St. Mary's 10 a.m.

The moment Fr. Dennis baptizes this baby

“Fresh and new, all full of life.”

Just after reading his poems and reciting the Creed.

Luis half-whispers he has drawn a rainbow dragon 

on the back of the crinkly receipt rescued from my purse.

“You are part of Christ and the Kingdom of God,” 

quietly announces the same voice that baptized him, 

My son also so full of life and energy,

Little warm hands that have designed 

a complex legend of St. George scene, 

complete with fiery dragons, shields, castles and a princess. 

This moment so sweet I record,

red pen on another crumpled paper,

this place of hope where children and adults hang from the balcony

to see new life anointed.

The baby looking to the smiling faces above

the angels we don’t all see

Stain glass glow of saints

James bellowing in the background

Not a quiet bunch at 10 a.m.  

Front row seats for those 

who cannot stand on their own.

Standing room against a white plaster wall

for all who can

Stand the frigid air conditioning 

rattling through the radiator in the summer

6 year old fingernails running across the steel dots,

more noise, clomping footsteps meet 

Patient smiles

Crying babies

nursing mothers.

The Gospel this day is our wedding Gospel

In this same church with its dark wooden rafters,

Virgin of Guadalupe images

Dr. Kotre’s voice echoing the Alleluia, 

Elizabeth reacting to Mary’s visit

“Blessed are you who believed 

that what was spoken to you by the Lord would be fulfilled.”

And Mary praising God in her Canticle,

“He has thrown down the rulers from their thrones, 

and lifted up the lowly.

The hungry he has filled with good things;

the rich he has sent away empty.”

Empty as the church is now. 

As we peer inside to the same white plaster

sculpted flowers

From a computer screen

in a warm bedroom

as the wind whistles and rustles the pine trees

frigid snow outside the window 

lined with condensation

This Good Friday

As little boys carry candles

to the make-shift altar on the dresser

statues of Jesus

more Virgins of Guadalupe

a small wooden cross from Fany’s comunión back in 2000

the marks from the glue gun

where her mamá stuck tiny plastic grapes, a golden cup,

a dove.

Another screen flashes

fellow parishioner’s plot

bringing soap

to plagued prisoners who have none.  

For the Church is not really empty.

We hear chimes of the piano

A college student cantoring,

a lector’s footsteps,

eerie echos ring out of the internal microphone

communicating through keystrokes, 

speech bubbles, virtual windows,

Like apostles waiting in a locked room

for a Holy Spirit vaccine

that will send us out 

to hang from the balcony, embrace,

bellow our alleluias together

once again fresh and full of life.