The Church’s Tall Tower & the Angelus Noontime Prayer & Easter, When I Was Twelve & What the Lord Gave Me to Understand, When He Stopped My Steps, as I Was About to Leave the Empty Church

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Saint Ferdinand’s Catholic Church in San Fernando, CA. was my family’s parish church, and the front photo is how it appeared when I attended the church’s grammar school, from first to eighth grade.

As a young boy, I became aware of the church’s tall tower in the early 1950’s even before I started school at St. Ferdinand’s. For I would see it from a distance, such as when I was with my mom in San Fernando, and we went to the Bank of America or the Post Office. But I especially remembering seeing it when we left the small J. C. Penney’s store by the back entrance, for you could see the church and the tall tower clearly across the big parking lot where we always parked when running errands or shopping in San Fernando, the nearest town to our house in Sylmar, a few miles away.

When I started school in first grade, I daily became more aware of the tower. For when we lined up to go to morning mass, we were always facing towards the church, and the tower, the most prominent part of the building, was always before us as the nuns directed our steps forward.

And I remember the walk to church as always nice – familiar and routine – and we didn’t have to be quiet, as we could talk to each other before we entered the church. Then, also, for me, it was a walk towards a place I enjoyed and in which I found peace and a sheltering and inner quiet within me even as a first grader. For when I entered the church and crossed myself with the holy water from the font by the door, I understood that I was entering a place different from all other spaces and buildings I went in, and that somehow coming in was special and was something that was good.

And then it was in fourth grade, I believe, that I became more aware of the tower in a different and unique way, not in form, but in function. For suddenly it seemed in fourth grade, at 12 noon, during the lunch hour, the bells of the tower (electronic bells) rang out, and we had to stop playing, fold our hands, bow our heads, and be quiet when the Angelus prayer, consisting mostly of the Hail Mary as I remember it, was broadcast from the tower.

Most of the other boys didn’t like the Angelus noon prayer, as it was an interruption in our playing, but I didn’t mind it, as playing was always just an external to me, and the prayer was a reminder and opportunity for me to pause, to stop all the playing and noise, and to be quiet inside.  And even though I do not remember doing anything other than listening, to me it was important and proper to respond to the bells and prayer and stop what I was doing. And also I seemed to instinctively gravitate towards this pause as a time of rest and calm, as a moment to just quietly be.

But then maybe after less than one school year, the bells and the broadcasting of the Angelus prayer stopped, and I missed it. For, suddenly, something that had become important and fulfilling was absent from my life. When I inquired from my teacher about the absence of the Angelus prayer,  she told me that it ceased because some people living near the church complained about the noise of the bells and the prayer. Thus, I never again heard the Angelus prayer at school, but that short experience of hearing noon bells and prayer at noon still gently echoes within me.

In February 1971, the ‘71 Sylmar earthquake hit, and the tall steeple was damaged and cracked midpoint up, and to make the church safe against future earthquakes the tower was taken down and rebuilt to just about half its height, and it was no longer tall.

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The photo above shows the interior of St. Ferdinand’s church from the time that I was born all the way through the entire time I was a student at the parish school.

I was baptized as a baby in this church, and my parents took me to mass every Sunday, starting even when I was an infant. As a two-year-old toddler or so, I remember my father having to take me out of the church during mass when I was talking too much or too loud. I was always afraid that I was going to be swatted, and I was loud about that also while being carried out.  But my dad, really a gentle man, if anything, just put me down on the ground and gave me a gentle swat. I was then free just to walk around, and once I became quiet, my dad just picked me up and carried me back into the church. I think this only happened a few times, as I remember soon becoming more interested in all the people and movements around me during mass.

Now in terms of the interior of the church or even just the front altar part, I do not remember really seeing or focusing on anything within the church as a young child before I started school. And I don’t remember when I was first conscious of the intricacy and beauty of the altar piece of the church – the golden twisting columns, all the statues, the huge crucifix with Jesus nailed to the cross way on top of everything, the pinnacle of the entire altar structure. Perhaps the focus of young children is more innately centered on what is generally right in front of them – for that’s where we first see food and focus on those who care for us or what frightens or intrigues us – rather than things in the distance, even a short distance away.  I don’t really know.

But eventually I did notice the altar piece, perhaps beginning when I entered first grade and started attending daily mass before school began. For as a first grader, we were the first to enter the church, so I was always up front that first year. And from first grade on, I was at mass and within the church every day during the school year except on Saturday – though occasionally even on Saturday – so the interior of the church, including the front altar piece, eventually became a fixture in my life, an essential part of my environment, as next to my home, St. Ferdinand’s – my parish school and church – was where a very significant portion of my time and life was centered. And I was also happy and content being there, for I loved being in school, and going into the church and attending mass was always something more than just routine.

Then in fifth grade, the church’s sacristan came to our class, asking who would want to become an altar boy, and my hand just automatically shot straight up, which was very unlike me, as I was usually a very cautious kid with everything, especially when presented with anything new, and being an altar boy was something I had not even thought – I didn’t even know I could be one – but surprisingly this was somehow something I just wanted spontaneously without even thinking about it.   

After I finished my altar boy training and I learned all the rubrics for serving mass and memorized all the Latin responses for the liturgy, I was upon the altar regularly serving mass or assisting with other liturgies. Being an altar boy then became a significant part of my life – it was one of the things I was – to me, perhaps the most important thing – and it was something that I enjoyed being.

I became accustomed to now having a part in the liturgy and inner life of the church. I became accustomed to being upon the altar, to being within this holy space, to moving about the sanctuary and breathing in its air, and standing and knelling and praying upon it, and being in the presence of God – especially when the church was quiet and empty.

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On Easter Sunday, when I was twelve, I was assigned to serve the twelve-noon mass. After mass, after all the priests and altar boys had processed from the altar into the sacristy, I soon returned to the altar to retrieve the cruets that contained the water and the wine for communion. I then assisted and watched from a short distance the priests with their priestly chores, a busyness I enjoyed in the sacristy very much. For after every last mass on Sunday, the golden chalices, patens, and ciborium used during the masses were ritually purified, which included the priests eating any consecrated hosts which were not distributed during communion, and also carefully cleaning the holy vessels to remove all remaining particles of the hosts and any now dried remaining traces of the consecrated water and wine. For even though I could never touch the golden vessels, I enjoyed watching the process to the end with the priests placing the vessels in the sacristy safe, gently closing the safe door, and then spinning the lock.

I also enjoyed listening to the priests’ easy conversation among themselves and actually felt part of it – this “unofficial time,” when they were both priests and just spoke as persons.

After this, I walked along the passage behind the back wall of the altar to the other side of the sacristy. I then took off the top white square collar surplice I wore as an altar boy and the long black cassock underneath and carefully hung them up, doing something I rarely remembered to do right away when I took off my good Sunday clothes at home – I guess, at least in this aspect, just being a typical twelve-year-old boy. After that, I left the church by the back sacristy door which opened onto to the street. I then decided to walk through the church in front of the altar rail as a shorter way to the church parking lot where I knew my family had already gathered by our white Chevy station wagon, probably talking to family friends.

I opened the heavy wooden front-streetside door – at twelve, all the church doors were heavy for me – and I stepped into the church and stopped and held the door back so it would not slam shut with a loud echoing bang. The church was now empty, the congregation leaving soon after the end of mass, hurrying home for Easter gatherings and dinner, my family waiting for me so that we could also travel home to ours.

I was pleased the church was empty, as I loved the quiet and stillness of the church when I was alone within it. And the side door on the other side of the church was open to the warm and sunny day, and even though just across the walkway beyond the door was a wall of mission tan colored concrete blocks separating the church property from a house, I liked it that the door was open, as the openness seemed to breathe the gentle life of the beautiful Easter Sunday outside, into the quiet and peace of the church,.

Happy, and at peace, I began to step to the other side of the church. When I came to the middle of the golden gates closing off the sanctuary, which placed me straight across the altar platform from the Tabernacle on the altar where the consecrated hosts were kept, I genuflected and made the sign of the cross, starting with my forehead, down to my heart, and across touching my left then right shoulder, as I had been taught.

Genuflecting and making the sign of the cross was always more meaningful to me when I was alone, as I could take my time instead of being rushed by a line of people behind me, or just being distracted by the movement of others, for then I could be more thoughtful, more reflective, on what I was doing, and more aware of the presence of God.

I stood up from my genuflection, and took a few steps towards the open door on the other side of the church, when all of a sudden, I was stopped – the only way that I can express this – and I stood still, becoming sharply aware – like awakening – to the distant sound of voices from somewhere outside, to the sound of the birds chirping and moving and singing in the trees on the other side of the wall, and of the wonderful smell of the flowers within the church – from the many Easter lilies and other flowers that always profusely decorated the church at Easter. And God, taking everything together, fashioned all into a perfect moment of peace and quiet, and stillness and awareness, a moment like other moments that He had occasionally used to bless me with before, that always changed and lifted ordinary time to a time with eternity at its center.

And as I just stood still, God placed clearly in my mind and soul the truth that I had always loved Christmas and Easter and everything about them, and then also further revealed to me, that even though at Christmas time there was lots to eat, and presents under the decorated Christmas tree, that it was really Easter which gave Christmas its meaning, and joy, and deeper significance, because Easter was when Christ rose from the dead after being crucified on Good Friday, and without Easter, Christmas would have no meaning, there would be no Christmas.

And when God imparted this message, He conveyed it in a deeply profound and clear, and beautifully simple, and more complete way, than I could ever convey in writing. For when God revealed Himself and this message to me, it was as if a light had just shone within, as if He had enkindled a brilliant point of love that instantaneously fully touched every point of the dimensionless human soul He had created within me. Words, a message, light, given as only the eternal God can communicate to a being He created in His own image and likeness in love.

After the message, for a few moments, I just stood still listening to the birds singing, breathing in the subtle perfume of the flowers, and enjoying the quiet of the church infused with the gentle life from outside.

Then, after another moment, my steps resumed, and I went out the open door into the sunlight and day, and found my way to my family waiting in the car so we could drive home to our Easter dinner and the small bag of jellybeans my mom usually had for us at Easter.  I loved the smell of the baked ham, and chicken, and my mom’s warm soft rolls we always had for Easter. I also loved all the flavors of the jellybeans we received at Easter, even if it was not a large bag of the favored sweet.

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All of what occurred that Easter Sunday was without external drama or fanfare, as were all occurrences of God’s touch in my life. For since I was three when God first revealed Himself to me, when I did not even have a name for this Presence, I just assumed that this Presence was  a normal part of life – actually, I never even really thought about it. And then in first grade when I learned about God, about the Father and Jesus and the Holy Ghost, it was just that I was learning the names of the persons in the Trinity – someone, the Presence, who I already knew.

And it was just in the previous year when I was in sixth grade, that I was given to understand that the way I experienced life was really not the norm, that what I thought was normal was unknown among my classmates.

One afternoon in sixth grade when we were doing something together in class, I was surrounded by my classmates talking and laughing and all of a sudden it was revealed to me quietly and gently without judgement, that my classmates did not know God as I did, that they didn’t experienced God as a real person, that to them God was not a living presence in their lives, and that He had not revealed Himself to them as he had to me, and He did not communicate with them the way in which He communicated with me.  I was absolutely stunned as it never occurred to me that others, my classmates, my friends in school – the only friends I had – did not know God as I did. And all of this stopped my mind, and other than understanding what God had  communicated, I did not know why it was so, what it really meant in my life or theirs, or why God had treated me so different. It is still a message, a knowledge, that at times I ponder and go back to in thought and in prayer even to this day. And within me, my deepest response is just thankfulness to God for revealing Himself to me as He did which has been the blessing above all blessings in my life that has worked to make me into the person I am today. A blessing still unknown as to why, except that I do and know now that at its core is the great and unfathomable and unfailing love that God has for all of us. Now that is something to write about when writing about an Easter in the past when I was twelve.

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Family Non-Fiction – Writing In The Shade Of Trees

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Moments of Seeing & Occasional Pieces – Writing In The Shade Of Trees