I imagine that my parents thought that after a couple of Sundays, my nerves would calm down, and I would enjoy the experience. That did not happen. I don’t believe there was a single time that I processed up the Church aisle without my heart beating quickly. That was just the procession. By the time I began the First Reading, my nervousness was overwhelming. Sunday after Sunday this scene would repeat itself through high school and much of college. I’d practice each reading throughout the week, even practicing in front of the little girl I babysat (She is in full-time Bible ministry now).
Last week, I attended Mass at St. Anne’s, and all these memories flooded back to me, assisted in large measure to the fact that the woman in the pew ahead of me was a high school classmate I had not seen since 1981.
Other memories came to mind—and suddenly I had a very different perspective on those stress- filled lectoring days. I remembered-and appreciated—something I never pondered before in all these decades. Standing at the ambo in front of a congregation was indeed terrifying to me, and stressful, but my heart stopped pounding during the Mass, and I relaxed after the Prayers of the Faithful. I then focused, really focused, on the Liturgy of the Eucharist, my eyes fixed on the table of the Lord. Not only was I grateful that the reading was over (at least until the announcements)—but I was enormously grateful for sitting in the sanctuary so close to the altar. Watching the priest during the consecration, hearing some of his quiet prayers, seeing up close his reverence---I was appreciative and in awe. I sensed the sacred silence as I witnessed whispers, the priest’s intimate prayer to God. When the priest spoke so we all could hear, I listened all the more intently: “Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, for through your goodness, we have received the bread we offer you: fruit of the earth and work of human hands, it will become for us the bread of life.” I continued to listen, finding myself silently praying in thanksgiving. I then would gaze at the Eucharistic Lord with such appreciation as my desire to receive Him increased tremendously.
My Mom was right: Being a lector was indeed “good” for me.
