The Details Tell the Story

Historical documents - even lame ones like the program from my grade school graduation ceremony on June 4th, 1988 - can reveal hidden treasures. Celebrating along with us was the 50th reunion of the 1938 class. Among their members, according to the program, was Fr. Frank Yaniak. Eight years later he would officiate my wedding, and Lisa and I would grow close enough to the man to ask him to come out of retirement for YaYa's baptism in 2001. One more neat fact the program revealed: it was held fifteen years to the day before LuLu blessed us by coming into our lives

The rest of my Saturday, or the Quest for the Certificate

YaYa is in need of a certified copy of her baptismal certificate to continue with her First Communion classes, and I've put it somewhere so 'safe' I can't find it.

No problem. Just call the church and get a copy, right? Wrong. The church, where my parents and I were married and where YaYa was baptized, but which I no longer attend, can't locate ANY records related to YaYa.

I think the confusion stems from the fact that I bypassed the then-current pastor (with his approval) and had Fr. Frank Yaniak conduct the ceremony. He was a classmate of my Grandma, had given Last Rites to my Big Grandpa, and conducted our wedding ceremony He was a great guy and we'd become friendly over the years.

Although ill he came out of retirement for the baptism, but at that point he would have had to rely on the parish, not himself, to officially record the event.
Apparently that didn't happen.

So what we did is have YaYa and I, with our scrapbook of baptism photos and some mementos of the day, go to the evening mass. Afterwards we approached a parish official with the evidence, I turned on some charm and threw in my family connection to the church (dating back four generations), and was told to go to the rectory in ten minutes.

There we met with three parish officials and the current priest. I was shown all the records and yup, we aren't in there. They looked at the photos and clearly believed me. I got the makeshift certificate, which solves the immediate problem, but I do want this resolved. You can think it a small or foolish thing, but such a gaffe in the record can follow her through her life.

"I better check to see if my wedding is recorded," I told the room. "I'd hate to know I wasn't really married. Then again, maybe I'd hate to learn I was."

That brought some laughs, I shook some hands, and the priest gave YaYa some chocolates and she expressed her thanks.

But I must say being back there brought up some nostalgia. I liked the church, which is almost Puritan in it's simplicity (esp. for a hardcore Catholic congregation) and my family goes back a long way with the place. Really, it was just the priest who took over from Yaniak that pushed me out the door.

I'll hold my tongue because I do respect the office, but that guy . . was not someone I'd have a beer with. I once praised a Korean priest that gave an eloquent and intelligent sermon the Sunday after 9/11, and the parish priest contemptuously implied I was a racist by referencing him as 'the Korean priest' instead of his name. I, uh, didn't know his name that first day, you [bleep].

In the intervening years the church kicked him to the curb. That 'Korean' priest is now in charge of the Parish and the man I shook hands with tonight. But I'd already jumped ship and never returned.

I don't broker much crap about the Catholic Church for many reasons, but I've been lucky in that I can name two priests as men I respect, admire, and call 'friend'. I'm glad to see my original parish is now in the hands of a man who, in another set of circumstance, could have joined that group.

The Post with The Exorcist, Roots, and The Godfather May 2nd

As we're a 'mixed' family - I'm Catholic, the Mrs. is Lutheran, and most of our friends fall in one camp or the other - a few folks asked me what to expect at my son's baptism.

"It'll be like the end of The Godfather," I told them, "but in English and minus the killing."

But it started out a little more like Miracle on Danny's Street: we retrieved our daughters from their sleepover at Grandma's, dressed everyone in their Sunday best, and made it to the church with a half hour to spare.

Even with that head start we got there after Lisa’s brother and sister-in-law, the Godparent’s to be, both of whom seemed excited and honored.

There we discovered that one of the associate pastors would be leading the mass. This was fine by us; he’s a friendly, entertaining priest who, to continue the movie theme, has more than a passing resemblance to Fr. Karras from The Exorcist.

He introduced himself before the mass and asked that we all accompany him to the sacristy. There he completed the naming ceremony in private and gave us some instructions.

"Don't worry about the choreography," he said. "I'll take care of that. We’ll do the ceremony after the homily. You follow along, and when it's over I’ll hold Parker up like Kunta Kinta and introduce him to the congregation. Simple."

It was simple, and at the risk of being sappy, it was beautiful. Throughout the mass Fr. referenced Parker, offering prayers and best wishes for his future. His homily centered on the idea that Parker was now a brother to everyone in the church, and would never be abandoned or alone with Christ.

And then it was time for the ceremony itself. Throughout the blessing Parker, as he had throughout the mass, was alert but quiet. He showed a little concern when the priest poured water on his head, but kept his cool.

“Good boy,” said Father. As he stepped forward to bless him again, my son sneezed in his face. The congregation laughed, and Father recovered nicely. “God bless you,” he said. “And how appropriate that is.”

Then, as promised, Father took Parkerand held him aloft. “I’d like you to meet Parker, the newest member of our church.”

I couldn’t suppress a smile when the whole church applauded.

Afterwards we headed to the hall. There was a dilemma over the food we’d ordered; either someone would’ve had to skip the ceremony to pick it up, or we’d grab it after mass.

We decided on the second option. Lisa went to get the food, and I went to the hall to greet the guests.

I guess we’d dallied too long at a short pit stop, because the place was packed when I got there.

Oops.

To make matters worse, I was now the sole host to fifty very hungry people who expected at least a smidgen of hospitality from me.

Let’s be clear: I’m not a social butterfly. I tried , and I think I did okay, but I all but bowed to the Mrs. when she finally walked in.

The party lasted most of the early afternoon. Lisa’s family showed up in full force, as did the usual roster from my side. Some of my friends and co-workers showed, as did Gracie’s teacher.

And, brother, we are breeders: there were a half dozen kids there under the age of four and three more under eleven. We’d thought ahead and brought a kid sized picnic table, a bag of toys, and coloring books. Even so I’m thankful to Lisa’s aunt, who thought to buy each of my girls a toy - which naturally became their favorite of the day.

It wasn’t Six Flags, but it was a fun and enjoyable afternoon. Not even an overcast and rainy day could change that.

And try as I might, I can’t remember Parker crying once all day.

Now if the bugger would just sleep more than an hour or two at night . . .

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