First, I thought “Holy Crap!” (it IS church after all).“I forgot to put on mascara!” (then excuse myself to go to the ladies room after faking a bathroom emergency). After I dealt with that little tragedy, I got back to more critical contemplating.
However, just as I was getting ready to conjure up some awesome 1987 fiascos, the unthinkable happened: I actually heard something the priest said! He was introducing the priests one at a time and after he said each name they each gave a little wave. That is, of course, until he got to Father Ritz (who looked like he was easily the big 1-0-0). When he mentioned his name, Father Ritz sat motionless with his head down on his chest. No blink, no nod, no finger flip. Nothing. I panicked and frantically looked around because surely, others in the packed church had to be thinking what I was thinking: He was dead. Up on the altar. For all to see. Nobody even batted an eye. I guess I was the only one concerned for this poor man of the cloth (caring person that I am).
My mind raced with thoughts, “Why, God?” and, “Of all days for this to happen, why now. Why today?”
I know CPR, so I also thought, “Maybe I should run up there and be the hero and breathe life back into this poor man who has dedicated his life to the church.” Then I remembered I had my short sweater on and figured it would ride up my back if I bent over and that wouldn’t be all that appropriate for the congregation to see now would it?
My next thought was, “Well, he’s lived a long, fulfilling life and at least he died doing what he loved to do - nap.”
Then, my most horrible realization: “Are we still going to have this party if he dies, because I need me some kolaches like yesterday!?!?”
As my mind was all aflutter with these dreadful scenarios, it came time for us to stand. When lo and behold, a miracle occurred: Father Ritz rose from the almost-dead. I heard a rousing choir of angels singing “Alleluia” (actually, it was just the church choir with impeccable timing, but they were very angelic). I was so elated that he hadn’t croaked, I did a little shuffle dance and smacked my shin on the back of the pew (God putting me in my place, no doubt), in turn, my husband shot me, “The Look” (which I’m so completely used to, it doesn’t even faze me anymore). I have told him that is not at all very Christian-like and God does not appreciate mockery and rudeness towards others. For whatever reason, he never takes me seriously.
Mass ended a short time later with no more cataclysmic events (unless you call a toddler running up the center aisle yelling, “Poopy in my pants!” an earth-shattering phenomenon). The celebration continued over in the church hall, where I got my much sought-after kolaches (along with some other yummy pastries). The best part about the whole afternoon was that nobody died. Oh, and also that kid with the poopy pants was not at a table near ours during lunch made it pretty great too…
