The Incredible Shrinking Woman

Almost every Sunday, I sit in the 4th pew from the altar at the 1:15 Spanish mass. It's not an ideal spot, since the vent for the air conditioner is perched directly above us, leaving us stunted with cold, and shafts of sunlight pierce the slanted windowpanes at a cruel angle. But that's where my mother insists that we sit. She wants to get a good seat, like it's a production of Hamilton.

She serves as a Eucharistic Minister, so almost every Sunday, I sit in our pew and watch her navigate up and down the short steps, temporarily leaving the mortal plain for loftier locales. My mother is 86 years old this year, and looks startlingly tiny when she takes her place among the other, more typically sized people waiting to distribute communion to us parishioners.

I have learned to hold my breath when she climbs the fairly harmless steps (as though that will help), but I suffer from visions that the compact collection of Spanish flesh and bone that is her "corporeal frame" will suddenly tumble tragically off the altar platform.

But no, she treats the ascent as casually as she did when she climbed Machu Pichu ten years ago, though I suspect even that was a fairly typical day for her. As I sit and wait to get in line for communion, I can't help but wonder where the rest of her body went. There was more of her, and not so long ago.

I wonder, again, when she started disappearing, and why? Has she lived her life in such a charged manner that her cells are slowly giving up the ghost? Have they stopped even pretending to keep up with such a frenetic pace? Is the heft of her, never substantial, surrendering, one cell at a time?

I watch her take the tray of wafers from the priest as she continues her careful journey around the altar. She descends again and takes her place at the front of the aisle, close to where I sit. 

I stand and reach her in an appropriate amount of time. When she looks up to offer me communion, she always looks surprised to see me. I find this amusing, but it's a somber moment, so I produce a reverent expression and an Amen, in that order.

I can't help but remember the time a kid snatched a communion wafer out of her hand and ran off. She was utterly flummoxed (almost stamped her miniature foot) and at a complete loss as to how to react to what she felt was an unforeseen catastrophe and a gross abuse of a consecrated host. 

In the end, she had no choice but to compose herself and continue, but a dark frown let us all know that she was still dwelling on the fate of that swiftly abducted wafer.

When everyone in the flock has been tended to, she turns and tackles the stairs yet again, while I prepare to leap forward and assist as needed. Tiny Eucharistic Minister down!, I would yell, over the choir. What is the rescue protocol for this size of Catholic??

But no, the Incredible Shrinking Woman ambles around blithely (her size 6 feet just inches from the abyss), drops the now-empty tray off with the priest, descends the three steps yet again, albeit slowly, and rejoins the other ministers in their ragtag line.

Another Sunday, another adept execution of her duties. I don't know why I expect to see anything less.