because we couldn’t find ones large enough.
“Now we’re done,” I say to Midge. My voice breaks a little—I’ve enjoyed this job so much I hate to see it end.
“But I don’t want to be done!” Midge swats my arm affectionately. “I want to start all over again.”
“Now you know how I feel. If I could decorate every house in New Jersey, I would. And then I’d start over. There are millions of possibilities for every home, and in a lifetime we only get to try a few.”
“It’s a shame.” Midge shakes her head.
“Ah, well. As my dear mother used to say, our homes on earth are just hotel rooms until we get to our permanent home in the promised land.” I place my bill on the side table.
“No, I mean, it’s a shame what happened at Our Lady of Fatima.” Midge gestures for me to sit down. “Shame on them! Here, right under Father Porporino’s nose, is the best interior decorator in New Jersey. The old saying goes, a king is never a king on his own island. They don’t appreciate you!”
“It’s all right. I’ve come to terms with it.”
“It’s wrong.” Midge looks at me with a steely gaze, the likes of which I haven’t seen since I recommended a pink dining room in her otherwise blue house.
“I appreciate your concern.”
She puts her hand on her heart. “I’ve been a Catholic all my life. The priest always has too much power! It was the same in the Philippines. Priests are nothing but little potentates, ruling over their kingdoms with God as their judge. Sometimes they go too far.” Midge pats me on the back. “This time he blew it.”
I wonder if people know how painful it is for me to be reminded that I was passed over to renovate Our Lady of Fatima Church. I would never go into a bank and say to the teller, “Did you ever find that nine dollars you were short yesterday?” Or tell the guy at the gas station after he cleans my windshield, “Hey, you missed a spot.” Nor would I say to Dr. Wallace, “Hey, sorry about those four cancer cells you missed that cost Aunt Snooky that additional four feet of colon.” No, I would never hurt someone who was doing his or her best.
The problem is, I’m a
stewer
. I can hold a grudge longer than a lifetime (an incentive to embrace reincarnation now that I’m stepping back from Catholicism). I’m certain I’ll be taking several grudges with me into the next world, with matching axes to grind them. It’s like that peach pit I swallowed when I was six. I’m sure it’s still sitting in my gut like a stone and will be there on the day I die. I hold on to things!
After a week of chronic anger, which led to sleepless nights, daytime dyspepsia, and a gassy, distended abdomen, I decide to take the bull by the horns. Sometimes there has to be a reckoning before one can move forward. Father’s day of reckoning is here.
The red light is on outside my Lucky Confessional Booth Number Two, which means some sinner is in there, so I slip into the back pew to wait my turn. It’s funny how the place has changed in my perception. In just a few days, the church I’ve loved all my life now seems old and tired.
I’ve spent years making this place beautiful in the details: well-placed altar linens and seasonal flower sprays made special with offbeat accents like grapes during Advent and cotton pods in the summer. If I didn’t do the flowers myself, I’d often stand behind the florist, giving instructions. Now all I see from font to altar are the flaws, the design missteps (like the cheap brass-toned light fixtures that replaced the old crystal ones), and the neglect (the peeling paint over the radiators and the toddler teeth marks on the backs of the pews). But these are no longer my problems. Let Patton & Persky figure out how to make this place look regal again.
When Mr. Fonti, the bulbous town tree surgeon, exits my confessional, he heads directly for the altar of the Blessed Lady, where he kneels with his head in his hands. He must have
“Now we’re done,” I say to Midge. My voice breaks a little—I’ve enjoyed this job so much I hate to see it end.
“But I don’t want to be done!” Midge swats my arm affectionately. “I want to start all over again.”
“Now you know how I feel. If I could decorate every house in New Jersey, I would. And then I’d start over. There are millions of possibilities for every home, and in a lifetime we only get to try a few.”
“It’s a shame.” Midge shakes her head.
“Ah, well. As my dear mother used to say, our homes on earth are just hotel rooms until we get to our permanent home in the promised land.” I place my bill on the side table.
“No, I mean, it’s a shame what happened at Our Lady of Fatima.” Midge gestures for me to sit down. “Shame on them! Here, right under Father Porporino’s nose, is the best interior decorator in New Jersey. The old saying goes, a king is never a king on his own island. They don’t appreciate you!”
“It’s all right. I’ve come to terms with it.”
“It’s wrong.” Midge looks at me with a steely gaze, the likes of which I haven’t seen since I recommended a pink dining room in her otherwise blue house.
“I appreciate your concern.”
She puts her hand on her heart. “I’ve been a Catholic all my life. The priest always has too much power! It was the same in the Philippines. Priests are nothing but little potentates, ruling over their kingdoms with God as their judge. Sometimes they go too far.” Midge pats me on the back. “This time he blew it.”
I wonder if people know how painful it is for me to be reminded that I was passed over to renovate Our Lady of Fatima Church. I would never go into a bank and say to the teller, “Did you ever find that nine dollars you were short yesterday?” Or tell the guy at the gas station after he cleans my windshield, “Hey, you missed a spot.” Nor would I say to Dr. Wallace, “Hey, sorry about those four cancer cells you missed that cost Aunt Snooky that additional four feet of colon.” No, I would never hurt someone who was doing his or her best.
The problem is, I’m a
stewer
. I can hold a grudge longer than a lifetime (an incentive to embrace reincarnation now that I’m stepping back from Catholicism). I’m certain I’ll be taking several grudges with me into the next world, with matching axes to grind them. It’s like that peach pit I swallowed when I was six. I’m sure it’s still sitting in my gut like a stone and will be there on the day I die. I hold on to things!
After a week of chronic anger, which led to sleepless nights, daytime dyspepsia, and a gassy, distended abdomen, I decide to take the bull by the horns. Sometimes there has to be a reckoning before one can move forward. Father’s day of reckoning is here.
The red light is on outside my Lucky Confessional Booth Number Two, which means some sinner is in there, so I slip into the back pew to wait my turn. It’s funny how the place has changed in my perception. In just a few days, the church I’ve loved all my life now seems old and tired.
I’ve spent years making this place beautiful in the details: well-placed altar linens and seasonal flower sprays made special with offbeat accents like grapes during Advent and cotton pods in the summer. If I didn’t do the flowers myself, I’d often stand behind the florist, giving instructions. Now all I see from font to altar are the flaws, the design missteps (like the cheap brass-toned light fixtures that replaced the old crystal ones), and the neglect (the peeling paint over the radiators and the toddler teeth marks on the backs of the pews). But these are no longer my problems. Let Patton & Persky figure out how to make this place look regal again.
When Mr. Fonti, the bulbous town tree surgeon, exits my confessional, he heads directly for the altar of the Blessed Lady, where he kneels with his head in his hands. He must have
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