I couldn't sleep last Saturday night due to anxiety caused by rewinding various low lights of my long life that hit me like

a brick and I lay in bed and watched the hours go by as I contemplated my imminent demise,

leaving my dependence impoverished and homeless.

So when the day dawned, I put on a suit and coat,

and I went around the block to the solemn 8 a.m. mass rather than wait for the more festive 1030 and walked

through the bitter Minnesota cold into St. Mark's Cathedral, where a couple dozen souls sat widely spaced apart,

perhaps to guard against communicable disease or maybe to avoid the exchange of peace

after the absolution of our sins.

My sin was dread, anxiety, nameless, unreasoning fear, but never mind. I remembered as I came

into the cathedral that there is no music at the 8 a.m. no Bach choral to brighten the mood, no rousing opening

him, just this scattering of

a folks in the vastness like the church in apostolic times of few believers

hiding out in the catacombs

hoping men in heavy armor don't break in and bust our heads.

I knelt and prayed for my loved ones that they be spared my anxiety.

I could hear my own voice proclaiming the Nicene Creed,

the whole Magilla, including the unbelievable part

about God coming to Earth and becoming incarnate by the Virgin Mary.

And it did nothing for the lead in my heart, nor, as it turned out, did the homily.

What I found inspiring were two scripture readings, one from the prophet Micah where the reader faced the line oh my

people remember what happened from Shudham to Gilgol that you may know the saving acts of the Lord and she

slowed down when she saw the word Shirim and she got traction and very carefully pronounced it

...