A Bad and Good Friday

Liam enjoying the last licks of my good Friday latte

When my father died in April 1997, I was there in Sun City Center, Fl with my mother Ruth and husband Paul. Paul and I had arrived Monday April 28, my father, Charlie, passed away on Wednesday, April 30th.. Although he was gone, the three of us felt his spirit was around for a bit more. Why? There were signs of Charlie. My Mom , Paul and I were sitting on the floor in the den, searching for his military service papers. Both of my parents were obsessively neat, labeling, alpabetically organized people. To find nothing under "M" in their steel document box was puzzling. We could only assume he had them out recently, maybe reminiscing or preparing. He had been sick for about 6 months and might have been getting his papers in order. My mother, exasperated, exclaimed "Charlie, where are the military service papers? We need these to get you into Arlington!"

Thwack, on the head, comes down an envelope, and yes, inside were his papers. And he sent them at Ruth, she having done the asking.

Later, I went to their clubhouse gym, a little room of donated equipment that serves its purpose during my visits, keeping me exercised. As I walked into the room, I heard a familiar song "As Time Goes By" from the movie "Casablanca." This would be my Dad's favorite all time song, one I have heard sung from the shower in our one bathroom apt while growing up, many many many times. I had never heard a soundtrack in this gym. I asked the staff member on duty, why there was music tonight. She said " Oh, we just decided to play a tape tonight." Charlie-there he is again. You get the idea-he is hanging around.

But no sign from Ruth in the first days after her death on March 24, 2010.

That changed, April 2, 2010, Good Friday.
I subscribe to the Merriam-Webster, Word of the Day. Usually they are words rarely used and hard to retain. Most recent: irrupt, sward, pullulate, esemplastic. On Good Friday, the word is ruthless. I felt a jolt.

Merriam-Webster’s
Word of the Day

April 2

ruthless

\ROOTH-lus\

Did you know?

"Ruthless" can be defined as "without ruth" or "having no ruth."
So what, then, is ruth?
The noun "ruth," which is now considerably less common than "ruthless," means "compassion for the misery of another," "sorrow for one's own faults," or "remorse."
And, just as it is possible for one to be without ruth, it is also possible to be full of ruth. The antonym of "ruthless" is "ruthful," meaning "full of ruth" or "tender."

"Ruthful" can also mean "full of sorrow" or "causing sorrow." "Ruth" can be traced back to the Middle English noun "ruthe," itself from "ruen," meaning "to rue" or "to feel regret, remorse, or sorrow."

I decide this is a sign from my mother, she is telling me she is okay, she is on her way. From the number of emails and texts I am receiving (having sent "The Word" to hundreds) legions of folks agree that Ruthless is telling me something.

I am not a churchgoer, I would check Catholic on a questionnaire, however I usually am only there for funerals. Today I am without Ruth-ruthless and I do something non-routine. On my trip back from the health club, up New Hyde Park Road, destination Starbucks latte -table waiting, I make a detour-I turn into Notre Dame Catholic Church. There are many spots. I know that the time period 12-3 are the Christ on the Cross sacred hours; it is 2:40Pm, I figure I have a small window in which to connect with my Mom, sit quietly, feel Ruthful.
I am wrong.
No, I do not have any time. Within minutes people start appearing. I am at the end of the pew and I am asked to move in. No, I do not do the movie theater stand up and let the newcomers slide in, I shove over, one body space at a time. One of the dutiful newcomer worshippers, shoots the kneeler directly into my shin. Thanks for that. It does not stop. A miracle. multitudes are arriving. A deluge of people. The realization of my entrapment permeates my body in a physical way. My skin hurts, my right eye is twitching, I have a lump in my throat, holding back the dam of gulping sobs trying to burst through. All I wanted was to be alone with my mother. I do not want to recite, stand, kneel, chant, sing, answer, question. I am at the traditional Good Friday service all consistent Catholics know about and here I am stuck so far in the row that there will be no escape that is socially, morally and religiously acceptable.
I am feeling, Ruthful-full of regret. Why am I not in Starbucks? Why did I not just keep going and get my latte?

The congregants are squishing in the pews with help from volunteer ushers, one of whom seems fixated on me with a ruthless smug gaze. "You," she points. "Are you talking to me?" I reply in my best Robert DeNiro imitation. "Yes, you with the lime green bag." Without a glance to either side, I know it is me. I name her Cruella in my head. "Put your bag on the floor." Now people are looking at me and my lime green bag. I turn to the woman on my right for comfort and with anger "Does she work here?", my voice is tremulous. All my maturity and coping skills that shone through my mother's death dealings are now flying out the stained glass windows. I might even cry, because of Cruella the usher on a mission to rid the pew of lime green bags. Cruella commands "Put it down on the floor." "It is okay dear, she is fierce about packing a pew." says my pew mate to the right. I turn to my left pew mate. "My mother just died, and now my bag has been ostracized. this is why I do not come to church." As I am choking out these words, I feel "without Ruth" My mother would never have let this Cruella get away with such rudeness. My pew mate counsels me in an ecclesiastical tone "HE is testing you; here hide your bag next to mine. I now notice that all the women have their bags next to them on the bench. Only my lime green bag has been banished to hell beneath the kneeler.

The service begins. We are halfway through the telling of the Last Supper, a story I like, when the money collection baskets come out.
I hope, no, I pray that Cruella will still be on her mission to seek out and banish all green handbags. No, she is back with a new assignment, passing the money basket- a true multitasker.
Have to give a donation- a sort of bribe for my green bag. People have their checkbooks out. Are they kidding? Can't they write at home?
I reach for a dollar, carefully shielding big lime from Cruella's piercing gaze,
A dollar, there it goes in. Damn, the woman next to me gives nothing. She has no handbag. I suppose having no handbag excuses one from a donation. Maybe I should have just shaken the basket, pretending to have contributed.

The kids in the row in front of me have been given dollars by their moms to drop in the basket. They each hide the dollars in their pockets until the basket is safely through the row, then dance with joy, dollars unfurled , they have kept their money.
I secretly rejoice with them, a victory over Cruella, over all the attendees, over the entire Notre Dame parish.

There is movement. People are heading up front. Now is my chance. I go with them, maybe some wine will be offered. No, must kiss the cross, part of the ritual. I do and keep walking to the exit. I am out.

So, Ruth/ruthless, Mom, mother, I am sure you gave me a sign. I experienced every meaning of the WORD of the Day. So, what then is Ruth? A person who is as complex, many layered and shaded, as interesting, as varied, as seemingly contradictory, as unexpected, as welcome, as the many meanings of the words ruth/ruthless.

Thanks Mom for a good Friday. It really was not bad at all. I got my story.

Liam licks his latte, woof, woof