Years ago I offered Mass regularly in Spring Branch at a decades-old residential facility designed like a wagon wheel. Its pretentious name meant nothing. Everyone branded it a nursing home. Quite a few called it the Linoleum Club. Of course it looked seedy and reeked. Most residents there were poor and struggled with pain and serious cognitive problems. The kitchen clatter and weekly hairstyling made Wednesday Mass in the small dining room very difficult. Everybody screamed. A homily was out of the question. We couldn’t bear it. I remember vividly a woman named Mary, 92 years old. She wore a blousy Hawaiian sack dress, lugging her glossy black handbag on her right arm. Mary spoke with a heavy accent, and for the longest time I thought she was Spanish. She wasn't. She was Hungarian. Everyone called her the Duchessof Spring Branch. The duchess lurched about like an injured bird with wings flared, yet a kind of elegant stagger. She did not bend her knees. Thin face, prominent cheekbones, hair piled on top, chin up. Soaring eyebrow liner she applied herself and clip on earrings gave her a surprisingly aristocratic air. More often than not, the duchess received Holy Communion sitting under a roaring beehive hair dryer in curlers. One day, the duchess summoned me. “I want to die,” she announced in her thick courtly accent. “I’ve lived 92 years. I’m blind and deaf. There’s nothing left for me here. I’ve lived a good life. Pray to God that he will take me.” For months afterward, she sat in the same chair by the front door, both hands gripping the big plastic purse, waiting for someone, anyone, from Hungary. One day, God granted the duchess’ prayer and received her to himself. In the days before she died, Mary’s hurting, shouting and distress noticeably increased. At times, shouting, she would refuse Holy Communion. But I always offered it to her, and if she wanted to leave mid-Mass, that was okay too. Her death saddened me. I don’t know if she had any family. May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed rest in peace. Fr. Barker +++
Years ago I offered Mass regularly in Spring Branch at a decades-old residential facility designed like a wagon wheel. Its pretentious name meant nothing. Everyone branded it a nursing home. Quite a few called it the Linoleum Club. Of course it looked seedy and reeked. Most residents there were poor and struggled with pain and serious cognitive problems. The kitchen clatter and weekly hairstyling made Wednesday Mass in the small dining room very difficult. Everybody screamed. A homily was out of the question. We couldn’t bear it.