Sunday

Sunday

Got to go to church today au Francais. Should be interesting, I thought. I did that many times with my grandparents in south Louisiana – even knew the rosary in French, but that was long, long ago and Mass was in Latin anyway.

We turned the corner near the church and I saw young girls selling “shrubbery”. How strange, I thought until “Ah ha – it’s Palm Sunday” turned into “Oh no! It’s Palm Sunday!” And what’s with the “shrubbery”? I guess there are no Palm trees in Lyon. And they SELL the stuff?

The church was, of course, beautiful. There were no kneelers though, so it didn’t seem very Catholic. There was no Catholic music either, except for all the Hosanahs because it was Palm Sunday. I could do that. I could sing all those Hosanahs with no trouble at all.

Jet lag kicked in again during the reading of the passion. I awakened around the crowing of the cock. How appropriate. The organ in the church was no more than a sound effect machine, used often during the Gospel for drama. No hymns were sung or played. The “music” after communion reminded me of the soundtrack of a bad movie.