, you know.” It was a soothing, refreshing scent. And since I like the smell of anything with citrus and mint, I actually found it calming.

In a few seconds, the mass began. Just when the priest was welcoming the congregation, a steady stream of young students entered the church. The teachers had to corral them to move to the farthest side of the church so as not to disturb the rest of the praying public. They numbered 150, at least. When they saw my seatmate, each one gasped, tapped the classmate next to them if not pulled them to stare.

It was a domino effect: Eyes opened wide in shock, long, heavy sighs and a slap on the mouth to cover this initial reaction; some had no time to do anything else except let their jaw fall like an overcooked souffle.

My seatmate hogged everyone’s full attention. I was watching human behavior at its worst: horrid and cruel. It was mental bullying. When I turned to her, she began to giggle. She found it tres amusant.

At the end of the mass, several women crowded the image of St. Pedro Calungsod, the 2nd Filipino saint recently canonized in Rome, which was placed in an open altar right above where we were seated. A woman made the sign of the cross and tried to catch my attention, “Psst, psst, do you know that woman next to you? Who is she?”

“I see her here every day,” I replied. She shook her head and gave me that wretched look, short of saying, “Why be seen with someone like her?”

My seatmate heard her and said, “She makes me think twice why some people go to church and yet not focus on why they stand before the presence of the Lord. Don’t we ask forgiveness and show kindness, mercy and compassion? Like what Jesus preached and have asked us to imitate, right”

When I stood up to leave, she was praying the rosary, oblivious to the nasty stares and rude whispers around her.

“Kindness, mercy, compassion,” she said. As the thoughts ran through my mind, I came to a conclusion. Why do I feel like we all have a long, long way to go before we could put her thoughts in our mind and in our hearts?