What Remained.

November 15, 2015. Sunday, 9:30 AM

“...and the great Lord Jesus, our savior, proclaimed that-”

Before Father Johnson could finish his sentence, a generic, but popular, boy band song begins to blare through the chapel from the purse of Cindy Walters, a senior from my high school.

She glares at her bag sitting beside her on the pew, in the same manner that a mother glares at a disobedient child, for a good five seconds, before prying it open and slamming on the screen of her rose gold Iphone 6 frantically with her finger.

Father Johnson stops his sermon dramatically, as if anyone was actually paying attention to it, turning beet red from forehead to neck. Cindy finally mutes her phone, and he shoots her a dirty look then lets out a somewhat whiny, irritated sigh.

He begins to scold the parishioners and rants about the importance of silence during mass. He ‘strongly advises’ us to place our phones into a basket that would be taken outside.

Out of context, this would be an irrational reaction to such a small distraction, if it wasn’t the seventh phone related distraction today, in the first thirty minutes of 9:00 a.m. Mass.

Father Johnson tolerated so many disruptions before deciding to stop the issue, that it seems as if he almost wanted the phones to ring as an excuse to shame all of the people who didn’t heed his warning about keeping their phones off during service.

“Is it that hard to put your phones on mute? Being adults I’d assume that we are capable of releasing ourselves from the grasp of electronic devices and worldly possessions, just to go to Mass and hear the Word of the Lord.” he clamors.

Father Johnson continues scolding the entirety of the chapel while the inhabitants of the pews try to avoid his eyes, in shame.

“This blows.” Alec, my twenty something year-old brother, whispers to me as he places his phone into the basket.

“I know, but don’t you think it’s weird that Layla’s phone was ringing? How do you get phone calls when you have no friends?” I whisper, cracking up at my own joke.

Alec giggles but Layla, my fifteen year-old baby sister, couldn’t appreciate the joke, so she punches him in the arm.

“Shut up smartass, like you’re the one to talk.” she whispers to me loudly.

Alec giggles again then abruptly stops.

“Hey, why the hell did you punch me, he said it.” he whispers defensively to Layla, pointing to me.

“I’ll bet you ten bucks it was a telemarketer.” I whisper, still laughing.

“If I hear one more word from the three of you, your butts will be thoroughly kicked when we get home.” Mom angrily whispers through her teeth, while clutching my arm. With her petite frame and gentle eyes, she may look dainty, but believe me she was digging in hard enough to draw blood.

Father Johnson grunts and stares in our direction. Mom looks up at him, and mouths a sheepish ‘Sorry.’ We all sit quietly for the remainder of the service.

Everyone could hear the incessant ringing of the cellphones outside, even through the thick, wooden doors.

The Backstreet Boys, Michael Jackson, Beethoven, Marimba, and a variety of other media echoing continuously into the church from directly outside the structure made a quite lovely medley that eventually begin to not only distract, but practically drown out Father Johnson, who acknowledges this and starts preaching louder and louder.

He finally stops struggling to be heard and grabs one of his assistants, advising them to ‘take care of the problem’ in a low (but just audible enough for the first three rows to hear) tone.

The assistant nods nervously, and trips as he scurries his way out the back door. Father Johnson smoothes out his robe, and takes four or five deep breaths.

The ringtones begin to fade into the distance very slowly, and he finally continues with his sermon. The off set took up a good twenty minutes of the service so he speaks for the remaining ten minutes we have left. We skip the collection due to lack of time, to my mother’s guilty delight, and rush through the offering of the body and blood. Finally, the choir starts singing the last song, ‘Praise to the Lord’ off pitch, as usual.

While they sang, Father Johnson, ironically, goes to the side of the chapel and makes a phone call. I’m assuming he was asking the skittish assistant to bring back our possessions since mass was nearly over. The song ends, then we all get up and start piling through the two narrow exits.

Luckily, morning mass was full of mainly the elderly, so Mom wouldn’t have to keep us here for another hour or two to ‘catch up’ with her co-workers or friends. As I walk out the door, a warm breeze passes me by, caressing the sunset colored leaves in trees. Granite crunches under my shoes as I step away from the heavy, Cherrywood, doors of the church.

Soft chattering and laughter come from the left and right of the cement columns supporting the Parish, with a full parking lot lying ahead behind a small strip of grass. On mornings like this, despite my skepticism about the whole Christian ordeal, I can’t help but wonder if some guy in the sky really took the time to create it all.

“Hey.”

I feel a light tap on my shoulder, and turn around. Amber pushes her hair away from her face swiftly, tucking her small arms into her oversized cardigan. Her long golden locket sways around her neck slowly, hitting the front of her coal colored crop top.

She squints her light blue eyes to look up at me, trying to adjust her view of my face while being blinded by the sun. She blocks it by moving to the side, holding her hand above her eyes, and once she’s able to see me well, her eyes light up and she flashes me her usual, perfect, smile.

“Happy birthday.” she beams.