Week One Hundred and Thirty - Saint Henry (Elsmere)
4:00 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Henry. First thing my husband says as we're leaving St. Henry's church? "Those kids behind us were SO BAD!" He had a point, a point I can't wait to elaborate on, but since this blog is called "So Many Churches . . .", I suppose a few words about the church are in order . . . although the whole visit was really overshadowed by the demons behind us. They really were SO BAD. Focus. Focus . . . God knows I couldn't focus IN CHURCH.
Deep breath.
Elsmere, Kentucky. Can't say I've ever been there. Seems nice enough, but I can't say I'll go back either, only because I don't foresee a reason to return, including a return visit to the local Catholic church, St. Henry. St. Henry seems to be quite the landmark in Elsmere, located curbside on Dixie Highway. You can't miss it. A decent-sized church, this one was built in 1936 to accomodate a growing congregation. The parish itself dates back to 1890, the history of which includes the ubiquitous church building that burned to the ground, this one, in 1899.
The exterior has a good look to it, but the interior is whole 'notha story. There's a lot of yellow here. Lemon yellow . . . an odd contrast to the purple painted around the windows. True, the purple nicely complements the the stained glass it surrounds, but add to that a large wall of deep salmon behind the altar, and, well, things get a little weird. This salmon-colored addition comprises the third wall of what my husband called "the box." The church has a nice domed sanctuary going for it, and, for some reason, this three-sided "box" was constructed right in the middle of it. The majority of the open space around the altar was lost. It's not attractive, and, as far as I could tell, although it does support a large crucifix, it serves no purpose. Not sure why the original walls didn't suffice. My husband didn't get it, and neither did I.
It was a good-sized crowd at this particular mass, and it became readily apparent that nearly everyone there knew everyone else. There was a lot of waving going on. Cute. I'm gonna go out on a limb, however, and say the celebrating priest wasn't a local. This young man, as he even mentioned in his homily, was from South India. His heavy accent was exotic enough to keep me mildly intrigued, but the additional syllable in every word also caused me to miss a lot of what he said. The big question though - how does a young man from South India wind up as a Catholic priest . . . in Elsmere, Kentucky?
Ok. Now then. I love kids. I really do. I highly recommend them. I have a few of my own. However, the kids in the pew behind us at this mass nearly sent me, my husband, and, I dare say, everyone around us over the edge. When the circus rolled in during the second reading, I immediately knew we were in trouble. Frankly, I don't even know what exactly was behind us. It started with a constant hum (and "hum" really seems too mild of a word) of whispers and giggles but quickly progressed to chatter and laughter. The movement was non-stop. One of the younger ones dropped a Hot Wheels toy on the floor TEN times. I counted. My husband later confessed that, had it fallen his way, he had plans to kick it to the other side of the church. I love him.
The hymnals were a constant source of entertainment; in fact, for some reason, judging by the outbursts of laughter, they were a RIOT. Who knew? When I knelt, my feet were kicked I-don't-know-how-many times. At one point, a spitting contest was brewing. Yes, you read that right. Spitting. Wish someone would have told me St. Henry had a splatter zone; I would have brought my rain slicker. Where were the parents, you ask? Oh, they were there, laughing and playing and talking. After communion, dad was engaged in a full-volume conversation with someone behind him that lasted until the end of mass.
Call me an old grump, but it really was ridiculous. This family got nothing out of the mass, and neither did those around them. I suppose sitting in the back of a church has its risks - "lively" children, being one of them, but this weekend's fiasco was inexcusable. Two words, people: Why. Bother.
DURATION: One hour
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