When I was employed as an attendant at a psychiatric hospital, I became friends with one of the nurses. I do not remember how it was that we came to be close, or how that closeness was manifested, but she invited me to her wedding, and I accepted. My attendance had to be carefully planned, as I lived in Pittsburgh, Penn., and the wedding was to take place in her hometown of Ambridge, which was about 18 miles away. I was not licensed to drive in 1967, so I was traveling to Ambridge by bus to attend the first wedding of my life. The ceremony was scheduled for a Saturday, and being young and dumb, I went out partying on Friday night. I returned home early on Saturday morning. I paused on the stoop before entering my mother’s house and vomited up the night’s revelry. I was one sick puppy.
The bus to the terminal in downtown Pittsburgh connected me with a bus to Ambridge. The big tires whined and the bus rocked as it rolled down the highway, stimulating my alcoholic nausea, but I held on, even as I walked from the bus station to the church. I arrived at the church two hours early, pulled open the giant doors to the huge building and had a heart attack: At the top of a rank of stone steps crouched two great figures, heads bowed and hands clasped. The stone angels were the first in a series of misadventures for me. I entered the empty church and looked around. I had been in a lot of churches in my life, but never one as big and grand as this one. A young man drifted up to me, and I told him that I was thirsty. He took me down a back hallway and into an office where he poured me a glass of water.
My sporadic attendance at church had not prepared me to observe and participate in a Catholic mass conducted in Latin. The standing, sitting and kneeling was dizzying to me, and I discovered that the footrests in the pews were designed for knees. Suddenly, when I heard the Lord’s Prayer in English, I was happy to be able to participate. I belted out what I had learned as a child and found that there are “versions” of the prayer. That day, the prayer ended after “But deliver us from evil.” The church “Amen’d,” but I belted out “For thine is the kingdom, the power, the glory…” I looked around, realized that I was alone on that verse and quietly whispered, “Amen.” Suddenly, there was a surge from the pews toward the altar, where Mary Rose and Bob had been lashed together at the wrists for an eternity. I entered the flow, shuffling toward the couple, expecting to “kiss the bride.” I looked over some heads and saw someone placing objects into the opened mouths of those ahead of me. I did not know what “communion” was, but I knew that I was in the wrong line, which is what I told the people behind me as I fumbled my way back to my seat.
Mary Rose’s brothers invited me back to their house, over-served me Scotch and beer and properly served me delightful company. My faux pas in the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer and lack of knowledge of the rite of communion did not form a barrier to friendship, and when they dropped me off at the bus station that night, they hugged me goodbye, a wedding of hearts reminiscent of the wedding of Mary Rose and Bob.