Keith and the Usher

When I was a kid, I got dragged to mass every sunday…or occasionally on saturday night, depending on my mother’s mood. I have many a memory from that old Holy Childhood Church– most of them before the remodeling in the late 90s– but one of the more potent of such features my younger brother Keith, who must have been somewhere around three or four at the time. We had been fighting a bit over who would get to drop the handful of change in the basket during collection time, but as I had begun to outgrow the awe and honor of depositing the change, and my brother desperately wanted to do it, I decided to let him have the honors. I remember his little keith face like it just happened this morning…and I remember how happy and excited he was to drop the change in the basket. When you’re four, even something as small as that can be the highlight of your entire week. During collection time, the ushers would walk, in tandem, down the center isle…kneel at the alter, also in tandem, turn around, and begin going up the main isle…holding out their basket-sticks to anyone who looked like they had money to deposit. Once they made it all the way to the back of the church, they would (also in tandem) head to the far sides of the pews, walk down to the front, kneel again, and collect money from people on the other side. Somehow, we missed our first chance of depositing the coins in the basket…though I don’t recall how, or why. Perhaps my mother was slow in digging it out…but regardless, I pointed down the long pew to the far isle, and shoved my brother off in that direction with his little handful of coins. "Keithy, go down there, he’s coming back up." His bobbing little head went walking down the pew, and he stood at the end of it, all by himself, swelling with anticipation. The usher came– and just passed right on by him without pause. My brother turned around– his face devastated– and proceeded (of course) to burst into tears as he came walking back towards my mother and I.

It pained me just as much to watch my mother succumb to the same kind of crushed expectations. An excitable woman, she’d always get heavily invested in some kind of creative project– going above and beyond what was required to craft the perfect experience. She’d get so excited for other people, that she’d sometimes steam-roll right over what they actually wanted. Many times this happened to me growing up, and many times I’d lash out in (foolish, selfish, and ridiculous) anger…and although she’d argue hotly at first, eventually a switch would flip, and she’d just get that look on her face…that look of failure, and discouragement, and she’d retreat quietly away with her head slumped slightly down.

I don’t know if memories like this caused it, or if I only took affect from them because of something within my personality that was already built in, but I have a hyper-sensitivity to other people’s expectations– not of me, of course, but of the world around them– of the silly notion that their dreams, however small, however large, will come true. I’ve never been foolish enough to believe it, but those that still are earn a place of endearment in my heart, and a ceaseless champion for their cause.