Bur Really

Joey Butler wanted to be brought home one last time before his final exit.

I didn’t understand it at the time (ten years ago)

My Dad had his final goodbye there, but Mom never made it.

It didn’t seem so important then.

Nor in the years that followed.

Spiritual seemed to be the word replacing religion for, if not our generation, certainly most of our aging brood.

The church had been the sanctuary of our youth, the guardian of our morality in a time when both could easily have dissipated slowly into exile.

We were unaware of the protection then, accustomed not only to the quiet vigilance of the clergy, but the unspoken rules of expected behavior.

There was no resentment, nor frankly, an internet site willing to voice submerged anger or hostility.

Perhaps that could have been one of the many reasons we accepted the quiet authority mandating a code of behavior.

Of course, we all had opportunities, life shelters none of God’s children from that.

Some succumbed; most avoided the temptation, but in the end all returned to the comfort and peace found on 60th Street and Columbus Avenue in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen

I believe I understand more today why Joey asked to go home one more time.

It is more than the magnificent edifice;

far more than the acclaimed choir and while

There were no familiar faces standing in the pews watching his last arrival,

those of us who remember were there in spirit

in the Church in what once was called Hell’s Kitchen,

but really was home.