As Water Flows

No doubt I was holding hands with my new husband in the dark backseat of his parent’s car that night. And it’s a good thing, too. Because in the middle of our conversation about the movie, Jim’s dad swooped in and leveled me by sniping, Oh, don’t be so provincial. We’d gone on a double-date and were talking about Zefferelli’s Romeo and Juliet, that luscious paean to young love. Given the film’s blatantly sexual scenes, my guess is that I had postured some good little Catholic girl comment about sex to impress my new in-laws. And, although he delivered his remark as a playful quip, it landed like a blow. No one picked up on it and it seemingly went nowhere.  No matter, I wanted him to like me and his comment stung. When I look back on it, I realize it was one of those watershed moments that makes all the difference. 

I had no idea what provincial meant; the way he said it, though, certainly made it sound cringe-worthy. I admired Jim’s dad, trusted him, and sensed that whatever provincial meant I should want to pursue its opposite. As soon as we got back to Austin, I found a dictionary, looked up the word and discovered that he’d levied a warning against me being a small-minded, limited, person whose views are contaminated by parochial ways of thought. It was the late sixties and we were smack dab in the middle of a major cultural movement against the establishment. My corporate-executive father-in-law was dubbing me narrow minded?

It’s stunning, actually, to look back at the limitations of the culture I grew up in. Everyone I knew was Roman Catholic. I was one of 52 cousins on my mother’s side of the family, and, like so many Irish Catholics, went to Catholic Schools. I remember knowing that my school, Saint Charles, was parochial as opposed to public. My parents never trash-talked our neighbors and our playmates were always welcomed in our home. Truth is, there was an unspoken, cautionary hush in the air regarding the fact that some of our friends were Protestants. 

When I was in second grade, I witnessed a sustained conversation at home around the question of me joining a Brownie troop that was to be held in the basement of a Presbyterian Church. The building sat right next door to my father’s firestation, and I remember one afternoon on the way home from school when he accompanied me and my sisters down the stairs of the church as we did a trial walk-by to meet the troop leader. Our derring do was for naught, because ultimately, our pastor had the final word and put the kibosh on our wayward plan. As it turned out, I was allowed to attend Scouts in a public school, but, initially, even that was surrounded with a sense of the intrepid. 

All that parochial angst seemed to go dormant during my highschool years. We were all certifiably Catholic at St. Mary’s, so it wasn’t until my siblings and I flowed through the great collegiate watershed that the Catholic rule book had to be trotted out again. Unlike the situation in Romeo and Juliet, where nobody has any idea about the nature of the feud, it was still written pretty much in stone that Catholics were slated to marry other Catholics. Yet, as the flow of a river shifts inevitably into the sea, the vision of unity expressed in the ecumenical movement had begun to freshen cultural waters. Things moved slowly; eyebrows were still raised, warnings levied and tears were shed during our dating years regarding our boyfriends’ respective religions. To my parents’ credit, in the end, the question of who practiced what was replaced with a newfound ability to love and accept a person for merits far beyond a religious calling card. 

Into the nineties, as our kids began to marry, the locked down strictures of traditional religious expression continued to inform choices they made for their own weddings. Today we talk about these pressures, even as we note the little inroads that were taking place. It’s hard for me to write this, but it was groundbreaking when folk songs were allowed to be performed at Catholic weddings. Paul Stokey’s The Wedding Song began to punctuate many ceremonies as it conveyed the inspired understanding that when it comes to love, it requires believ[ing] in something that [we’ve] never seen before. As this would-be-provincial-blind-girl has come to see, that’s true about the trajectory of life and beliefs, as well. 

Fifty-five years have passed since my father-in-law’s comment impelled me towards the open seas of broadmindedness and, very recently, I had the pleasure of attending a nephew’s wedding. They selected a close relative to preside over the ceremony and it took place outside in nature’s cathedral. Chairs were arranged in a pretty flower garden and we basked in our love for them as we sat under the dome of clear, blue sky. Inspirational excerpts and poems were reverently spoken. As the bride and groom read their heartfelt, personally written vows, we were drawn into the particulars of their relationship. We wept for them and ourselves as we were moved by the mysterious power of love. Friends and family toasted and throughout the reception jockeyed for pictures with them as they sang the couple’s praises. More than anything, the presence of the couple’s two young children; the care with which they were included in both the ceremony and the celebration added to the palpable love that was the overriding flavor of the day. 

And, I’m amazed when I realize that in a provincial culture this wedding would be minimized and considered invalid. And, I’m so relieved that I see it clearly as an expression of life and love at its best. 

As Water Flows