Waiting with Jonathon [Just A Moment #2]

"This is a complete waste of my time," I think. An eternity passes with me on this solid, wooden bench, and I'm still waiting for something to happen - and I mean anything. Impatience rocks one hip off the thin, off-white cushion before the other. I must find some way for my butt not to fall asleep.

Although, if I were in my desk chair at my apartment, not only would I be comfortable, but also I could make something happen with my next paper. A smile spreads across my face as my plans for the paper come to me. The paper will be a marvel, and I suspect it will get the attention of the English faculty. Almost certainly, the paper will bring me greater attention than I've received in this chapel.

I mean, in all seriousness: Where are you, God? I come looking for a sign - I show up, but what about You? I sag against the pew and pull the cushion with me. Apparently, I've sat here long enough to make more of an impression in this seat than with You. My frustration at the absence of something pushes a sigh from me like the last note from a bagpipe.

Then again, maybe only, like, ten minutes has passed. I confess that I do not wait well, especially in uninspiring locations, and this chapel is (by definition) unimaginative. This chapel portrays itself as the ecumenical space on my university's campus. The precisely square room has the feel of two teenage daughters who are forced to share a room - everything is divided exactly down the middle.

Still, the girls' room is in a family house, so a number of elements dominate the room. The floor is all stone, as one could find in a liturgical space, and the daughters couldn't change that - since most of the Church is liturgical. The bare altar of wood at the front is another common element. Almost everyone would accept that, so there it stands in all its plain glory.

The lone crucifix on the altar is the exception. For a university (especially in the South), I'd expect a plain cross. Though, the crucifix stands by itself slightly off center, so maybe the cross is out for cleaning. Either way, the whole place feels like a bleak liturgical setting, which gives only an "ecumenical" sense by its lack of liturgical beauty and mere nod to other worship-space designs.

In such a place, I ought to remember the Exodus. The Israelites (Your own people) were left to wander around the desert for 40 years. Maybe I need to give You some more time? Even St. Paul had to work a little while before his “Damascus” moment, so perhaps, my impatience is showing.

Yes, I should give God some time, because of that girl. She sits across the store floor from me in the front row (there's only two rows), has brown hair, and she is of average build - I would guess since she never stands, and I have only seen the back of her. In fact, I'm not real sure that she turned around when I entered. Still, her bright pink t-shirt has the potential for a blind man to see, and I will wager it displays one of those cute phrases like "Born crimson & white, but saved by grace." Also, paint splatters her arms.

Anyway, she only takes her eyes off the altar to scribble in (what must be) a notebook in her lap with colored pencils. Given the pew and distance between us, I would not notice the pencils, except she holds each one of them toward the altar - as though she seeks approval for each one.

Ha, how cliche is this? Here's a boy, who wants to be anywhere but here, yet he stays on account of a girl. If this scene appears in any of my assigned readings, I would tear it apart in the reflection paper. As it turns out, I do recall Professor McDoogal assigning such a story in my seminar class this semester. I had to write a short review and post it to Blackboard. In direct disobedience to the instructions, I wrote a personal letter to the professor, and I explained the reasons such a story deserves removal from a serious undergrad program for English majors - I got an "A" on it. And yet, here I sit because of a girl.

Although, I bet my mom would be happy about the development. Lord, help me: I can hear her elation over that phone call. "Hey, Mom, I'm going on a date, and I met the girl in a prayer chapel." I'd be on the phone for a week as I answered questions about her. Then, I would receive a never-ending barrage of text messages about the girl's appearance at a family gathering. At this point, her attendance for Easter might be the target.

Following all that, I suppose the time has come to go. My only accomplishments are an imagined family drama and thoughts about a girl, which (I am fairly certain) one should not be having in a prayer chapel. I acknowledge that she is the only other person here, so I am bound to notice her simply because my biology is programmed to notice other human beings, and she may very well be attractive, if she would turn around.

However, this is neither the place nor the time for that. She clearly has her prayer moment - even as I am denied such a moment. I might just as well ask: You have shown up for her, so why not me? That question may or may not be valid, but an invasion of her prayer time is surely not okay. Plus, I have a paper to write, so I should go and do what I am good at. My "Damascus moment" is assuredly not on offer, so I ought to abandon this failed experiment in favor of where my talents lie.

Yet, one foot rises to rest on my knee, and my eyes narrow at the crucifix in front of me. I swallow the resistance to leave like the Penguin taking a drink before the exposure of his plans to Batman. I can't leave without some satisfaction.

Now, I recognize the impossibility of forty years from me on anything; obviously, my lowly status as an undergrad prevents such a journey. Thus, the theory remains about a requirement of more time.

However, I am not without my efforts on God's account. Rarely, has a Sunday passed without my attendance at a Mass somewhere. The extracurricular section of my college application basically comprised leadership of the youth service events at my local parish. I have not abandoned regular Mass attendance during my couple of college years, and I am registered on the leadership team for next weekend’s student retreat. So, I have put in more time than many of my peers, which leads me back to tonight 's question: Where are You?

Plus, Fr. Jimbo constantly encourages us to seek in confidence that we will find. Well, I come tonight and do just that. I seek anything from You. Sure, I would prefer some lightning bolt, like St. Paul. On the other hand, I would, at this point, settle for meeting me at this well. In other words, I am willing to retreat from the desire of a dramatic moment, if I could get any sign. I remember Zaccheus, except it seems to me that You pass by my tree. except I feel You passing by my tree.

In fact, I have even dedicated my studies to the use of Your symbols. Literature is full of references to Christian symbols, but they've become disassociated from Your reality. Research suggests Your reality as a shared dream. We projected You onto reality, because the world was scary, and we needed the idea of something greater. I have taken on that research, yet here I sit with empty hands.

A tension pulls my hand to the bridge of my nose. While I rub a spot, the crucifix stands in relief beyond my raised knuckles. A small chuckle accompanies this thought: "I am in a staring contest with God." I guess I lost, then - since I blinked.

As the tension in my head eases, the girl jerks toward one of the pew Bibles in front of her, but she drops it. The book fails to make more than a muffled sound. My eyes dart to the floor; that hardback book should echo off the stone. Oh, I see now - the other half of this chapel has carpet. That's an interesting decorative choice in this chapel.

Before I can consider that symbolism, the girl retrieves the Bible and pops back into her seat. Her head rises to the altar, and she places a hand over her heart - as she looks at a plain, wooden cross on the altar. I completely missed that, but I am glad to know why the crucifix is off-center. She relaxes into reading, drawing in her notebook, and looking at the cross.

My back rolls into an arch against the pew's wooden back. She is curious - at least, her actions are. If I were Holmes, this is where my pipe would come out, and I would settle into a well-worn chair; instead, I only have this impossibly solid bench. Still, the case of "Why Not me, Lord" has a fascinating contrast in the actions of this girl.

While she does nothing out of the ordinary, she appears as one who has what I do not. She reads though not for longer than a couple verses, if that. Next, she looks at the overlooked cross for longer than the reading. Then, she doodles in her sketchbook. Most of her time in this sequence works through her gaze at the cross.

As a result, my imagination struggles to find much of a difference between her actions and mine. She does look to the cross, while I stare at the crucifix, but such a difference should fall into the incidental category. No difference of outcome ought to arise from one icon or the other - as long as we're looking to You, of course.

My eyes slide back to the crucifix. Besides having gathered enough information, it is impolite to stare. Though, I am struck by her failure to turn around despite being watched. Still, her flow between her paces suggests a familiarity with these motions. Such an affection for these steps proposes a routine. Routine is a favored instruction by those who would encourage religious practice.

The idea of routine brings to mind my grandma. She would, surely, inquire about the absence of my rosary. Upon seeing me here without it, she must ask, "You went to a prayer time without your rosary? What's wrong with you, boy?"

To be honest, I could not speculate on the last use of my rosary. Oh now, I carry it with me to every Mass, but that's only so I can tell grandma that I carry it sometimes. Sincerely, I never thought much of the rosary; it seems like a superstition, used by old people to keep us kids quiet.

Then, Dad's advice creeps into my mind: "You get out, what you put in." He, always, gave this advice in response to my shrugged shoulders after he asked my thoughts about a Mass. If I am honest, I doubt my presence at a Mass like I have been present tonight.

I lose the staring contest again, as my eyes drift to the square inch of the black stone floor between my seat and the one in front of me. Perhaps, I am the problem here. Could I have been that mindless in all those Masses? Have I been as blind through all my service days, as I was to the cross on the altar?

After all that, there's still that paper to write, but now, there are at minimum a couple of interesting questions here. Yet, one question rises to the surface: Where are You? While I need to concentrate on my next literary analysis between Dante and Bunyan, which might be the paper that propels me to graduate study, I linger in this undeniably uncomfortable pew with a whole new set of doubts about my commitments.

I give a long sigh, which relaxes my shoulders (as much as possible) against this pew. What would happen to my papers, if I wrote them as absent mindedly as I perceive my recent Mass attendance? Or, do my papers reflect more of an argument with myself than the theories that I find in my research? To write - or to pray, that is the question.

Some help would be nice, but that is noticeably insufficient tonight. I want something undeniable - move the crucifix, smack me in the face with one of these Bibles, or (even better) inflate this seat cushion. But - hey, maybe that's too much to ask, so I'll lower the bar for You: Show me something - anything - that will demonstrate tonight was not a waste of my time. Or, I will go write my paper.

A long inhale closes my eyes while raising my chin off my chest. The middle distance clears from my opened eyes, and I see the altar rail at the front of the chapel. “That's where I am,” I think. In some denominations, the congregation receives communion with outstretched hands while kneeling at the rail. I whisper, "Well, if I am there, You need to put something in my hand."

Wait, there's a flicker of light at the very edge of my periphery. Oh, it's merely the sanctuary candle, though this is the first I am seeing it. But, that should mean: Yeah, there it is. Slightly above Jesus' head on the crucifix is a lunette; the Eucharist has been here the whole time, and I have stared at that crucifix most of the night. Wow, I hope I pay better attention to the research for my paper than I have the layout of this chapel.

At least, I now have a target for my questions. I could raise my arms, like a frustrated student asking a professor for an explanation. If I were that student, I would say: "What is going on? I have shown up tonight, at Mass, at service days, and retreats, but I got nothing tonight? Come on.” My thoughts add: “After all this, I (surely) deserve something.” This is useless; I should go and write my paper. Maybe, I can get something out of that.

Apparently, I leaned forward during all that; because now, my shoulders plop back onto the pew. Frustration squeezes a huff from me, and the girl simultaneously closes her notebook. Her color pencils return to their box one at the time. Meanwhile, the whole room settles into the quietest it has felt all night. The girl and I merely sit and look at our side of the altar.

Only one thing remains, I should go. This paper will not write itself, and I am obviously getting nothing here, so I remain on my own to choose. If the choice lies solely with me, me says: “It's time to go.” I can do nothing else without some help; I have no help, so here I go.

I, nearly, bump my head on the pew in front of me as I lean forward to haul myself from the pew. With one last look at the crucifix, my disappointment adds a shrug, and I crabwalk to the end of the pew.

My compatriot gets a nod, and my cellphone is in my hand before I turn to go. I wonder about the time for the paper that remains tonight, so I check the clock. As I exit through the double, glass door, a nod accompanies the clock's report. I think, "Huh, I can tell Grandma that I spent an hour in an adoration chapel this week.” At least, there is that.